Page 66 of Tainted Love

“We are interested in working with a major clothing company to merchandise some of our gear, specifically jerseys, sweatshirts, and hats,” Jerry explains. “They’ve been reluctant to invest in hockey when they have the market cornered in football and basketball.”

“I see,” Sascha replies, scribbling down more notes. The wheels churn in her mind as she probes further. “When do you need a proposal?”

“As soon as possible,” Jerry responds. “You’re joining us a bit late in the game. We would like to have something ready to present by Friday.”

Sascha’s eyes widen in surprise as she glances at the calendar. “But it’s already Tuesday—“

Jerry’s face lights up with realization, and he offers a solution: “No worries. There’s no time for you to fly back tonight. We can set you up at a hotel nearby, and you can work with our art department here. We’ll need your best work, and we’ll need it fast.”

Knowing Sash as I do, she’s internally panicking. She likes order. She craves control. This situation has been thrown at her without much of either. But she also loves a challenge, and the gears are likely already turning behind those beautiful emerald eyes.

Sascha has always had this endearing tick when she’s stressed about something. She reaches up and rubs her ear lobe back and forth between her thumb and forefinger as she thinks. My hands itch to grab her hands and hold them behind her back while biting and sucking on that lobe.

She lists the things she will need to begin working, her confident nature always at the forefront. I glance up at the clock and realize it’s getting close to the time I need to head to the locker room. I don’t want to leave, but I’m forced to tear myself away to prepare for our game.

“Sash, will you have time to watch the game?” I ask, rising from my chair.

“I don’t think so,” she replies, biting her lip and staring at a whiteboard, lost in thought.

“You should catch some of the game, Sascha,” Jerry adds. “It will give you a feel for our team and what we are looking for.”

Her shoulders drop as she exhales, likely irritated that she’s being asked to take away from her precious time. “Sure. I can watch the game,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach those green eyes.

I approach her and lean in, planting another kiss on her cheek and squeezing her hip with one hand. She freezes at the contact but manages to keep her face neutral. “I’ll make sure to score a goal for you,” I tell her with a wink before leaving her standing in the center of the conference room, looking beautiful, flustered, and annoyed.

Confidence courses through my veins as I stroll into the locker room before the game. Only a few of my teammates are here, ready to prepare for the battle against Philadelphia. Those guys are cocky fuckers, and we all need to bring our “A” game.

“What’s up, Taz,” Jonesy greets me with a casual jut of his chin.

“Nothing much, man,” I reply casually, unbuttoning my dress shirt in front of my locker.

“What’s with the shit-eating grin on your face?” he teases, noticing my smug expression.

“What grin?” I respond innocently, even though a goofy smile is spreading across my face at that very moment.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

I shrug sheepishly. “Just happy to see an old friend.”

“Well, make sure that friend doesn’t distract you during tonight’s game.”

I give him a confident nod. “Not a chance,” I declare. My hockey skills have been on fire lately—the best they’ve ever been—and having Sascha here will only make me play harder and better. She’s not the only one with a chip on her shoulder.

My pre-game ritual has been honed and perfected since college, designed to put me in the optimal competitive mindset. I prioritize sleep the night before a game, getting at least eight hours of rest. No distractions from women, no late nights out. My energy is solely reserved for the ice.

In the morning, I start with a cup of coffee to give me a caffeine jolt, then switch to hydrating water. To warm my body up and be ready to perform, I take a short jog, just a mile or so, before diving into an hour-long stretching session at home.

Fueling up for the game’s physical demands, I eat a lunch heavy in carbohydrates early on in the day. I complete off-ice stick-handling and shooting drills in my garage. And finally, it’s time to head to the arena, mentally and physically prepared.

I’m usually one of the first people in the locker room. Sometimes, I get a massage from one of the trainers. I do some more stretching in the locker room. I like to stretch in nothing but my jock strap or completely naked, much to everyone’s amusement and discomfort. Whatever it takes to let off a little steam. Plus, I’m proud of my ass. It’s a good ass.

Eventually, I hit the ice and go through my agility and speed drills warm-up routine.

Today has been different as I detoured through the administrative offices to see Sascha. Our brief exchange sent a jolt of electricity through my body, igniting every nerve and filling me with excitement and anticipation before I went anywhere near the locker room. I can’t remember when I was this amped up for a game.

As I step onto the ice for warm-ups, the crowd’s cheers fill the arena, even though it’s not yet at total capacity. The bright lights above reflect off the pristine surface of the ice, creating a display that feels almost surreal.

I take a moment to soak in the atmosphere, reminding myself how far I’ve come. Less than five percent of all athletes reach this level, but here I am, living out my dream. It’s remarkable, considering my upbringing.