Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 10

Perhaps he had gone too far….

Later, in their home stadium’s state-of-the-art locker room, those last few moments in the alcove with Lydia kept looping in Yom’s head as he laced up his skates.

He had meant every word he’d said to her. There would be consequences. He’d make her and Carrington pay for the humiliation they caused him.

He just hadn’t meant to say that part out loud—or been prepared for how her soft brown eyes had widened with fear, wrenching his heart.

“You shoulda seen this girl, homie! She was all over my ass at the back-to-school festival. I mean, just straight-up begging me to put her on….”

Yom threw an irritated glance over his shoulder at Tommy Hanson, the team’s second-line center, boasting to a group of guys.

Hanson’s voice grated like nails on a chalkboard. He talked with an aggressive 90’s-era Blaccent, despite having grown up on a farm in the extremely White rural outskirts of Gemidgee. And Yom had once overheard him complaining, “Yo, Coach be thinkin’ Rustanov’s somethin’ special jus cuz he’s a Russkie and related to Mount Nik. That’s straight-up racist.”

When Hanson wasn’t being just capable enough on the ice to hold his team spot, he treated campus like a hunting ground for his dick. Whenever boasting about his “big game numbers,” he often referred to himself in the third person as Mr. Hit and Quit It.

“I mean, she’s not my usual type—sounded kinda corny, if I’m being honest. Got that Urkel in her a little too deep, know what I mean? But she’s cute in the face, and she’s got a nice ba-donk-a-donk, so yeah, I was spitting game. Then I replace out who her motherfuckin’ father is. Get this….”

Yom didn’t “get this.” Hanson was a cartoon of a male, and Yom found he had no more patience for his antics.

He jammed his earbuds in and blasted C-Mello, drowning out the rest of Hanson’s story.

And just like that, his thoughts returned to Lydia.

Yom’s genetic inclination toward revenge was still coursing through him, but…

She’d sounded sincere when she apologized. Her voice, soft and trembling, kept replaying in his head. Truly, sincerely, so, so sorry…

Also, there was that bit about her breaking up with Carrington.

She was no longer with him. Did that mean Lydia was a free agent? Maybe what she’d said to the guy with yellow dreadlocks was just a made-up story to let him down gently. The girl he’d met in Berlin had seemed like the kind of person who’d make up a story to avoid confrontation.

Yom’s heart raced at the memory of how fervent she’d looked when she apologized again instead of pushing him away. Maybe she wasn’t lying this time.

Yom clenched his fists, trying to suppress the flicker of hope rising in his chest.

“Hey, Yom, you ready to kick some ice?”

Yom blinked and looked up to see the locker room now empty, save for Lars Andersson, their team captain, who stood over him with a quizzical look.

“You all right?”

Lars was yet another Minnesotan currently playing for the Gemidgee Yolks. But Yom preferred his easy-going, folky accent to whatever Hanson was trying to emulate.

“Da, I am ready to kick some ice,” Yom answered, repeating the pun their highly devout coach often used instead of the less cleanly worded “kick some ass.”

Gametime.

Wiping all thoughts of Library Girl from his mind, Yom rose to his feet and followed his captain out of the locker room.

This Lydia business could wait. He had a winning streak to maintain with the Yolks.

And win they did.

From the very first blow of the whistle, Yom dominated face-offs, winning nearly every one and setting up play after play. Halfway through the first period, he scored the first goal with a perfectly executed wrist shot that flew past the goalie’s outstretched glove. By the second period, the Yolks were up 4-0.

But Yom refused to let up. His relentless pressure forced several turnovers, and his defensive play completely shut down the Hawks’ offense. With only a few seconds left in the game, he intercepted a pass in the neutral zone, raced down the ice on a breakaway, and scored one last point with a backhander that left the goalie sprawling beneath a scoreboard that read 7-1 in favor of the Yolks.

It was such a rout that the stadium erupted into thunderous cheers. Then, as was the Yolks’ tradition when a home game was won, the players’ friends and family surged onto the ice to congratulate them and celebrate their win.

But no one rushed onto the ice for him. The thrill of winning morphed into a strange ache in his chest as Yom looked at his mostly Minnesotan teammates being hugged by their family members and kissed by their girlfriends.

Yom was well-known on campus, and many of the well-wishers gave him a thumbs-up on their way to congratulate the other skaters they were really there to see. But no one stopped to smile and tell him what a great job he did “kicking ice.” Or embraced him with love. But then…

Lydia.

Yom’s heart stopped when he saw her enter the ring, gingerly picking her way across the ice, even though she was sporting a pair of sturdy black boots underneath the same yellow wool swing coat she’d worn to class.

Had she come here for him? His heart leaped as he started skating toward her without thought to his earlier vow of vengeance.

“Hey, superstar!” Her lilting voice floated over to Yom as a happy smile split her face.

But then, instead of continuing toward him, she turned to her left and waved excitedly.

At someone who wasn’t him.

The next thing Yom knew, she was being swept up into a bear hug.

By Tommy Hanson.

“Hey, girl! Did you see me out there, straight spanking them Hawks?”

She threw her head back with a laugh, as if Hanson was the most delightful person she’d ever met. “Yes, you were so unbelievably terrific. My friends and me were cheering our heads off….”

“Hey, Rustanov, great game!” Their captain chose that moment to skate up to him. “My mom was wondering if you wanted to come to dinner with us since you never do the after-party thing.”

Instead of responding to the considerate invitation, Yom grabbed Andersson by the sleeve and pointed to Hanson with his arms still wrapped around Lydia. “Explain.”

There was an ice rink in his belly, threatening to crack.

“Oh, you didn’t hear Hanson bragging in the locker room about how he’s probably going to end up on the Minnesota Raptors because he accidentally scored a date with Lydia Carrington without even knowing who she was?”

“Carrington?” Yom repeated, not understanding.

“Yeah, Lydia Carrington. She keeps a low profile—like, never comes to games. But she’s the daughter of Joe Carrington.”

Yom could only stare at the woman smiling up at Hanson as the situation in Berlin rewrote itself in his head.

“Joe—as in Joseph Carrington? Name on the school library. Plus, he’s the owner of the Minnesota Ra⁠—”

“I know who he is,” Yom growled before Andersson could finish.

Da, he was now fully aware that he hadn’t been duped by Paul Carrington’s girlfriend—but his sister.

Forget what he’d said to himself earlier….

The cracked ice in his belly froze over. Into something much uglier.

This beef with Lydia wasn’t over.

In fact, it had only just begun.