Smokeshow: A Hockey Love story Read online

  “Must have been an intense conversation,” Irina mutters, looking down at her book.

  “Zoya,” he says, ignoring my sister, “your brother has appealed on behalf of his teammate.”

  “Tyler, Papa, his name is Tyler. He is not Lord Voldemort. You can say his name.”

  He clears his throat. “Tyler.” He grimaces. “Georg said he is convinced Tyler is now a better man; he has changed, and that he has earned the right to see you.”

  “I could have told you this a long time ago, Papa."

  “Please do not—just—I am going against my better judgment. It is hard for me to see you growing up, to see you becoming a woman. You are the baby of this family.”

  “Papa, I may be the baby of this family, but I'm not a baby anymore. I'm a grown woman, an adult, and if anything, this last seven weeks has shown me how much I do love Tyler Lockhardt.” I’ve felt heartbroken with an indescribable loss, which is crazy for how long we’d actually spent together. But I missed his conversation, his cheekiness, his strength. I miss him so much. “It is real—for both of us—and I can see how this is hurting him as it is hurting me. I can tell the difference between men who want only one thing and good men, and my Ty is a good man.”

  We meet each other’s eyes for a long heartbeat before my father says, “If you really love him, then you should be together. You may go to be with the one you love, my Zoya.”

  After hugging my father so hard I worry I might have broken him, I can’t get on a plane fast enough.

  Thirty-Two

  Tyler

  HIS BLESSING

  “Good to see some light in your eyes, Locksey,” Evan says, slapping me on the back as we head out to the tunnel. “Let’s go win another fuckin’ Cup for Vegas, yeah?”

  "Chief." I tip my head at him. "Yeah, we got this." Slipping my mouth guard in, I pull my helmet down, and tighten the strap. As per usual, there are good-luck messages playing on the screens along the tunnel, well wishes from our loved ones as we head into the final.

  I wait in line, knowing it’ll be yet another year where I walk right by those screens. I’ve never had a single message from anyone—pathetic, right? Still, it’s kind of fun to see a bunch of big-ass pro players get weepy when they see their moms or their girlfriends or wives on screen on the biggest night of their careers.

  The whole day has been a big spectacle. We came in early, all in our monkey suits, to do pregame press and activities. There were marching bands and circus acts and all kinds of craziness outside the arena all day long. Right now, a big pop star is performing on the ice. Once she clears off, we’ll go out for the pregame warmup. All these delays have me a bit jittery. I take some deep breaths and concentrate on relaxing with some techniques I learned from reading and my yoga instructor.

  I recall the time when dumbass Kolochev had his big moment at the last home final we played here. Pam proposed to him in a Playboy bunny costume. Ridiculous.

  Evan steps up to the screens and sees Holly and their kids wishing him good luck. He blows their images a kiss and heads on up. I start to walk by, but Scarlett stops me, grabbing my forearm. She motions to the screen, and there are Haley and Logan. Two bright-eyed little faces, telling me how much they love me and how much they loved staying with me, and how they’ll be cheering me on from the stands.

  My mouth is surely hanging open. I turn to Scarlett and she just grins and shoves me forward. A big-ass, dopey smile spreads across my face as I take the ice, waving at the crowd as I’m announced as a starter. Yes, I feel lighter knowing my brother and sister will have a loving home with two parents who genuinely love them and that I can be an active part of their life, too. I feel good about this plan with Pam and Georg, and it infuses me with a happiness I haven’t felt in many weeks. Not since Zoya left.

  * * *

  After the anthem, we take our positions for the first period. We’re playing Philly, who came back from a piss-poor start of the season as a dark horse for the Cup. They’ve been playing balls-out, with tight formations and a few trick plays that have caused us the losses leading to this seventh game.

  The first minute is just chaos. Philly’s center wings it back to a defenseman, who sends it to the wings, who sends it all the way across the ice, a sharp pass to the center again, who sends it flying at our goalie. Bam, bam, bam. I can hardly keep track of the puck, it moves so fast.

  I’m on left back, supporting Mikhail, who manages to get a dagger shot on goal that nearly tips into the net out of their goalie’s glove. The mostly Vegas-supportive crowd lets out a collective “Oh!” as the frenzied play continues.

  With one minute to go in the first period, we’re on a power play, with their left wing in the sin bin for punching Evan in the back after a check against the glass. It looks, for a second, like Boris will score from the center, but at the last instant, one of their defenders sweeps him off his feet, disappears with the puck, and shoots, scoring.

  Boris is on his feet, arguing with the refs as the crowd breaks out in a chorus of boos. When the buzzer sounds, he comes off the ice wearing a scowl so sharp it could cut someone.

  Coach is not happy. “How the fuck did we let them score on our fucking power play?” he shouts. “Someone explain it to me, because it makes no motherfucking sense!”

  Evan huddles us together. “Ladies. They are here to win. They’ve showed up for every game and they’re showing up now. If we don’t match their speed in the neutral zone, we’re sunk. We look like a bunch of elephants lumbering around out there. Pick it up. Get on the forecheck. Look for the openings. You, defensemen, anticipate their offensive gaps. Tighten that shit up!”

  The second period goes slightly better. We outshoot them three-to-one, but their goalie is on his mark every time. He doesn’t let a single thing slide through. It’s like he’s glued to the net. To our credit, we don’t let a single shot through, either, but it takes me, Georg, and Viktor all on our top game to stop the shots, which seem to be coming from every angle.

  As we huddle again to start the third period, I can barely see from the sweat rolling into my eyes. Everyone looks fuckin’ beat-tired and ready to die. We get a good pep talk from Coach Brown, and Evan says he’ll buy everyone a pony if they can pull out two goals this period. Two goals and we’re golden. We’ve done it before; we can do it again.

  Coach has made hardly any substitutions all game. The starting lineup has probably played all but six or seven shifts of this game. He asks if we’re good and we all give gloved thumbs up signals before hitting the ice for one last period.

  Shortly after the period starts, Boris gets full-on body-checked into the glass, so hard that his helmet flies off. He turns and pushes the defender, who punches him in the mouth. Viktor, Boris’s enforcer, steps into the fray, a torrent of Russian swears coming out of both their mouths. And Boris doesn’t swear, so…

  Boris spits blood onto the ice and the crowd roars for retribution. I think I see a tooth, too, but I can’t get past the melee. It takes several minutes to settle everyone down and clean up the equipment from the yard sale with several players going into the penalty box. Boris skates off with the medic. He’s animated as he talks, then he tilts his head back and yep, there’s a missing Chiclet.

  Hey, it happens in hockey. I’m sure his hot-nerd girlfriend will have something to say about it later.

  Snickering, because lost teeth are always amusing to me, I go back into position. Vik’s in the sin bin, so they’ve sent out second-string rookie, Nathan Cross. Quiet, kind of weird in my opinion, he’s superfast but not strategic. In practice I hear the defensive coaching staff constantly telling him to pass to someone, not just dump the puck into open space.

  Georg is to his right, always at his best friend’s back. I yell, “Hey, Kolochev, you gonna pull a surprise biscuit out of your ass like you did last year?”

  “Better,” he says. “No one else is getting a goddamn thing done out here.”

  To Cross, I say, “Stay here around the cr
ease and support your goalie. That’s it. Keep those shots outta that fuckin' net. Got it?”

  He nods.

  “Don’t fuck this up, rookie, or I’ll put fire ants in your boots,” Georg says.

  Play starts again and Cross, to his credit, does what he’s told him. He stays planted, blocking off players left and right as Georg and I try to move up a bit, to give more support to the wings. With our sniper, the Ice Dragon, out for a few minutes, we’ve got another second-string offensive player at center. Emile Giroux from Quebec—he’s played lots of minutes, especially when Evan was out on IR for a bit. I like him but he’s a bit of a loner. Georg says it’s because he has a “French stick up his ass,” but Vik thinks it’s more that he’s got anxiety or some shit.

  Welcome to the club, dude.

  Philly’s line is changed up, too, with two of their players in the box, and I can see they’re watching Giroux in the middle. Action picks up and I’m just analyzing their movements, their crutch-plays. Giroux is a strong passer, not a strong scorer, so every time he gets the puck, he fakes, pivots, and sends it sharply on to someone else. It gets predictable; I see three missed opportunities for a shot on goal.

  We take a commercial break and I see Evan skate up to Emile and whisper to him. I don’t know what he’s saying but I’d wager money he’s telling him to take a motherfucking shot.

  When play starts again, two minutes later, he does just that. It pings off the left pole and lands right in front of Mikhail, who strikes it back to me. I send it to Evan, totally open on the right wing, and he sends a one-timer high, hard, and fast, right into the net while the goalie still has his eyes on me.

  The crowd goes crazy. The ice feels like its bouncing beneath my skates, and people are on their feet and screaming. Evan raises his stick high in the air, as we circle around him in celebration. Georg yells, “Fuck, yes! That’s my bae!”

  “That's one. Now do it again,” Mikhail yells.

  We set up with three minutes left and a tied game. The crowd is so fucking loud, it’s insane. I rap my knuckles against my helmet, a reminder to stay focused, as the play starts up again. The puck starts moving our way, Georg deflecting a shot back to Evan, who passes to Giroux, who takes a shot. It gets deflected, Mikhail there to try to tip it in. As Evan skates up for support, there’s a skirmish, sticks jabbing at the puck but not getting it out off the boards behind the net and back into play. I can hardly see what’s happening until the crowd goes crazy.

  “What just happened?” Cross asks.

  I lift my shoulders because I sure as shit don’t know, but the refs are calling it a goal.

  “Dirty goal,” Georg says, skating our way to embrace us all again. “Evan tipped it up over off the goalie’s back into the net during the skirmish.”

  Philly requests a video review, but the goal is confirmed. We’re up two-one with thirty seconds left. A few quick swipes, along with crowd counting down, getting louder with every second—and the buzzer sounds, along with the decibel level in the arena. We’re all screaming and yelling and jumping on each other as confetti drops from the ceiling and music plays and people cheer. We’re all over the jumbotron, a bunch of sweaty-ass dudes, happy as shit to have won the Cup on pretty much the worst-ever goal in history.

  People start pouring onto the ice as they bring out a rug, then a table, then the glorious Cup itself. People pass us hats with champion status imprinted on them. Flowers sail through the air and onto the ice. It’s fucking chaos. Good chaos, but chaos, nonetheless. I see Logan and Haley way up in the owner’s box with Pam, waving wildly, and I wave back. The whole thing is surreal.

  As we line up for the presentation of the Cup, I look out and see many of the guys’ family and friends and loved ones on the ice, phones out to capture the moment. Behind the first two rows of people, I notice a dark head of hair popping up, trying to see over the crowd, and my heart soars with hope. I know that head of hair. Smokeshow. Back in Vegas? Can she really be here? My heart, which spent nearly the last two months comatose and aching, wakes the fuck up in about two-point-five seconds, and practically leaps from my body to go to her.

  The commissioner is talking and it’s still hella loud, the energy level only slightly less what it was right after the win. I can’t hear him at all, but I can see her clearly now. My beautiful, gorgeous, legs-for-days Zoya in jeans and boots and wearing a Crush jersey—with my number on it. All I can do it soak her up as I watch her weaving her way through the crowd, trying to get to the front. When she gets there, I think my face might split in half, I’m smiling so hard.

  Georg elbows me and points, saying, “It’s Zoya.”

  As if I wasn't already aware of the woman I love now standing mere feet away from me.

  The commissioner presents the Cup to the team, but I couldn't give a shit at this point. I smile for a couple of pictures, but the person my eyes are devouring is the prize that really matters.

  They start passing the Cup. First to Evan as team captain, and then it will go to each and every player in turn to have their individual moment holding the Cup and skating around the ice with it. It'll take a solid half-hour to get through the entire roster, and I'm not waiting thirty fuckin' minutes to go to my girl. This, I do know.

  So, the minute I think it’s okay, I skate over and pull her into my arms, kissing her cheeks, her hair, her lips. Never stopping, just taking her in as much as it's possible to do on national television broadcasting around the world…if the camera decides to land on us that is. We have to keep it G-rated.

  “You’re really here,” I say against her sweet, soft lips.

  “I'm really here, Ty."

  We hold each other for a long time. When I pull away to look into the eyes I've missed so desperately over seven long weeks, I grimace. “I’m sorry, I probably smell like the inside of a camel’s ass, but you smell divine as usual.”

  “A…camel’s…ass?” she asks before bursting into a fit of giggles.

  “Whatever. I’m wicked stinky. But I'm so happy now that you’re here. Did you run away or somethin’, Smokeshow?”

  Zoya’s eyes are filled with happy tears as she brings her hand up to cup my face, effectively freezing me in place, as only her touch can do and has ever done. If she's touching me, I don't want to move.

  “No, I am here for you. My father has given his blessing and I am here to stay."

  Thirty-Three

  Zoya

  A GOOD FIT

  Hours later.

  I bite the inside of my lip as we step into Ty’s apartment, feeling suddenly very nervous. We haven't had really any private time together since our meeting on the ice. So much celebrating and so many traditions to carry out after winning the most sacred prize in all of hockey, the Stanley Cup. We've been out with everyone, had a million pictures taken, and seen the Vegas Strip explode in Crush colored lights. The whole city is one giant party right now that probably won't stop for at least a week.

  But now our moment alone has come.

  What if it's not the same between us? It's been weeks and we haven't even spoken. Maybe his feelings have changed? Maybe now that he doesn't have the kids living with him, he wants to go back to his old life. It was simpler, I suppose, in many ways. And yet, when I think of his face when he saw me on the ice—the raw happiness—I cannot doubt his feelings. How I’ve missed this man.

  He flips on a lamp, filling the darkness with warm light that makes his blond hair shine like a halo.

  Tyler. My Ty. He has his glasses on, black frames that make him look studious, serious. Until I read his T-shirt, which says, If hockey was easy they’d call it soccer.

  “That shirt is stupid,” I say, pointing at it.

  He looks down and shrugs. “Meh.”

  “I mean it. Take it off.”

  He makes a face before his mouth forms an oh. “You want me to take my shirt off?”

  “I do. I really do.”

  “No big talk? No catch-up?”

  “We can talk
while you take your shirt off.”

  Tyler grins. “Okay. You’re the boss. Also, you’re bossy.”

  “We've wasted so much time, and I don't want to waste another minute.”

  When he pulls his shirt over his head, I reach out to trace the lines of his tattoos with my fingertips as he shivers.

  “Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he growls, pulling me to him, his lips finding mine in a searing, hot kiss that has the power to make my toes curl.

  He lifts me up and suddenly I’m on the dining room table as he kisses my breasts through my Crush jersey. My nipples ache against my lace bra—one I bought especially for seeing him again. He pulls the bottom of my shirt up, kissing my belly as heat pools between my legs.

  I touch every panel of his stomach, the curves of his defined pecs. He’s a machine, well-honed and at the top of his game. I can’t believe he’s mine.

  “You are mine, right?”

  His head pops up, a question in his eyes. “Did you mean to ask that out loud?”

  “Yes and no,” I answer.

  His laugh is light. “Yes, I’m yours, baby. For however long you want me.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  A lopsided grin, and then, “Oh good?”

  I push my lips together to keep from smiling. Ty makes his way up to kiss me, forcing me to let go. I kiss him back, still smiling. “I am so in love with you. I was worried you might have changed how you felt about me.”

  “Never." His accent makes it sound like nevah and I swoon at the sound. “I missed you every minute of every day. You ruined me for anyone else. All I see is you.”

  He picks me up and takes me to the bedroom, where we spend long minutes undressing each other. When I’m down to just my lace bra and thong, Ty has me stand so he can look at me. His gaze is dark and powerful as he stalks in a circle around me, his finger caressing the most sensitive skin of my backside, the sides of my stomach, the inside of my forearms. I break into gooseflesh.