Smokeshow: A Hockey Love story Read online

  Smokeshow

  A Hockey Love story

  Raine Miller

  Brit De Mille

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are created by the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  RAINE MILLER

  writing as

  Copyright © 2020 All rights reserved.

  Raine Miller writing as Brit DeMille.

  Cover Design: Designs by Dana

  Cover Image: Sara Eirew Photography

  Editing: Marion Archer

  Contents

  SMOKESHOW

  Preface

  1. Zoya

  2. Tyler

  3. Zoya

  4. Tyler

  5. Zoya

  6. Tyler

  7. Zoya

  8. Tyler

  9. Zoya

  10. Tyler

  11. Zoya

  12. Tyler

  13. Zoya

  14. Tyler

  15. Zoya

  16. Tyler

  17. Zoya

  18. Tyler

  19. Zoya

  20. Tyler

  21. Zoya

  22. Tyler

  23. Zoya

  24. Tyler

  25. Zoya

  26. Tyler

  27. Zoya

  28. Tyler

  29. Zoya

  30. Tyler

  31. Zoya

  32. Tyler

  33. Zoya

  Epilogue

  Crossover Book Connection

  Filthy Lies: Prologue

  Filthy Lies: One

  Filthy Lies: Two

  A Request

  Acknowledgments

  About Brit DeMille

  Also by Raine Miller

  SMOKESHOW

  A Hockey Love Story

  “Be ‘just friends’ with a smokeshow like her? That's pretty much a p#cking impossible ask.”

  Tyler Lockhardt, VEGAS CRUSH

  I'm just over here minding my business playing hockey for the Crush when the SMOKESHOW of my dreams turns up and seriously rocks my world.

  For real.

  Beautiful, smart, and so incredibly sweet I cannot help myself from wanting to get to know her a whole lot better.

  But it's not happening.

  C*ck-blocked by her paranoid older brother (also my teammate) and her Feminazi sister, I've lost my game long before I ever had any.

  It gets worse.

  Zoya Kolochev has zero interest in dating hockey players and she is completely firm on that.

  She would like to be my friend though. *facepalm*

  I know I'm definitely not boyfriend material, but I don't think I'm very good friend material either.

  But it's what she wants...so I guess I'll have a new "friend" now.

  A smokin' hot, legs-for-days, sexy, gorgeous SMOKESHOW for my new friend.

  FML

  **SMOKESHOW is a friends-to-lovers STANDALONE hockey romance about a cocky defenseman for the VEGAS CRUSH about to be sidelined by one seriously hot smokeshow. Too bad she's not interested in dating a hockey player and one hundred percent off-limits. Uh oh. The friend-zone is heating up fast. You could even say it's s-s-smokin'...

  Dedication

  For those who are,

  and always will be…

  VEGAS STRONG.

  Preface

  Extensive creative license was applied in portraying some elements of NHL playoffs, awards, schedule, and fan events at games that would not happen in real life. I did this intentionally to create a more enjoyable reading experience within the storyline. This story has been carefully crafted for your reading pleasure and in no way is meant to be a true and accurate representation of NHL best practices and rules.

  This is Hockey Romance F-I-C-T-I-O-N all the way!

  xoxo

  Definition

  smoke·show

  /smōk/·/SHō/

  noun

  1. A word to describe someone so hot that you basically see the smoke coming off them...

  ◦ informal usage

  (A sexy bombshell walks into a bar.)

  Dude 1: "Dude, check out the smokeshow that just walked in."

  Dude 2: "Holy f#ck, she really is a smokeshow!"

  One

  Zoya

  SAINT GEORG

  January

  I say a little prayer to the registration gods that they will not shut me out of the classes I really want.

  My draft class schedule in hand, I look down the line, which is so very long I fear I will be standing here forever. Unfortunately, I missed the cutoff for registering online because my overprotective father only just decided that I could follow my sister Irina to UNLV where she is pursuing her master’s degree in women’s studies. So now, I must stand in the line and pray.

  Luckily, most of my transfer credits came through from my previous university in Saint Petersburg, so I am in a slightly better position to get the more targeted classes that I need. It has been my dream to study in the U.S. for a long time even though my father was absolutely against it. With every fiber in his body, he opposed sending me here for college on my own. But now, since my sister got into grad school, he finally agreed. Also helpful is the fact our brother plays professional hockey for the Vegas Crush and makes Las Vegas his home. If not for that perk, I doubt I would even be here at all. Georg is married now, and our father has threatened him with bodily harm if he doesn't look out for me (mostly) but also my sister. This idea would have been laughable a couple of years ago, but now my brother is more settled, less wild, and I believe he has my father convinced that he will keep an eye out for us.

  This is not a problem for me.

  I do not get in trouble.

  My sister, however? Well, let us just say my brother will be having his hands full with Irina. Which is why it is laughable that I had to beg for a year to come here to study in the first place.

  I finally make it to the front of the line and work through my class list with the registrar. Two of my classes are already full but she helps me find alternatives that should be suitable. Once everything is in place, I'm shuffled to the bursar’s line, where I wait for the privilege of handing over a check for the cost of this semester’s tuition.

  “Where are you from?” the gray-haired woman at the bursar’s desk asks as she enters my payment information into her computer.

  “Saint Petersburg.” I can anticipate the conversation that will likely follow.

  “Florida?”

  “Russia.”

  She looks up and giggles. “Right. The accent should have made it obvious, huh? We just see so many people from so many places here. It’s a real melting pot, Las Vegas. Have you noticed that?”

  I start to answer, but she keeps talking.

  “You speak very good English. I’m really impressed. Have you studied long?”

  “Well, my family has always traveled internationally. Everyone in my house speaks both English and Russian fluently.”

  “Oh, that’s really great,” the woman chatters. “What made you all travel so much?”

  “My father is a youth hockey coach. And my brother plays professionally. He played in the Olympics for the Russian team and now he is here, playing in the NHL.” />
  Her eyes narrow as she peers at the screen, then she looks at me with a surprised look on her face. “Kolochev is your family name?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is your brother Georg Kolochev, then?”

  “For nineteen long years, unfortunately, yes.”

  She giggles. “I’m sure all sisters feel that way about their brothers. But yours, my dear, has really made our city proud lately. The Crush are such a great team. They’ve had a heck of a season so far.”

  “I guess,” I answer with a shrug.

  I find hockey talk so boring. Probably because I’ve spent my entire life in ice-hockey facilities, either watching my father coach or watching my brother and my cousin Boris, play. Boris Drăghici, NHL superstar extraordinaire, was recently traded to Las Vegas from his former team in Austin, Texas, so he is also here playing for the Crush now...but I wisely left that part out. I've dealt with it all my life. The gushing praise from fan girls all over the world enthralled with my hockey-playing male relatives. So obnoxious. Honestly, I just want my receipt so I can leave. And by the sound of the dramatic sighing behind me, the others waiting in this line would very much appreciate me to be on my way as well.

  When I finally burst through the doors and out into the warm, Vegas sunshine, I’m ready to scream. Thankfully, my sister is waiting for me, two green tea frappuccinos in hand. I gratefully grab one and suck down the icy, sweet concoction with an audible, happy sigh.

  “Um, you’re welcome?”

  “Thank you, Rina.” Only I am ever allowed to use the shortened version of her name. “This makes up for the hockey talk I had to endure. Georg this and Georg that. It made me want to erupt like a volcano.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. Papa wouldn’t have let you come here if not for Georg.”

  “He let me come because of you, too. And how is Georg the responsible one, all of a sudden?”

  “Valid point.” Irina lifts a shoulder. “He’s always been the bad boy and now he is married so he is a saint suddenly.”

  Saint Georg. What a joke!

  My sister and I are both tall and slender. We modeled in Russia when we were kids. My sister tries to cover up her looks by dressing like a punk rocker. Her hair is currently dye-dipped so that her normally dark locks have hot pink ends. She is wearing a black leather jacket over a bright yellow tube top, black combat boots tied below white leggings. This is in comparison to my very boring ensemble of white T-shirt and khaki shorts with Crocs. Normal campus wear if you ask me.

  As we walk, we get looks. It happens everywhere we go, and my sister finds it absolutely annoying. Every single time a guy looks at us, she tells him to stop ogling. “Not a piece of meat, asshole,” is one of her favorite lines. It makes me turn eight shades of red every time, because I would rather there were simply no confrontations when we walked together.

  When two guys stop, asking us first where we got our drinks (as if the logo of the coffeeshop isn’t emblazoned on the cups), then if we are angels sent straight from heaven, “That is the lamest thing I’ve ever heard a dude say,” Irina sneers in response.

  “They are just giving us compliments.” I put my hand on her arm, trying to stop a meltdown.

  “Oh, accents!” the shorter of the two says, actually clapping and hopping up and down. He is cute in a generic way, with a snap-back hat and skater-chic T-shirt on.

  “Oh, you can go straight to hell! We’re not here for your amusement.” Irina digs her heels in for a confrontation. Once again.

  “You can’t walk around looking like that and expect dudes not to look at you.” The other guy—much taller than his friend, with dark hair that flops in his eyes—leers at her bared midriff and ample breasts in the tiny tube top.

  “I can walk around naked if I want,” she snaps. “It wouldn’t give you the right to look at me.”

  “But I would look at you, because you’d be naked,” tall-guy counters, not giving up so easily.

  Hat-guy adds, “Are you two, like, a package deal? Because I think we’re down with a group thing, if that’s what it takes. Do you kiss each other?”

  I cringe at how crass they are but try to pull my sister away from them. Irina has put down roots though, becoming immovable. “You two need your mouths rinsed with bleached. You think you can talk to women that way and get a pass? Do you ever watch the news? It’s called rape culture, asshole, and you are perpetuating it!”

  At that, the guy in the snap-back has the decency to back off. His hands go up as if he’s surrendering. “Hey, we’re just playin’—”

  His friend, however, tilts his head. His eyes narrow and his mouth curves into what feels like an evil smile. It creeps me out, and the feeling is only made worse when he says, “I’m sure we’ll see you both around, babes.”

  They walk away and I go into a full, involuntary body shudder before dragging my sister—now shouting profanities in Russian—toward the dorms. When she finally stops yelling, the guys are well out of hearing range. She takes a drink of her frap then makes a face. “Pridurki. Now my drink is melted.”

  “Well, we could have avoided that whole argument if you would have ignored them. Why can’t you ever ignore imbetsily like them?"

  “Why do they get to talk to us like that? I didn’t give them permission, and there was no good reason for it. I am not going to stand around allowing men to talk to me like I am an object, and you shouldn’t either.”

  “They thought we were hot. We get it all the time. Why does every compliment have to lead to a discussion on rape culture?”

  “Asking us if we kiss each other is not a compliment, Zoya,” my sister scolds sharply. “Whatever. I just want to be left alone to get my schooling done, and the simple act of walking down the street with you always brings confrontation like that one. Eto nelepo.”

  “You are ridiculous,” I snap. “It is not me causing a scene all the time.”

  “It is not a scene,” she argues. “I am putting entitled men in their place. You have heard of #MeToo, haven’t you?”

  All I can do is roll my eyes. I swear. My sister is like a stone wall when she is like this, and no amount of arguing, begging, or pleading will make her stop ranting. On one hand, I appreciate my sister for being such a committed feminist. On many topics, I agree with her. And no, I do not think some pridurok should be able to treat me like a sex toy, but I also don’t feel the need to cause a commotion about every single comment that is made, either. Irina, though? She does not let one slip by, ever, and it often ends up embarrassing me.

  A lot.

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me,” she says. “You need to woman up and stop letting men gape at you like you’re a piece of meat.”

  “They do not gape at meat the way they gape at us.”

  “That does not make it better, Zoya. You need to grow a backbone and stop these men from thinking they can demean you with their looks and words and disgusting behaviors. Allowing it makes them think they have permission to do whatever they want.”

  “I have heard all this before,” I say, shaking my head furiously. “Calm down and stop trying to make me into a mini version of you. You can think however you want. I want to go to my classes and make friends like a normal American college student.”

  As we walk, we keep arguing, finally making our way to my dorm room. Since I am a second-year, I have to stay in the dorms. However, one perk to having a pro-hockey player for a brother is that I was able to get a single room and don't have to share with a roommate. This is best for me, as I am not always a people person. Irina is much more outgoing. Extroverted. Engaging with people often wears me out and I think it will be best, as it was in Russia, if I have a private space to go to after each day is done.

  “This is a nice, little room,” Irina says, looking around. “No hockey anything, though? Papa will be so disappointed.”

  “Bez raznitsy.” I shrug. “He is not here.”

  Irina is smirking, so I know she is joking. She hates hockey margi
nally less than I do, as she hates their drinking and womanizing. She and our brother, Georg, have had many arguments over the years, since he was always a poster boy for both of those vices. Not so much these days, of course. He is now sober and found the love of his life in his new wife, Pam. They are both very good for each other. Our parents love her, probably mostly because the timing of her entry into my brother’s life coincided with him having the best playing year of his life, and consequently the best contract he has ever had, as well. In my parents’ eyes, Pam is a miracle worker. And their marriage was a miracle worker for me, too. If my brother wasn’t sober and married, my father never would have let me come here for the rest of my schooling. Irina is living off campus in an apartment with two other roommates, which I would prefer if I had any say in my situation. One of the conditions of our deal was that I had to live on campus for the first year. Papa doesn’t approve of Irina’s choices most of the time, so it was accept this condition or not come to Vegas at all.