Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 1

“I don’t know about this, Paul….”

Walking toward the Berlin Night Club’s VIP section, my voice wavered as I tugged down the hem of the ridiculously short, body-con mini dress my brother insisted I wear.

Music that sounded like a blender and static having sex over a syncopated beat blasted from all directions. I had to practically yell into Paul’s ear to be heard over it. “I am super-doubtful this plan of yours will work, and I’m really not about ruining some poor guy’s life.”

I shouldn’t have come. The whole scheme felt off—not just off, wrong. But Paul had begged, and I’d folded, like I always did.

“It will work!” Paul shouted back. “And Rustanov’s not some poor guy. His family’s money makes ours look like pocket change. Trust me, this dude’s never had a bad day in his life. Losing one final in some international tournament won’t stop all the American teams from sucking his dick when he returns Stateside. If he hadn’t opted out of the draft, he’d be the number-one pick.”

“Still…” I fretted my lip. God, I wished Paul had asked me for anything—anything—else but this “favor.” The thought of drugging someone, even a star hockey player who didn’t know I existed? My stomach churned.

Paul and I had been having such a nice time, standing in for our father at the Worldwide Ice Hockey Federation tournament—all the way up until the favored American team was unexpectedly knocked out of play and my brother had come to me in tears, begging for my help. A few hours later, I was still struggling to figure out how to tell Paul no without pulling the grenade pin on his volatile temper.

The club, just down the block from the tournament’s sponsor hotel, was packed with pro and college hockey players from across North America and Europe. Most of them already had at least a couple of girls vying for their attention, and the VIP section was even worse.

The athletes, sitting on white couches beyond the velvet ropes, were surrounded by perfectly made-up women who looked more like preternatural sculptures than actual beings who shared the same species designation as me.

“There’s no way I can compete,” I assured Paul, my social anxiety spiking as it had all week since landing in Berlin to pretend I knew anything—or cared—about hockey. “We should turn back. Like, right now.”

“It will work,” Paul insisted before breaking off with a friendly American, “Hey, man….” when we reached the black-suited bouncer standing in front of a short, purple velvet rope. He palm-shook a folded bunch of Euros into the guy’s hand, apparently enough for him to let us into the VIP area without checking his list.

“Look, there he is at your one o’clock,” Paul said as soon as we got past the rope.

The music faded into the background, swallowed by the thudding of my heart. Everything inside me stilled when I turned to look at Artyom Rustanov’s side profile.

This wasn’t just a bad idea. It was an outrageous one. I didn’t belong in this guy’s world—his orbit. The thought of approaching him felt like stepping into a wolf’s cage with a neon sign flashing, “Dinner is served.”

He looked like one of those cruelly beautiful, perfectly symmetrical, coldly nonchalant manga villains come to life. Dark hair, sculpted cheekbones, and a jawline so sharp, it probably cast an angled shadow. I could hear my best friend’s voice telling me that was biologically impossible. But, like me, she’d only ever seen Artyom Rustanov on billboards and posters around school. Never from just a few feet away.

He was unapproachable. Untouchable.

Talking to another obvious athlete with close-cropped hair, Artyom’s profile exuded an intensity that was hard to look away from. The other man said something, then erupted with laughter. But Artyom’s lips barely twitched—a flicker of something between a smile and a snarl.

He somehow managed to exude both attraction and danger, like a huge red magnet with yellow triangle signs warning you not to touch.

A German model I recognized from a perfume ad I’d seen splashed across an entire wall of the Berlin airport’s duty-free sat on the couch directly beside him. But every woman within a 12-foot radius stared at Rustanov only, including me.

Thud. Thud. Thud. My heartbeat pounded so fiercely, it eclipsed the music reverberating through the air. “No, no, no, I definitely can’t do this!” I told Paul with a fear-born urgency that made my voice squeak.

“C’mon, Lydia, you have to do this. For me!” Paul’s voice was sharp, but his hands clasped together in a pleading motion. His brown eyes—so much like our father’s it made my stomach twist—glittered with desperation. “I’ve got too much money riding on tomorrow’s game. If Dad replaces out, it’s over for me. He’ll cut me off completely this time. No more threats, no more chances—just disinherited. Do you know what that means? Everything. Gone.”

It wasn’t just the money Paul was terrified of losing, I knew—it was the last shred of respect Dad still had for him. He’d only just gotten back on his feet a few months ago with a new investment banker job in Chicago, and that was after rehab. If Dad actually cut him off this time… I didn’t even want to think about what Paul might do.

But even knowing all that, this plan still felt like a boulder on my chest, making it harder and harder to breathe. Guilt. Anxiety. All of it tangled together until I didn’t know what was worse—letting Paul down or going through with this crazy scheme.

“Like, a few thousand dollars?” I asked hopefully. I’d earmarked the Christmas “bonus” we’d received this year in lieu of actual quality time with my adoptive millionaire parents for an annual donation to the Gemidgee Animal Shelter, where I volunteered two days a week. But maybe I could use the money to help him out. Again.

“Yes, just a few,” Paul answered, rolling his eyes like the number was inconsequential. “But add the words hundred thousand to it.”

My stomach dropped. “Oh my God, Paul. How… How are you going to fix this?”

“I am fixing it,” he snapped. “Canada’s got this in the bag tomorrow—unless Rustanov fucks it up. I’m running out of options here, Lydia. Dad already thinks I’m a fuck-up. Do you think I want to give him another reason to write me off?”

His face crumbled a bit, but then he smoothed a confident hand over the side of his perfectly shellacked blond pompadour. “You know what, though? My little sister is going to save my ass by flirting with the other team’s star player and slipping a little something into his drink so that he’ll be kicked out of the game for doping. Then I’ll have learned my lesson, and I’ll never bet on anything again.”

Was he kidding? “Your entire plan hinges on me successfully flirting with a hockey player who doesn’t even seem to exist on the same physical plane as me?”

“You’re cute,” Paul insisted. Before adding, “Enough—especially this late at night after he’s been drinking. He’ll be ready to take someone back to his hotel room with him. C’mon…”

Paul grabbed me by the arm and tugged me straight toward the star hockey player.

“Wait, now we’re talking about him taking me back to his room? I thought you just wanted me to⁠—”

“Lyds, c’mon, don’t overthink this,” Paul interrupted, his voice dropping into the patronizing tone he used when I got too dramatic. “Just go and talk to him. You’re exactly the type Rustanovs like. Trust me.”

But how could I trust him? Paul’s plan wasn’t just stupid—it was dangerous. What if Artyom saw through me? What if I messed up and humiliated both of us? Or worse, what if I actually succeeded and had to live with it?

“But I’m not⁠—”

My plan was to point out the obvious. That I wasn’t some goddess like the rest of the women in the VIP—including the literal supermodel sitting just a few inches away from Artyom Rustanov.

Paul placed a reassuring hand on my back.

And shoved.

One moment, I was arguing my case, and the next, I was flailing in slow motion through the air until I landed with a heavy plop.

Two hard ridges lodged between my ribs and hips, and cold liquid splashed against my bare skin.

And that was when I realized where I’d fallen. Not on the floor…

But right into Artyom Rustanov’s lap.