Smokeshow: A Hockey Love story Read online

  Right now, I gotta get two kids—who’ve never been on a plane before—on a flight to Las Vegas. They keep wandering off, wanting snacks, having to pee. It’s a whole thing, managing these two in a place as busy as Boston-Logan. And holy hell, can I take a little girl into a dirty men’s room in a packed airport? Fuck, no is that answer. But I can’t let her go in the ladies’ room by herself, either. Can I?

  I am so not prepared for this.

  We get some overpriced snacks and then make it to our gate where I could literally kiss the woman who lets us board early. The kids are excited to walk on the jet bridge, then onto the plane. Everything is a new experience for them, so I explain and explain to help them process it all. We’ve got first-class seats, so we sit right up front. One of the pilots greets the kids and even allows them to glance in at the cockpit before the door is closed. The flight attendant pins tiny wings on their shirts from the captain.

  It’s pretty cute, actually, how excited they are to fly. I think I’ve done it so many times that the shine has worn off, but I do remember my first flight. I wonder if they’ll remember this one.

  Once we reach altitude, I turn on a movie for them and they sit happily munching on treats. I keep hoping they’ll pass out and take a nap, but they never do. We watch movies, get up to check out the bathroom, and order about fifteen different snacks and juice boxes and whatnot. Every time they’re quiet and calm, I sit across the aisle from them, knees bouncing up and down and out of control, trying to imagine how the hell I’m going to do this. Be a parental type. I’m sure I’ll be shit at it.

  As we're making our final descent, I have the kids look out the window to see how different the terrain looks here than back home. Once we land it hits me like a ton of bricks…again. I am now the legal guardian to two small children. Kids, welcome to Vegas. Pushing down my momentary panic, I lead them off the plane and into McCarren International, the very first stop for them on their way to a brand-new life. One baby step at a time, dude. Thank you to whoever thought of family bathrooms though, because it means I can just take them together into one room and not have to deal with strangers. That brilliant concept deserves a fuckin' Nobel Prize or something.

  We head down to baggage claim, where I see a man in a suit holding up a sign with “Lockhardt” on it. I’m thrilled about the driver, but it’s his companion who really makes me smile. I can’t believe it, but it’s true. Smokeshow came to the airport to meet us.

  “Zoya?”

  She gives a radiant smile, heading toward me. Do I hug her?

  Oh, yep. She’s coming in for a hug. Wow. She smells amazing.

  “Hey,” I say as we pull apart. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought you might like to see a friendly face.”

  There’s that friend word again. Always with the friend zone. Still, as she bends down and says, “Hi, I’m Zoya,” and shakes the kids’ hands, I’m choking up—again—because she bothered to come and meet us. I need to turn away to swallow it back before facing her again.

  “This is Logan, and this is Haley.” I touch each kid on the head as I introduce them.

  “You two are so cute,” Zoya says, crouching down to their level.

  “She’s pretty,” Haley says as she looks up at me, wide-eyed.

  I nod because Zoya is pretty. More than pretty. She is a feast, with her brown hair long and wavy, her lips plump, and her eyes dark and sultry. She doesn’t try to be flashy or sexy. She’s in jeans and a simple, gray T-shirt, her toes painted baby pink, on feet in simple black, leather flip-flops. But still, she takes my breath away and I don’t know how to feel about that. I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women. I’ve slept with beautiful women. The difference? Zoya is unassuming. She’s smart and quiet and steady. She’s not falling all over herself to get my attention. And she listens. Really listens. Cares about the Tyler who grew up poor in Boston. The Tyler who just wanted to get away from his shitty life. The Tyler who's trying to get custody of his siblings to keep them from ending up somewhere awful.

  I’m staring, made obvious by the way Zoya’s cheeks flush as she meets my gaze.

  “Your voice is funny,” Logan says, breaking the spell.

  Zoya giggles as I shake my head. “Logan, Zoya is from Russia. It’s far away from here. She probably thinks your voice sounds funny, too.”

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “It's okay,” Zoya says, holding out her hand. “Can I help you find your suitcase? Then we can get something to eat?”

  Logan happily takes her hand and they walk off, Haley taking my hand as we follow along. “Is that your girlfriend?” she asks.

  I wish. “No. Zoya is my friend.”

  “Is she special friends like Mommy has?”

  A strangled sound comes out of me. “Uhhhh…no. I’m not sure what that means, exactly, but just a regular friend.”

  “Will you get married?”

  “Haley.”

  “What?”

  “I told you Zoya is my friend. That’s all. We’re not getting married.”

  Zoya has tuned into the conversation now. She smirks as she says, “I'm only nineteen, Haley. It is too soon to think about marriage.”

  “But are you in love?” Haley just won’t let it go. “You look like a princess.”

  “Thank you, sweetie,” she says, ruffling Haley’s hair, expertly avoiding the question about being in love.

  The kids’ attention is diverted once again when they see their suitcases coming down the conveyor belt. It’s comical to see them trying to run to get to them before they pass by. I guess they don’t realize they’ll come back around again and again. I reach out to help them, then grab my own bag, shouldering it as we lead the kids to the driver. It’s not lost on me how much easier it is to steer the kids when there’s two adults to pitch in.

  We pile into a Suburban—the kids in the back seat while Zoya and I sit in the middle—headed first for my apartment so we can drop the bags. Both kids are hungry, even though they ate lots of junk on the plane.

  She holds my hand on the seat and I stare at it, dumbfounded. Why am I such a teenager around this woman? Why do I hope she never lets go?

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Just really tired. It’s been weird for days.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “It means a lot that you came to meet us, Zo.”

  She nods at me and squeezes my hand.

  All I want to do is take her hand up to my lips and kiss her there.

  But I don’t.

  It dawns on me that although I’ve never had a female friend before, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so close to any other friend before this either. During every conversation, I’ve felt her strength, her comfort, and also her confidence. In me. It’s mind-blowing.

  I’ve felt grounded. Calm. As though I’ve found a life raft. No. She is my life raft.

  * * *

  As soon as we walk into the house, I take out my phone to snap photos of the main rooms, the kids’ bedroom, my bedroom, the extra bedroom, and the bathroom, then send them to Winter as promised. She said they usually do a site visit, but photos would suffice to start, considering the distance.

  I show the kids to their room, equipped with two twin beds and all the things Marlena has unpacked. I think the biggest excitement for them might be having their own beds. They screech and jump up and down as Zoya asks, “Two beds?”

  “I always hoped they’d come to visit me some time,” I answer with a shrug. “Literally no one has ever slept on those beds.”

  “Well, now they will.” Zoya pats her hand on my shoulder. “I can help them unpack while you order some food.”

  “Yes, food,” I say heading into the kitchen to look at my stash of menus. I end up dialing for pizza delivery. I should probably get them something healthier, but honestly, I’m too tired to think right now. I really want a nap. I wonder if that’s childish of me. How the hell do parents even do this day in and day out?

&
nbsp; Pizza ordered, I wander back into their bedroom to find Zoya reading a book that Haley brought in her backpack. All three are crammed in the space on the rug between the two beds and both kids look as tired as I feel.

  “Hey, I ordered a pizza—”

  “We want to go to the park!” Logan yells.

  “Inside voice, bro,” I say, holding my fingers to my ears.

  “Sorry,” he says. That’s his thing, saying “sorry,” but it comes out like “sawwy.” It’s like a four-year-old boy version of puppy-dog eyes.

  “Well, I’d be happy to take you to a park to play, but I think you need a nap first.”

  Ever heard two kids sound like ten? Tell them they need a nap.

  * * *

  With their little bellies full of pizza, and the promise of a trip to the park, they’re both asleep in forty-five minutes. As soon as I shut their door, I stumble over to my couch and practically collapse down onto it.

  “Holy shit.” Resting my head against the back cushion, I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “I’m so fucking tired. So, so tired. This is not what I wanted, Zo. Not at all.”

  “Do you mean you don't want the best for your brother and sister, because I doubt that's true.”

  “I didn’t want to be a dad.”

  “Well, technically, you are not a dad. You are still their big brother. A hero to them, I would guess.”

  “Yeah, but here I am with two kids to take care of. All because my ma…” I trail off, shaking my head. “You know I went to see her in jail. Told her I was taking the kids back with me to Vegas. She laughed in my face, Zo. Told me I’d fuck ’em up. But you know what the kids told me? That she has random guys over all the time. Strange men who disappear into her bedroom and then leave later. And the whole time they’re just sitting on the couch watching cartoons and making their own peanut butter sandwiches amidst a buffet of prescription and illegal drugs.”

  “I am so sorry, Ty. But this is your mother deflecting from her own sins. She is trying to make you feel badly, because it's easier than looking in at herself and her own mistakes.”

  “You’re so wise. And you called me Ty. That’s cute.”

  “Well, you call me Zo. I thought we might be to the nickname stage of this friendship.”

  “I agree. We should be doing nicknames by now.” I shake my head sadly. “But I really hate that I wasn’t there to protect them.”

  “You are here now.”

  “How am I supposed to do this though? I’m gonna be traveling again soon. This job is busy. I have training, team meetings, practice, games, travel. I can’t just drag them around everywhere with me.”

  “This does not have to be permanent, though,” she says in that calm, soothing voice of hers that works wonders on my stress levels. “Do you have another relative somewhere?”

  I shake my head. “There’s no one else. Just me. Even their birth certificates list father unknown, and Lockhardt as their legal name. No grandparents living anymore either. My mom was an only child.”

  “Well, maybe you can put your mom in long-term treatment? You know, long enough to make a real change?”

  “I’ll think about it. We’ve tried rehab before, but she left after a month.” I sigh. God, I’m so tired. Just want to be fucking held right now. “Zoya, do you mind… I… do you mind giving me a hug? Can I have a hug from my friend?” I'm not even lying. I just really need to have her close to me if even for a moment or two. There’s something about her voice that calms me, makes me feel more grounded, less scattered. Her touch is the same. It soothes me in a way that nothing else ever has before. And I'm fucking desperate for it right now after everything that's gone down in the last ten days. I'm wrecked.

  “Of course.” Zoya sits down next to me, the scent of her flowery perfume intoxicating like a painkilling drug. I pull her to me, and we linger like that, just holding each other for the longest time. I feel like I could stay this way literally forever. It’s so good having her pressed against me.

  When we pull away, Zoya meets my eyes and she’s biting her lip. I feel the strongest desire to kiss her. But then, she kisses me. It’s soft, tentative. Lips on lips, her arms on my biceps. And I’m like a stone, totally frozen in place because I’m half convinced that I’ve actually fallen asleep and I’m just dreaming this whole situation.

  Still, as Zoya pulls back, I hear myself say, “This isn’t what friends do.” My voice sounds odd and dazed even to my own ears.

  Zoya leans back in and kisses me again, this time more urgently. Against my lips, she whispers, “Maybe it could be what friends do.”

  I give in. Every fantasy I’ve tried to hold back is at the front of my mind now when I pull her onto my lap to straddle me. Our lips and tongues explore one another while her hips move subtly against mine, my erection instant and straining to get to that magical place between her legs. God, I’m gonna fuckin' die here with her. Probably in the next few minutes. Totally cool with it, too. At least, I’ll die happy with Zoya's lips kissing me and the weight of her on my lap grinding against my cock. Christ, help me.

  From there, it evolves into a full-on make-out session. We're kissing each other’s lips and necks, behind ears and the tops of shoulders. My hands are glued to her ass, hers to the sides of my face, just holding on to each other and kissing, over and over again.

  At some point, in a haze, we move to lie down and end up on our sides, facing each other, her leg hooked over mine. I’ve never enjoyed making out so much in my life. We’re totally, fully clothed and I am totally and fully turned on. I want more, so much more, but I let her set the pace. She moves one of my hands up under her shirt and I go for it, covering one perfectly round, full breast in my hand and then tweaking her nipple beneath a thin, lacy bra. I wish I could see my hand touching her right now, because I can only imagine what beauty lies under the T-shirt. This exploration is happening by feel only. When she sighs against my mouth, I swear it’s nearly enough to make me come.

  I need to touch her more. Feel her. I want inside her.

  I move my hand down. Past her flat stomach and down farther under her jeans, but her hand puts a dead stop to mine from going any farther.

  “Not yet,” she says between kisses.

  I try to roll away, to catch my breath.

  “Tyler? Is it okay? That I want to stop there?”

  “It’s your call, Zo. Always your call. I just—I need a minute. To calm down.”

  She rolls away, stands, then perches at the end of the nearby chaise. “It's not that I don’t want to do more with you. It's just that—well, I'm a virgin.”

  I groan and turn away, shoving my face into the pillows of my couch. “Don’t tell me that.” It comes out sounding more like wah-wah-wah-wah. I might actually cry.

  A few deep breaths and I turn back over and force myself up into a sitting position, trying to will my raging cock under control.

  “How is it possible that a woman who looks like you could be a virgin?” I can't even believe the words coming out of my mouth right now.

  “Do I seem like the type who sleeps with many men?”

  “Fair point. No, you do not. But still. No high school boyfriend? No raging hormones?”

  She grins. “I have my vibrator. Does that count?”

  Another strangled groan pops out of me. “Oh gods, woman. You are going to kill me. Today. I will be dead, and it'll be all your fault.”

  She giggles and calls me dramatic.

  “Well, making out was wicked fun,” I say, for lack of anything better. “For me at least.”

  “It was fun for me, as well.” Her cheeks have turned dark pink and she looks…hot. Both definitions of the word, of course.

  “Are you embarrassed, Zo?”

  “No.” Then a second later a whisper, “Well, a little.”

  “Why?”

  “It was impulsive to do that with you. I don't want to give the wrong impression.” Her golden-brown eyes stare at me, holding me captive becau
se I just can't seem to look away from her. Ever.

  “What? That we’re more than friends? I get it, babe. You’ve put me squarely in the friend zone. I’m in no danger of thinking we could be more.”

  The tone of my words comes out more harshly than I intended. Blame it on the blue balls I have now. Or the fact that I haven’t really slept right in the last week. Or, you know, worrying I might be getting lost in a woman who has a temporary visa to live in America. A woman who is still a teenager. A woman whose brother will castrate me if I touch her—especially because she’s a fucking virgin. A woman who doesn’t want to be in a relationship with me.

  A woman I’m not sure I can live without.

  And that scares me the most because of something Viktor said about his wife when I laughed in his face about falling in love. “This English word, ‘falling’ in love is wrong word. In Russia, we have a phrase better suited. To selflessly choose to love without reservation daily. That is love for Scarlett to me.”

  But I don’t think I had a choice. In fact, I think falling is the right verb.

  So, let’s tally.

  Two things I said I'd never do: fall in love and have kids.

  As of today, I have two small children to raise, and I'm fairly certain I've fallen headfirst into the fountain of love with nineteen-year-old Zoya Kolochev.

  Could this be true?

  Yes, it can, fucker. Joke’s on you... all the way to the spank bank.

  For someone so sure about having nothing to do with either of those worlds, I've gone and done an epic fail.

  Epic.

  Fucking.

  Fail.

  Twenty-One

  Zoya

  WE HAVE WORK TO DO

  Tyler gets up and stalks into his kitchen. He pulls out a jug of orange juice and chugs from it. I follow, nervous I may have upset him. I peer at him like he’s a wounded animal that might lash out.