Dreaming of You

I dart past the crowd of people bumping and grinding to the ridiculous music blasting throughout the club and immediately head to the bar. I keep my head down, hoping not to draw attention to myself in the enormous Philadelphia nightclub. I don’t need to deal with any Flyers fans tonight, happy or unhappy. The game had put me in a sour mood. Boosh had flubbed up big time, letting in 3 goals by the halfway mark of the first period, so of course I was thrown in. I wasn’t unhappy about getting to play, but I was annoyed that the guys didn’t help me out as much as they should have. Yes, I kept all of the pucks that came my way out of the net, but it was exhausting and stressful when your defensemen didn’t work with you. I had to pat the post a few times too. The post is a goaltender’s best friend some nights. So I sit at the bar and order a shot of vodka. I get carded as usual; thanks in no part to my stupid baby face, and the bartender’s eyebrows shoot up. He doesn’t say anything, but hurriedly goes to get my drink. I hand him my card and tell him to start up a tab. I plan on getting as plastered as possible. The guys are all in a sour mood with me, having failed to score more than twice despite my good game.

The bartender sets down my drink in front of me, but right as I’m about to down it some clutzy girl trips and knocks it over. The cold, clear liquor spills onto my lap and I scowl. The girl lets out a stream of profanities, some of which I still don’t understand, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Shit, I am so sorry!” she cries, scrambling to mop up the mess with a napkin on the bar. I take the napkins from her and smile.

“Its fine,” I say, drying off my pants. The girl looks at me with wide, stunning green eyes, and I feel my heart skip a beat. For once, I’m not nervous that someone has recognized me, because she is gorgeous. She has long, flowing hair that is a red so deep it’s almost black. Her skin is perfectly pale, her lips are full and flushed, and her cheeks have just the right amount of color in them. I feel myself blush, and I motion for her to sit down next to me.

“Oh my God, you’re Sergei Bobrovsky,” she hisses, more to herself than me. She immediately waves the bartender over, and as she leans over to tell him what she wants, I can’t help but notice the perfect amount of cleavage showing in her tight black, sparkling V-neck tee, or the fact that her skinny jeans are low enough that I can see her milky stomach. I have the sudden urge to do body shots. I shake my head. Girls never make me this crazy, especially after my last nasty breakup.

“Yeah, I am. What your name?” I ask, not caring that my English is broken for once in my life.

“I’m Rose,” she says, smiling broadly as the bartender plants a beer in front of her, and a new vodka in front of me.

“Beautiful name,” I comment before tilting my shot glass in her direction and throwing it back. She takes a sip of her beer, which I notice isn’t one of those light beers that most girls drink.

“Thanks. So, you played awesomely tonight. It’s a shame your guys couldn’t pull through for you, but I’m not complaining,” she smiles. I shrug, and then raise my eyebrows.

“You are not mad we lost?” I ask, confused. She shakes her head, laughs, and her hair tumbles down her shoulders in artful curls. I swear I can smell coconuts.

“Oh God no. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not a Flyers fan. The Devils are my team, so I’m not griping about them getting the two points tonight,” she explains. I scowl playfully at her, and she chuckles.

We talk for hours, drinking away. I think I’m starting to get drunk, and she’s just starting to get drunk too. I appreciate a woman who can handle her alcohol, and she definitely fits into that category. Suddenly she jumps up from the barstool and grabs me by my wrist.

“I love this song!” she cries, and drags me onto the dance floor. The song has a catchy beat, but I can hardly understand the words, especially because it’s so loud. As soon as she finds a spot that is to her liking, her body is crushing up against mine, her perfectly tight ass grinding against me to the beat. I move with her, and for once I am not embarrassed by the rapidly growing bulge in my pants. She quickly notices as well, and she spins around, a wicked grin on her face. She doesn’t say anything, but she just dances more wildly. I am completely and utterly turned on, and it’s getting to the point where I want to rip her clothes off. My hands become more adventurous, leaving her hips to trace up and down her voluptuous curves. She lets out a small giggle, and I look down at her. Her eyes are sparkling with interest, and I feel something in my stomach doing back flips. Her thin fingers dance their way up my chest, and her right hand wraps around my tie. She pulls me down towards her, and our lips crash together.

My heart is thumping faster and more heavily than the bass in the music, and I pull her even closer to me, planting my hands firmly on her hips. Her tongue brushes against my bottom lip and I feel a shudder run down my spine. My mouth opens up to her, and our tongues start to battle for dominance. She tastes like candy and beer, and it makes my knees weak. She wins. I can hear one of the guys making outrageous comments as they walk by and so I pull away from her and look at her face once more. She looks crestfallen and confused.

“I…I am not good with public,” I say. It isn’t a lie. PDA always freaks me out, but she had made me forget I was in public for a few minutes. She nods in understanding and then wraps her fingers through mine.

“Well then let’s get out of here,” she says. I nod, pay my tab at the bar, and we leave the club. The night air hits me, and I feel a little less fuzzy in the head as we start to walk. I’m not entirely sure where we are going, all I know is that her little hand is guiding me the entire way. We end up in a random park, and she begins to devour a sandwich (we made a pit stop at Wawa). I’m feeling much more level headed, and I start noticing how amazing her laugh is, and now much it makes my heart race when she smiles at me, or when our eyes meet.

“Vy udivitelʹnyĭ,” she says after we’ve been talking for a while. I stare at her, my mouth gaping open, for what feels like an hour.

“Vy govorite Rossii?” I gasp, and she nods, her cheeks turning pink. All of a sudden, I’m freakishly turned on once again, and I practically launch myself at her, closing the space between us as fast as humanly possible. My lips are attacking hers, her hands are lacing through my hair, and my arms are planted on either side of her face as our tongues meet once again. I hear someone wolf whistle as they walk by, but instead of getting flustered I kiss her once more, and then help her stand up. I suddenly know exactly where we are, and we’re at my apartment in no time. She attacks me in the elevator, and by the time I’m unlocking my door my tie is off, and she’s kicking off her shoes. I run my hands down her body, starting at her shoulders and working my way down. She whimpers against my lips, and we don’t stop kissing the entire way to the bedroom. I push her gently into the bed, and she looks up at me with wide, green eyes.

“I don’t usually do this,” she croaks.

“Either do I,” I say. She grins widely, and her hands find my belt buckle.

“Good,” she mutters before taking off my belt. I pull her tee shirt over her head, and plant kisses all along her collar bone. I suck at the base of her neck, and she moans. Her fingers wind through my hair once again, and I grin against her smooth skin. As my lips trail down towards her breasts, she starts unbuttoning my shirt. She eventually has it off, and I’m unhooking her bra. I groan inwardly when I see just how perfect her breasts are, and I take to ravaging them with my mouth. She unbuttons my pants and slips her hand inside, brushing against my rock hard erection through my boxers. I feel a deep rumble in my throat, and I break away from her, peeling my pants off. Before either of us can say a word, my boxers are off too. I’ve never wanted a woman so badly in my entire life than I do right now. I loom over her, taking in every gorgeous, milky curve. Her dark hair is spread out on the bed like a halo; her eyes are bright with anticipation. I position myself above her, and just as I’m about to push inside of her, I hear a crash.

“Bobs wake up!” a loud voice demands. I groan and roll over in my bed. I feel a blush forming on my cheeks when I realize I have a major case of morning wood, and I want to punch whoever is waking me up.

“Get up, get up, get up, get up!” the voice begs, and I roll over. Claude is jumping up and down on my bed and I curse at him in Russian.

“I don’t need to speak Russian to know that you’re not being very nice,” Claude chuckles before hopping off of the bed.

“Why you wake me up?” I ask.

“I told you I was bringing over a friend of mine today. Now get up, she’s almost here. We don’t need you looking like you were hit by a truck mon ami,” Claude teases, and I bolt out of bed. I run to the bathroom, take a shower, blow dry my hair (a rarity), and brush my teeth in record time. I hear a knock on the front door as I’m hopping into my jeans. Claude goes to answer the door as I tug on a gray, snug fitting tee, and then I rush out of my bedroom. I feel my jaw drop slightly as Claude pulls me further into the living room.

“Sergei, this is Rose. Rose, this is Sergei,” Claude says, motioning towards the woman standing in front of me. She’s got dark, curly red hair, huge green eyes, beautiful curves, and a mischievous smile. My mouth goes dry. I must have ESP or something…holy crap.

“Priyatno poznakomitʹsya Sergei,” she smiles. My heart skips a beat. I love how she says my name already.

“Priyatno poznakomitʹsya,” I choke out.
“Okay…well I’m gonna go pick up the lunch, so I’ll leave you two kids alone for a bit,” Claude chuckles awkwardly as he slips out of my apartment. I stare at him pleadingly for a few seconds, but then Rose walks past me, her hand brushing my arm as she does so. It’s like electricity is shot through my body at the contact.

“Nice place,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say.

“So…you’re a Flyer, huh?” she asks. I nod.

“I’m not a huge fan of the Flyers, but the fact that you’re a goalie, combined with…well, your good looks…I think I’m willing to make an exception,” she smirks. I see that she is playing with a small necklace. It’s a silver charm in the shape of the Devils logo.

“I’d like that,” I say, my shyness vanishing as I recall my dream. Maybe dreams can come true.