Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 5

Cheslav, whom Yom affectionately called Chesik, texted him in their native language at 5:30 a.m. The sun had yet to rise, but that didn’t matter. Yom, who hadn’t slept, responded immediately

Yom toggled between his native keyboard to his English one to text, fucked up.

Then he switched back to the Cyrillic keyboard to admit…

What happened?

His brother’s question echoed in his head long after their texting ended.

Had he creeped her out? Yom asked himself this as he peed in a plastic cup for the “random” drug test that was announced as soon as he arrived for the warm-up at the Uber-Berlin Arena.

This supposedly random test came as no shock.

As Chesik had warned him when he decided to skate for the German team, “You can play for your mother’s country, but everyone knows your mother country, and the game officials will treat you the same as us.”

So, nyet, Yom wasn’t surprised to be the only one the German team subjected to a drug test before the final game. Instead of seething with resentment, though, Yom handed the cup back to the WIHF attendant standing outside the bathroom stall door like a prison guard and wondered, Was it something I said—something I did to make her run away crying?

What happened?

He pondered the possible answers while defending the puck and scoring two goals against the Canadians his German teammates derisively called Die Sirrupblätter.

Perhaps he had moved too fast? During the last period of the match, he found himself wishing he’d gone slower with Library Girl as he sped up to the Canadian who had intercepted the puck from their German defenseman.

I should not have made her choose how I would touch her. He lambasted himself for teasing her in this way as he shoved the Canadian winger into the boards—so hard the other player ended up crumpling onto the ice, and a referee’s sharp whistle rent the air, signaling an infraction.

However, Yom barely heard the boos of the crowd as he skated over to the penalty box to do his time for boarding the Canadian, who was rocking back and forth over one of his knees and being attended by medics. Library Girl’s last words to him kept ringing in his head: I should never have come here with you. I shouldn’t have let it get this far.

How could he have read the situation so wrong? Had he not asked for enough consent before touching her? Had he hurt her?

A chill ran down his back at the thought. He would need to replace her as soon as he returned to their university in Minnesota. Apologize to his Library Girl for whatever he did. He’d offer to take her on a date to someplace nice. And if she accepted, he would wait for at least three months to touch her. Maybe until they were married. That was how sick the idea of hurting her made him feel.

Another sharp whistle interrupted his thoughts, letting him know his five minutes were up.

The many Germans in the crowd roared as he skated straight back into gameplay, and a glance at the scoreboard hanging above the Canadian team’s goal stand told him why.

Without him playing, die Sirrupblätter had managed to net two more goals and erase their two-point lead.

The game was tied with only two more minutes to go.

Yom’s mind cleared, as it always did when winning was on the line. In an instant, he became himself again. Sharking into the gameplay, he sped toward the Canadian forward, who truly thought he had a chance of sinking another goal with Yom back on the ice.

But Yom quickly disabused him of that notion with a razor-sharp interception. With less than a minute to go in the game, he started skating toward the Canadian goal stand, fully locked into putting Team Deutschland ahead before the final game’s buzzer.

Until he saw her.

His heart slammed hard inside his chest. Library Girl is here.

Standing in the aisle directly above the goal stand.

With another man. A clean-cut blond whom Yom recognized from an earlier match in the World Championship.

When Team USA had lost to Germany in a surprise upset thanks to Yom’s game-winning overtime goal, the blond scion actually tried to come onto the ice to question the ref’s call.

“That was Paul Carrington,” Yom’s brother had explained afterward, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Any relationship to Joseph Carrington?” Yom did not know much about the state where he attended school. Still, he was aware the library was named after the university’s most successful graduate, Joseph Carrington, who also happened to be the owner of the Minnesota Raptors.

Cheslav nodded. “Maybe he was so unhappy because Team USA had two Raptors playing for them—two Raptors who underestimated my little brother.”

Yom had smirked at Cheslav’s guess. Then quickly forgot the existence of Paul Carrington as Team Germany prepared for the final game. He’d assumed the hockey scion had slunk home to lick his wounds after his favored team was defeated.

But no. There he was, standing in the aisle directly above Canada’s goal, looking completely at ease.

With his arm wrapped around Yom’s Library Girl.

Yom’s stomach churned.

She wasn’t just there. She wasn’t just watching. She was with him.

His heart stuttered, then slammed painfully again as the realization crashed over him. She wasn’t who he thought she was.

His grip tightened on his stick, and for a fleeting moment, he forgot where he was.

That was until the blond male suddenly animated and pulled Library Girl into a hug. His mouth dropped open, and everyone in the crowd wearing red and white jerseys jumped to their feet and erupted into cheers.

And that was when Yom realized…

He’d stopped skating. Furthermore, the puck he’d been escorting to the Canadian goal was no longer on his stick.

It had been intercepted while he stared at Library Girl.

Cursing, Yom twisted around and skated for the Canadian center, speeding toward Germany’s goal with all his might.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

The center swung his hockey stick right before Yom caught up to him, and the German goalie fell to his knees to try to block the shot—only to have the black disc sail right past him. The puck hit the back of the net as the final buzzer sounded.

The Germans let out roars of anguish, and the Canadians screamed happily as announcements, first in English and then in German, went out that Team Canada had won the World Ice Hockey Federation Championship.

No one talked to Yom in the locker room afterward. But his teammates muttered to each other, their words like splinters, sharp and painful, in stark contrast to the roaring cheers they’d shared after the semi-final.

Yom changed out of his hockey gear with a leaden weight in his stomach, like he’d swallowed a puck, and it was lodged there, heavy and unmovable. For the first time since landing in Berlin, he was almost relieved that his German mother hadn’t bothered to attend any of his games—not even the championship.

Around him, the Germans, who had been so elated to reach the finals with Yom as their secret weapon, now spoke in low, cutting tones. Some speculated whether his participation had been part of a calculated plot by his father’s government to humiliate them. The words scraped against the raw wound of losing, leaving it deeper and exposed.

This was why… this was why he never invited anyone to his games. Victory brought celebration, but that celebration always vanished the moment you lost.

Yom had no doubts that German sports pundits were saying the same thing as his teammates during their coverage of that disastrous last two minutes. The locker room’s overhead televisions had been muted, but several replays of Yom coming to a sudden stop and seeming to stand there in a daze while the Canadian center took the puck off him flashed across their screens. Silently judging him.

So now his father’s country hated him for what they perceived as a failure to help their national team advance to the finals. And his mother’s country hated him for destroying their opportunity to make history by winning back-to-back WIHF Championships.

Yom kept his head down as he left the locker room, ignoring all the people who’d waited outside the doors for the chance to attack him with questions and jeers.

But one voice stopped him in his tracks just as he reached the doors leading outside the stadium.

“Wow, Lydia really came through for me.”

Yom turned to see Paul Carrington standing right next to the outer doors. Alone.

“Where’s—” Yom began to ask, despite the ugly suspicion growing in his gut.

“Lydia?” Paul smirked. “Oh, she decided she had better things to do than watch you take this walk of shame out of the stadium. But I decided to make the time.”

Paul gave him a pitying shake of his head. “You know, I wasn’t sure when I sent her over to talk to you that it would work. I mean, she’s cute and all that, and I’d heard the rumors about you Rustanovs preferring girls that look like her. But when she told me she’d been too scared to spike your drink like I asked because you ordered fake beer like some sort of pansy, I figured my mission had failed.”

It had all been a trick? A flash of coldness seared his body, and Yom’s heart dropped with the knowledge of what Library Girl had meant when she said she’d let it go too far.

His skin tightened, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. “What kind of male sends woman to do his dirty work?”

Paul smirked. “The kind of guy who doesn’t make stupid, sentimental mistakes. Do you think I’d risk losing six figures to some shady bookies? No. I win, Yom. And I make sure I win, no matter what it takes.” He paused, letting his smirk widen. “But hey, Lydia didn’t exactly need convincing to play her part. She’s always down to help out somebody she loves, and she loves me a lot.”

Yom jerked his head back at the news that the end-of-match sighting had been part of the shorter blond man’s plan, too.

Paul chuckled low. “Yeah, just as I suspected, Lydia did a real number on your ego when she ran out like that. Thanks for proving me right and making sure I got compensated after that earlier loss. Really appreciate it, man. Un-unh-unh, none of that.”

Paul waggled a finger at Yom, who’d unconsciously raised his fist.

“Look around you. All this security? A shitload of cameras? Do you really want the world to watch you punch an American after you lost Germany that final? Don’t you have enough bad press for one day?”

Yom found himself cursing again. The gandon was right. It was bad enough he’d let himself fall for the American’s scam. Punching him out in front of everyone would only bring Yom a measure of satisfaction while making the situation immeasurably worse.

Yom lowered his fist and crashed out the doors, shoving it open with both hands.

What happened?

That question had been answered in full.

To think, he’d felt so lucky when Library Girl fell into his lap. No, not Library Girl. Lydia. The illusion of the sweet, mesmerizing maiden he’d let himself fall for dissipated before his eyes. The real Lydia was nothing but a walking con, designed specifically for him to make sure he was thrown off his game.

Less than sixteen hours ago, he’d thought all his dreams had come true. But now? Now, all he could see was the truth. Lydia hadn’t smiled at him because she wanted him. She hadn’t sighed under his touch because she felt anything real. It had all been for him to lose.

As he made his way to the dark car waiting to take him back to his hotel, the icy night air bit into his skin. But it did nothing to cool the fury burning in his chest.

Because now all he felt for Lydia was hate.