Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 2

I’d fallen. Like, fully fallen. And the only thing that stopped me from landing flat on my face was Artyom Rustanov’s wide lap.

“Unglaublich, Yom!” the model said somewhere above my bare ass with a heavy German accent. “Your brother was correct when he told me these puck bunnies, as he called them, would do anything to get your attention!”

Man, I wanted to defend myself. But that was kind of hard to do while I was squeezing my eyes closed and praying to the Universe to please, please, please disappear me or kill me now or sci-fi teleport me to any-freaking-where but lying with my booty cheeks out across Yom Rustanov’s lap.

However, when I opened my eyes, I discovered the Universe wasn’t in the miracle-granting mood that night. I was still there. And that full thirty seconds I’d taken to fervently pray for body-erasing assistance had only made the situation that much worse.

“Da, this is maybe ‘too much’ way to gain my attention,” a deep, heavily accented voice agreed.

Then, large hands closed around my shoulders like Russian jaws of life. Artyom plucked me from his lap to return me to my feet with zero effort.

“I’m sorry!” I cried out once I was back in an upright position. Then I remembered to pull down the skirt of my stupid, stupid mini dress before adding, “Oh my God, I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. I was just coming over here to say hi, but then I, ah…”

No matter what Paul had promised about the ease of this mission, lying had never come easy to me. I struggled away from the truth to finish with, “Tripped. I tripped and fell, and I’m so, so sorry that I knocked the glass out of your hand. What are you drinking? I’ll get you another one?”

He just stared at me long and hard, those impossibly beautiful gray eyes far too piercing, before asking, “You are wanting to say hi?”

It took me a moment to realize that Artyom was actually inquiring into why a complete nobody stranger like me would want to say hi to a total hockey star like him.

“Oh yeah, we, um, actually, um, go to the same school? University of Minnesota-Gemidgee? I’m a good egg, you’re a good egg! Tap-tap-crack. Goooo Yolks!”

I raised my arms and waved both hands in the air before realizing that Artyom, the German model, and just about everyone else in the VIP area was watching me manically rattle off the school fight song.

The Universe, Kill Me Now prayer promptly resumed in my head with new fervor.

A long beat of silence. Then Yom said, “Sit down.”

I glanced at the German model posed beside him, along with two goddess-in-waiting friends. “But⁠—”

He flicked his wrist, and suddenly, an empty space appeared beside him before I could point out that there was nowhere to sit. The pretty goddesses just scattered without a word of command.

Okay.

My heart had climbed up on a horse and was threatening to gallop out of my chest. But… “Sure, I’ll sit down.”

I gingerly took a seat in the space the model had abandoned and tried again. I could do this. For Paul. I could do this terrible, hard thing.

“About that drink I owe you,” I squeaked out like the guilty mouse I was.

“Da.” He flagged a passing waitress with another stern flick of his wrist. “Two Peroni Zeroes, please.”

“Peroni Zeroes?”

“Nonalcoholic beers,” he explained.

Up close, he looked even more impossibly perfect. The angles of his cheekbones and jawline were actually sharpened even further by long lashes and light gray eyes, which felt like they could see through every lie you’d ever told.

“Oh, you don’t drink?” I set down the clutch I’d somehow managed to hang onto in my lap and fretted my hands on top of it.

He angled toward me slightly, his knee brushing against mine. The closeness made my heart race, and not in a good way. Sitting next to him was like sitting next to a live wire—dangerous, electrifying, and impossible to ignore.

He tossed his hair, which was the kind of messy that usually required at least thirty minutes in front of a mirror and tons of gel. But he made the style look effortless, like maybe he’d snapped his fingers and every lock just scrambled to fall into perfectly on-trend place. “Not on game nights.”

“Oh, that’s… sensible,” I said, even as my mind scrambled to reconfigure Paul’s plan. Would the powder I was supposed to slip into his drink still go undetected without alcohol in play?

“You attend same school as me.”

To my surprise, Artyom took up the conversation baton instead of waiting for me to say something first. Also, before I could come up with any alternative to Paul’s doping scheme.

“Yeah, but I’m in the school of social work—probably super far away from whatever building you take classes in for whatever major you chose.”

“Business,” he supplied.

“That tracks,” I said with a nod, my eyes running over the tailored black-on-black suit he was wearing over an open-collar button-up. Basically, the same thing as my i-banker brother. But while Paul looked like a pudgy Midwesterner playing dress-up, Artyom wore his suit like a second skin.

We trailed off into an awkward silence. Until Artyom asked, “You are liking hockey players then?”

“Great question,” I said enthusiastically—before admitting, “Actually, I’m pretty neutral on them. But my roommate is dating Claudia Gambetti. She’s the starting position I can’t quite remember off the top of my head for the women’s hockey team?”

“The forward. Da, very good player.”

“That’s what Trish says. But she’s a lot more knowledgeable about hockey than me. Which is ironic, since⁠—”

Before I could finish telling him way more than Paul would have wanted me to about my background, a large-chested waitress came over with two bottles of the nonalcoholic beer Artyom had ordered, along with matching pint glasses.

“Oh, just let me…” I reached for my clutch and fished out a twenty-euro bill, using it to hide the small packet of white powder Paul had handed me outside the club.

My stomach swam with guilt, but somehow, I managed to tuck the packet into my dominant hand while I used my non-dominant hand to pay… wait. The waitress who’d brought over our drinks was nowhere to be found.

“Where did she go?” I asked Artyom. “You have to let me pay for⁠—”

He shifted on the couch to face me fully. “You do not like hockey players, yet you chose to fall across my lap?”

“I tripped,” I reminded him, doubling down on my lie since “I was shoved by my brother” would have sounded even weirder.

“You tripped.” He regarded me with a skeptical look. “When you are coming over here to say hello.”

“Yes, when I came over to say hello.”

I cleared my throat. Took a swig of the NA beer straight from the bottle. Tried not to think about the terrible, terrible thing I was about to do to this innocent hockey player.

It won’t hurt him, I told myself again. Chanting the words like a mantra. He’s mega-rich. This won’t hurt him or his prospects. It won’t hurt him.

“You care about people,” he said, interrupting my silent chant. “Perhaps too much.”

Artyom’s voice jolted me out of my guilty spiral.

“Hmm?” I asked.

“This is why you are seeking degree in social work, nyet? Why you are here in VIP saying hello to poor Yom, who is being so lonely without you. Because you care more than you should.”

Poor Yom? Obviously, this hockey god who belonged in the top spot of all the Hottest Players Lists that have ever listed was mocking me. But he was studying me with a weird intensity. Like I was a puzzle he’d decided to put together.

“Well, my mom thinks being too nice is my fatal flaw,” I admitted.

“Is she right?”

“I mean, I hope not.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The packet of drugs felt like a brand inside my hand. “The thing is, I want to help because I honestly like people. I think most of them are good and worth my time. That’s why…”

I trailed off, remembering my other flaw, according to my father—going off on “hopelessly naive and stupidly optimistic rants.”

“Anyway, I could go on and on about how people don’t appreciate other people enough,” I admitted, dipping my head. “But that probably isn’t the vibe for a nightclub.”

“Perhaps not.” He poured the NA beer into his glass instead of drinking it straight, like me.

My stomach tightened, and I gripped the packet in my left hand. He set the glass down on the low table in front of him, just far enough away to complicate things. Soon, I’d have to replace or make an opportunity to dose his drink.

Alright, time to mentally chant again: It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. He’s a mega-rich hockey god. You’re not really hurting him. You’re not really hurting him. You’re not really hurting him.

“Tell me, Lydia, what are you thinking of me? Am I good person?”

How did he know my name? Had I told him it? I must have during that long diatribe, which I topped off with the school fight song because social incompetency is a thing I totally excel at.

“Are you a good person?” I squeezed and unsqueezed the hidden packet of doping powder. “I assume so. You didn’t make me feel bad for falling into your lap… and spilling your drink… and stealing this seat from that really beautiful girl.”

“Who?”

I scrunched my face up. “That literal supermodel who was sitting here before me?”

His mouth quirked into a half smile. “I do not remember.”

“Seriously? She was tall, blonde, and looked super bored—still flawless, though. C’mon, stop joking. You remember her.”

“Perhaps my cousin Monika and her friends are sitting there before you.” He cast his eyes to the side, as if he were struggling to recall. “But I only remember you. There is no one after you are coming along.”

My heart sped up, and my entire face lit on fire.

But somehow I managed to pick back up the conversational thread he’d handed me. “So, your cousin is a supermodel?”

“Da, she is following in my mother, her aunt’s, footsteps. Also, she is very proud that I am playing for Deutschland in tomorrow’s game.”

Sadly, it had never occurred to me that the final WIHF game was between Canada and Germany. I’d pretty much stopped paying attention after the American team got cut yesterday. “So you’re playing for Germany, and your mother is also a German supermodel? Well, that explains your insanely good looks.”

A slow, devastating smile lifted his lips. “You are crazy about my looks, too? This is what you are telling me.”

Too?

My stomach tightened. Did a couple of backflips. Birthed a bunch of butterflies. Then screamed, WHHHAAATTT??!!

“Anyway,” I said, taking another swig of the Peroni 0.0 to cover how far, far out of my flirting depth I’d found myself. “How do you like business classes?”

“Boring.” Artyom shrugged. “Also, I am having to retake Statistics for third time next semester.”

“Oh my gosh, Statistics is the worst.”

“You are taking it?” He lifted a dark eyebrow. “I am never seeing you in any of my classes.”

“Yeah, my parents made me minor in business. But I finished all the credits early by using my summers to take extra classes and landing the right internships.” I rolled my eyes and let out a self-deprecating laugh. “And by landing, I mean my dad made a few calls. But Statistics was definitely the hardest requirement to pass.”

“I am sad you are finishing all your requirements so soon. Maybe we could meet before now in this nightclub.” He frowned. “What did you get in class you are only taking once?”

“B-minus,” I admitted, ducking my head.

“This is much better than failing grade I am getting twice.”

He picked up his beer again, erasing my chance to dose it. But I was so warmed by the sensation of actually getting to feel smart for once that I found it hard to mind having to stay here with him a bit longer.

“I tell you what.” He tipped his NA beer at me. “You will be good egg and tutor me when we return to university we have in common.”

My heart raced, but I kept my voice steady. “You don’t need to be a good egg to pass Statistics. It’s just a numbers game—pun totally intended.”

I dropped the packet back into my clutch and pulled out a pen before grabbing a cocktail napkin. “Here, let me show you this trick for figuring out standard deviation….”

One impromptu tutoring session and a lot of laughing later, the guy Artyom had been talking to before I fell into his lap came through with two more bottles of Peroni NA beers clasped in one hand and a file folder in another.

“Chess, what are you doing?” Artyom demanded. “I am not asking you for this!”

The larger but not nearly as cute guy set down the drinks and answered with a serious stream of Russian.

Was he also related to Artyom? I squinted. A brother, maybe? The close cropped hair had thrown me off, but now I could see the resemblance. They had the same chiseled jawline and slightly hooded eyes…. Wait, what was I doing?

I stopped squinting at the possible brothers to drop my gaze to the two open bottles of beer he’d set down next to our empty glasses.

They were arguing. Now was my chance to pull off Paul’s plan without the Russian playing for Team Germany noticing. I snatched up Artyom’s glass and poured the new bottle of Peroni into it for him. Then I reached for my purse, and…

Put the pen I’d pulled out back inside before closing the clutch with the powder packet still inside.

I couldn’t do it.

I just couldn’t. Even if it would mean saving Paul.

Maybe there was an organ I could sell on the black market or something. But I couldn’t dose the way nicer-than-expected college hockey player to get my brother out of the mess he’d created.

I straightened and found Artyom’s possible brother pouring the other beer into my unused pint glass.

“For you,” he said with an even thicker accent. “You will drink it after the celebration you and my brother can have after you sign this.”

Then he set the file folder on the small table where we’d gone through standard deviation and walked away.

“This is unasked for, Chesik.” Artyom glared after the larger athlete, who just waved a hand over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

Well, that answered my question about whether or not they were brothers but left a bigger question in its wake.

What was in the file folder?

I opened it and blinked at the dense paragraphs in tiny font. “What is this?”

“Standard consent contract.”

I looked up to replace Artyom no longer staring after his brother—but straight at me with a new heat in his eyes. “I am preferring to wait longer to give to you, but my brother is much more forward than me. Not nearly as shy. He thinks he is knowing better, so he is forcing our conversation.”

Shy? In what world was Artyom Rustanov shy?

But there was a bigger issue on the (tiny nightclub) table. One way more shocking than Artyom’s totally untrue self-concept.

“You want me to have sex with you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw tightened, but in the end, he answered, “Da, I would like you to come back to my hotel room with me. It is my family’s policy to have this document signed before we engage in any interpersonal relationships. Unorthodox but perhaps understandable for someone with my last name.”

So. Artyom Rustanov.

Like, the Artyom Rustanov.

Wanted me.

In. His. Bed.

“I see.” I cleared my throat, my brain trying to catch up as the words on the contract’s top page swirled beneath my eyes. I was only 22% percent sure I was not at this moment stroking out. “Yeah, totally understandable. And probably wise. Is that why you’re not drinking?”

“That is why you are not drinking,” he corrected. “As the form states, you must have had nothing with alcohol to drink for at least two hours upon our first meeting.”

“But it hasn’t been two hours…” I started to say, only to trail off when a quick glance at my watch let me know that two hours was exactly how much time had passed since I sat down.

I didn’t know what was more shocking. That hours had gone by in what seemed like minutes. Or that he had ordered me that NA drink, knowing that this was where he was headed.

“Wow, I guess time really does fly when you’re having fun talking about Statistics.”

“Da.” Yom produced a pen out of nowhere and set it down on top of the thick blocks of legal text. “Would you like to have more fun with me, Lydia? If so, you are only having to sign the contract.”