Russian Roulette

Semyon Varamov eyed his teammate, Alexander Ovechkin, as the Russian team prepared for their practice, his body hunched over his large goalie pads as he laced up his hockey skates. The crowded room was filled with chatter, everyone in a good mood, laughing and joking the day after their 8-2 win against Latvia.

But Semyon’s mind was elsewhere, focused on his discovery the night before. He wondered if Anastasia would really tell her brother about what went down during training camp over the summer, or if he could tell Ovi about his sister and Crosby without her realizing he was the one who spilled the beans.

He knew Ovi would be pissed, but wouldn’t he be madder if he found out Semyon had known about it and didn’t tell him? Wasn’t Ovechkin’s bite worse than his baby sister’s?

But then again, if Ovi found out about what happened at training camp, he would be pissed anyways.

Semyon shook his head as he stood up, making his way out of the locker room and to the rink to begin practice. He was in a lose-lose situation no matter what.

Taking his place in front of the far net, he prepared himself for the warm-up shots his teammates would soon be shooting at him. He tried to clear his mind and stay focused as he bent his knees to get into position. But try as he might, he was too distracted by Anastasia’s threat from the day before, his thoughts shifting from the pucks that were zooming around on the ice back to that one night that occurred during Russia’s Olympic training camp so many months ago.

Semyon’s mind was boggled, his entire body sweating from the heat, and his brain unable to ignore the throbbing between his tall, muscular legs. His eyes scanned the room, where his Russian teammates were partying, their own stomachs all filled to the brink with some form or another of alcohol.

The day had been extra long, their coaches working the team to point of exhaustion and all they wanted to do now was to party it off. He knew he had too much to drink, but he didn’t care, as he gulped down another shot of vodka, the liquid burning his throat as it went down. There was noting like Russian vodka.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a familiar face, her usually smiling grey eyes unusually dual as she talked to one of his teammates. Her little black dress showed off her long, tan legs, her fingers lightly drumming against the wooden table. Her smile was forced trying not to let on to the amount of pure boredom she was experiencing from the conversation at hand.

Gulping down one more shot of liquid courage, Semyon stood up from the bar and made his way over to the young woman. The forward eyed him when he approached, clearly displeased that he was interrupted by his younger teammate.

“Want to dance?” he offered in flawless Russian, extending out his right hand for her to take. Gratefully she smiled, allowing her soft, smooth hand to land in his rough one as she stood up and bid farewell to the guy she was leaving behind.

It started out nice, their dancing, and she was obviously having a good time as they music played loudly throughout the bar. She laughed, enjoying his dancing moves, her body evidently more sober than his own as she moved her body to beat of the music. But as a new song began, streaming out of the massive speakers, Semyon became more confident in his drunk state, his hands more freely roaming her body, his left landing on her thigh, while his right stopped just below her left breast.

“Stop,” he heard her mumbling, trying to shove him away from her, her body burning up, clearly uncomfortable with his new found forwardness.

“Come on baby,” his hot breath whispered in her ear, giving her nose a large whiff of alcohol, his hands not moving from their current position. “You want this. Let’s get out of here,” he insisted, giving her breast a hard squeeze.

“No,” she whimpered, twisting in his arms, trying to get away from him. When he did not immediately let go, she reached her hand up, slapping him hard against his cheek and scrambled away from him.

Semyon was left nursing his sore cheek, considerably more sober than he was a minute ago. He could feel eyes staring harshly into the back of his head, but he refused to turn around and face them.

All he could think was that he hoped Ovi didn’t find out about his stupid mistake, before he scrambled away from the dance floor.

“Semyon!” a voice called out, tugging him from the memory. “What’s going on man? You’ve let in every shot. You didn’t even try to stop them,” his teammate informed him, skating over to the goal. “You okay?”

Semyon shook his head to bring him back to what was going on in the present. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, I guess I just got distracted by something. But fire them on me; I’m ready,” he insisted.

His teammate nodded, skating back over to center ice, as practice resumed. Perhaps holding off on telling Ovi about Crosby and Anastasia wouldn’t hurt too much….

--

Anastasia laughed, watching Sidney has he tried to balance the metal spoon on his nose. They were eating lunch in Sidney’s hotel room, having ordered up room service as they just talked, getting to know one another better.

“Favorite color?” Anastasia asked after the spoon fell off his nose to the queen-sized better under him. Her hands reached up, running through her hair, pulling it up into a ponytail before she let it fall, dropping against her shoulders.

“Blue,” he answered simply, adjusting his position so that he was on his side with his head held up by his hand, his elbow digging into the mattress. “Yours?”

She pondered for a minute, than answered, “Red. Any siblings?”

Sidney held up a finger. “One. Younger sister named Taylor. She’s a little troublemaker sometimes, but I love her. It sucks not spending time with her when I’m in Pittsburgh for hockey, but she tries to come to my games every once in a while with our parents,” he explained. “What about you?”

“Just one brother,” she answered, completely forgetting she was talking to the Sidney Crosby who’s infamous rivalry with her brother was always the talk of the NHL.

“Older or younger?”

“He’s like, two years older,” she verified. Her eyes widened as she dawned on the subject matter and she quickly turned her head so that Sidney wouldn’t see the surprise dancing across her face.

“Older huh? Did he come to the Olympics?” Sidney questioned. “Am I going to have to watch my back or else he’ll come and hunt me down?” he somewhat joked, scratching the back of his neck.

Anastasia let out a short laugh then shrugged his shoulders. “He can be a bit protective,” she informed him, remembering the way her brother would try to intimate her past boyfriends. And he was certainly less than thrilled when she went out on a few dates with Evgeni Malkin.

Sidney reached out, tugging her to him, his body, hovering over hers. She could feel his warm breath against her lips, her tongue darting out to wet them. He smiled, enjoying the close proximity between the two of them. One hand gently brushed her blonde wavy hair from her face, the other resting on her waist. “I can handle it,” he whispered, before his lips captured her own.

Both of them smiled into the kiss, their tongues toying with each other. Sid’s hand fell lower, landing on her thigh, a slight moan escaping past Anastasia’s occupied lips

“Oh, woah,” a new struggling voice spoke, causing both of them to stop and turn in surprise, neither of them having heard Sidney’s hotel door open. “Sorry man,” Ryan Getzlaf apologized, backing away. “I’ll come back later,” he assured them, closing the door behind him.

“Sorry about that, Anastasia” Sidney apologized, his eyes once again on Anastasia.

“It is okay,” she responded, pushing her body to get up, both of them knowing the moment had been ruined.

“Can I ask you something?” he wondered aloud, moving into a sitting position on the large bed.

She moved, echoing his position so that she was sitting next to him, but facing him. “Da.”

“Can I call you like Ana or Stasia or Stacy or something? You know, like a nickname?” His left hand scooted over, landing on her right, lightly drawing patterns against her tan skin.

“Da,” she responded, shrugging her shoulders. “What ever you want.”

“What do your friends and family call you?”

“Friends usually Anya, my parents usually just call me Anastasia and my brother has a Russian nickname for me,” she informed him, her fingers playing with her long, blonde hair.

“How about just Ana. Simple, but pretty,” he spoke, leaning towards her, “Like you.”

“Da,” she agreed, her hands once again wrapping around his neck.

--

“Yeah, I got kicked out of my room because Sid was about to bang that Russian chick,” Ryan Getzlaf told his NHL and Olympic teammate Corey Perry, shaking his head lightly.

“The one he was with earlier during the Russia-Latvia game?” Corey questioned as the two of them walked down the seemingly empty halls at the Canadian Hockey Place.

“Yeah, Ana or Natasha, or whatever her name was, the hot blonde girl,” Ryan verified a little too loudly.

“Umm, yeah, Anastasia right?” Corey recalled, the two of them turning the corner.

“Yeah, that was it! Dude, that guy has got game,” Ryan joked, their voices fading as they moved further and further away from the two, young men who had accidentally overheard the two Canadian’s private conversation.