Puck Money: A Hockey Love Story Read online

  "Wow, Talia, you’re a genius. I didn’t know portfolio advisors could be so nimble. What a great strategy."

  "Well, I aim to please. And remember, I had you sign off so I could have that level of flexibility in decision-making. Other advisors could do it, but it would mean monitoring accounts individually on a day-to-day basis and most don’t want to do that much work."

  "What do people pay them for, then?"

  I shrug. "The investment process is pretty complicated, and it does take an expert to make discerning choices at the right moment. Most good advisors can get great results without this level of service. I just like to play with the puzzle pieces when I can, when I’m feeling confident of a sure bet. Maybe there will come a day when I can’t do this level of hyper-focus on accounts, but for now, I have the time and interest. Especially for my favorite clients." I give him a playful wink.

  He presents his knuckles for a second fistbump as we finish up his review. Once we’re done, I walk him to the door. He gives me a side-hug, made awkward by the fact that he’s like a foot taller than I am, before heading out into the afternoon sun. And I smile. Looks like I’ll have at least two friends in Las Vegas, after all.

  * * *

  I don’t have other client appointments today, so I hunker down in front of my computer to watch how the markets finish, then make some notes on a few clients' accounts I want to change up. Before I know it, it’s past nine and my stomach reminds me I’ve missed dinner. Again.

  After locking up, I make the short walk to my apartment. I was lucky to find something affordable, with a doorman and security system, right within actual walking distance of the office. I like living among the hustle and bustle of the high-traffic area just off the Strip. It makes me feel like I’m part of something and feeling part of something is enough for me, since I’m an introvert by nature.

  Inside my small studio apartment, I hear the tinkle of my cat’s little collar bell as she runs toward me, welcoming me home.

  "Good evening, Miss LuLu," I say, picking her up. She rubs against my face and purrs before squirming away and running toward the kitchen area. "I’m sorry I’m late. You must be starving."

  I get LuLu fed, then heat up another culinary delight from my freezer (chicken enchiladas suizas) and make a cup of tea before settling on my blue velvet chaise with a book. My apartment is exactly two and a half rooms—the studio living space, a bathroom, and a tiny kitchenette space separated from the main living area by a small buffet bar and two stools. I’ve got a chaise lounge, one of my handmade chenille blankets (hand knit by moi), and two full bookcases. It works for me.

  I start reading the John le Carré thriller my dad gave me for Christmas in between bites of enchilada, the heavy hardback tome awkward to manage with LuLu and my dinner plate in my lap. But I have some serious experience doing the cat/book juggle—which becomes a lot easier once the dinner is eaten—and settle in to read some more. I keep nodding off, but I don't stop to force myself into my bed or anything sensible like that.

  No, I just keep on reading…or attempting to.

  Eventually I fall asleep on the chaise…with LuLu and my open book on my chest…with my glasses still on my face.

  Again.

  At least my life’s predictable.

  Three

  Boris

  Something in the Water

  “It’s so good to see you, moya kuzina," Georg says as he spots me on the bench press. "And good to see that your summer of leisure didn’t diminish your gym routine."

  I laugh at this and shake my head before grabbing the weighted bar and pressing it to my chest, working through ten reps before setting it back on the rack. "I know. I look good. You look as scrawny as ever, though," I joke back.

  Georg flexes his bicep and says, "Scrawny? No, lean and fit and sexy, so says my woman."

  "I’m sure she loves being called that," I say, still laughing. "American women love being treated as if they are items to be owned, I hear."

  "You hear? You mean you haven’t had an American woman?"

  "I am not a monk, Georg, as you are well aware." And it’s time to change the subject. "Why is the gym so empty today?"

  "Some summer commitments are not yet finished. Russian league just finished. Pam and I got back three days ago but some stay for time with family," Georg says as I pull another set. "Practice starts in one week. They will wait until the last minute to return."

  "It was like that in Austin, though many came back a few days early to party."

  Georg grins and wiggles his eyebrows. "Partying happens all season long here."

  "Not for you anymore, I hear."

  "That is true. Why didn’t you go back home for summer league?" he asks.

  I finish my last set on the bench and sit up. Georg adjusts the weight so he can do his sets. I rib him for switching to a lighter weight and he says he’s sure he can lift heavier but why bother when there is no one important around to see it?

  Shaking my head, I answer his question about summer. "I had a mild concussion at the end of the season and was advised not to play summer league. I pause momentarily, curious why Georg didn’t know about my injury. Too busy with his American woman is my guess. “So, I stayed in Austin and ran an ice hockey camp for kids instead."

  "You ran a camp?"

  "Yes. I really enjoyed it."

  "Ick. Kids. Who would want to be around kids all day every day like that?"

  "You don’t like children?"

  "They’re okay at a distance I suppose."

  "What about your woman? Doesn’t she want to have kids?"

  "Now who’s being sexist?" Georg asks, laughing. "No, not anytime soon. She says I’m barely an adult myself and she doesn’t need anyone else to take care of in her life right now."

  "Ouch."

  "It is the cold truth, my brother. I hope I never knock her up. I’d be a terrible role model."

  My cousin is so jovial about this whole conversation that I feel certain this is not a bone of contention between Georg and his wife, Pam. It’s great that he found someone who is a good fit.

  "You know," Georg says in between his sets. "You should be careful here. I think there is something in the water. Evan met his wife here and they have a couple of kids. I met Pam here. And now even that govnyuk, Viktor, found someone to fall in love with him here. They have a baby on the way, as well."

  "She must be a saint, his wife."

  "Oh, they are not yet married," Georg gossips. "He knocked her up before they could plan the wedding. Scarlett says he passed out cold when she told him. She also works for the Crush in the PR department, doing social media mostly so you'll meet her soon. Pam and Scarlett are close, so we hang out as couples sometimes, but Viktor is still very much the Mad Russian fucker we all love to hate on the ice. Now that we are all on the same team, he is much more tolerable thanks to his little family, if you know what I mean."

  I can’t help but smile at the thought of big Viktor Demoskev fainting when he found out he was to be a father. It even elicits a slight chuckle as we switch to the cable machine for leg lifts. Georg grabs his water jug—yes, a giant jug of water, not just a normal-sized bottle—and holds it up before taking a chug. "I only bring my own water from home, now. Taking no chances on this baby-making issue."

  "I would not mind being a father," I say as I adjust the Velcro ankle strap and check the weights. "If I found the right woman, that is."

  "Well, there are plenty of women in this town willing to plead their case to a successful athlete."

  I make a noise of distaste. "I am not interested in women like that."

  "No?"

  "You know me," I say, rolling my eyes. "Random women who just want to score an NHL player for the night will never appeal to me."

  "Oh yes, I forgot you’re a serial dater and boring as hell."

  "Meh." I give a shrug. "So what if I'm boring?" He's not wrong. I am a serial dater. One woman at a time, even though I've been single for more than a
year. I've had a few relationships over the years that were casual, but I'm finished with the one-night hookups that used to tempt me. Lately those have been few and far between. The jersey chasers were always just so terribly fake—and still are for that matter. Whenever I do take a woman to bed, I like to pick someone who doesn't follow hockey, who won't come looking for me later. I've been careful and kept my personal life private over the years. What happens behind my bedroom door is nobody's business. Playing the "I'm a boring guy" card has worked pretty well for me keeping my private life running smoothly under the radar. And that's just the way I like it.

  "I think you might be a closet romantic," Georg says shaking his head at me. "There are so many fish in the sea. So many tasty, tasty fish for a single guy who looks like you."

  "Do you regret settling down?" I divert the topic back to him once again.

  "No, not at all. Pam is perfect for me. I think I knew it the first night we met."

  "Now who is the romantic?"

  "For her, I totally am."

  "Well, then you understand what I am looking for. I don’t need many women. I need the right woman. I just need one. And I will find her eventually. I can be patient."

  "Finding the right woman can be life-changing," Georg admits. We finish up our workouts as he peers up at the clock. "Speaking of which, I’m supposed to meet Pam for lunch soon."

  Georg leaves me shaking my head in disbelief as he takes off for the showers. It’s hard to believe that any woman could have had such an effect on Georg Kolochev. He was truly wild when we were together in Sochi for the Olympics. Drunken, sex-crazed, and one-hundred percent wild. His wild lifestyle mirrored his wild style of play on the ice. I was certain he would burn out early, yet here he is, thriving, married, and sober. Or maybe, he was sober, married, and thriving.

  I stick around the gym to finish off with jump rope and box jumps before finally grabbing a quick shower and my bag to wander out into the searing hot Vegas afternoon. I will have to get used to the desert heat of living here full time. I’m thankful my apartment is only a few blocks from the practice arena so I can walk there in just minutes. The arena on the Strip where we play our games is about two miles from where I’ll be living so I can just order an Uber to games if I don’t want to do the longer walk in the heat wearing a suit. Which honestly doesn’t sound too great.

  But it does mean I don’t need a car immediately, which is good since I sold mine when I got the trade from Austin. I had to have a car there, because everything was spaced out far and wide in the Texas landscape. The Comets arena and the practice facility were many miles apart. Neither were in the downtown area of Austin where I lived, but here in Vegas, everything is quite close, so I can manage on foot at least for now. I'll probably have to get a car eventually when I find a more permanent place to settle. Scott told me that most of the players own homes in Summerlin, a town about fifteen miles outside of Vegas, where the environment is that of a regular family community, totally opposite of the hopping night-life Las Vegas is famous for. I’ll have to check that area out whenever I’m ready to look for a permanent home to buy. It’s going to have to be somewhere much quieter than the Las Vegas Strip, that’s for damn sure.

  * * *

  My apartment here is just a one-bedroom place that Scott helped me get into temporarily, smaller than my place in Austin, and nothing special. Despite my fat contract with the Crush, I’m just not doing as well financially as I could be. I mean, I haven’t gotten a paycheck on my new contract yet, so that’s part of it, but I had a decent deal in Austin and I’m not a baller by nature. My life is simple, and I don’t spend money frivolously. I haven’t taken enough interest in what my fund manager has been doing, or what he’s invested in, but as I’ve looked over my most recent financial statements, I don’t feel my investment is performing as they should be. If I’m reading them correctly that is.

  And that is the problem. I have trouble deciphering numbers. Words too, but numbers are worse. The figures on the page might as well be hieroglyphics, the way they jump around and blur on the page in front of me. Basically, I can’t interpret the annual statements. My fund manager is in Russia. With a little pit of anxiety welling in my stomach, I look at the clock. They are eleven hours ahead, so it’s about midnight there. They're probably asleep. They've managed my money since I was much younger and I'm still not doing as well as I should be, so maybe it’s time to have an American advisor take a look.

  I call Scott and explain I’m not the best at deciphering investments and strategy, and that my new contract is big enough but I’m concerned about it not being invested well with my current portfolio manager.

  "Do you know anyone who could take a look at things for me?" I ask.

  "Actually, yes, I know just the person for you to see. I'll shoot you a text."

  Four

  Talia

  No Nathaniel Here

  “How’s the weather in Los Angeles today?" I ask my client by phone. And then a second time, since he’s elderly and hard of hearing. "I said, how’s the weather out there today?"

  "Oh, just fine, just fine," he says. "Praying for rain as usual. You? You’re where now?"

  "Las Vegas. Harold moved me to build the sports business here."

  "Sports, shorts," Mr. Riddle says. "Live fast, die young when it comes to longevity. Making money in sports is no good long-term strategy. You know what’s been a good long-term strategy for me?"

  "If I had to guess, I’d say you did pretty well in utilities and energy."

  "Utilities and energy," he says, as if I didn’t just say that exact thing.

  "Right, you’ve done very well there, that’s for sure. Hey Mr. Riddle, do you like the package I drew up for this next wave of investments?"

  The little bell on my office door rings as it opens. I’m not expecting anyone, so I don’t look up right away, figuring it’s just a delivery person. However, when I do look up, I’m slightly taken aback. Enough so that I lose what I was about to say to Mr. Riddle, who is still babbling on about utilities and energy. I manage a, "Can I call you back, Mr. Riddle?" and he agrees, so I hang up, desperately trying to remember if I got that lunch lettuce out of my teeth from earlier.

  The man in front of me?

  Hulking. Huge. And not terrible on the eyes. He’s got short, dark hair and a sexy five o’clock shadow. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt—a T-shirt that’s clearly been well-loved as it clings to his muscular frame, filling out his bicep region quite magnificently. An impressive, colorful tattoo snakes down one arm. It might even be a snake. Or a dragon maybe?

  I'm not going to lie—I find him very, very attractive.

  Yes. I. Do.

  Which is very bad, because I promised myself, I wouldn't do this again. I would not think sexy thoughts about clients ever again after what happened in San Francisco.

  He bites his bottom lip like he’s nervous or shy or something and I realize I’ve been ogling him for like a minute now. Unprofessional much?

  Not a good start.

  "Hi." I clear my throat. "Sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone today."

  "Should I come back?"

  Oh good Lord, he’s got a super sexy accent. Okay, take a deep breath and get your shit together. He’s probably not a client, and just here to deliver something.

  "No," I say, managing to get out of my chair. "How can I help you?"

  "Scott Rose said Harold said to come here."

  "Oh. Oh, okay." Scrambling around the desk, I move the box that once again occupies my lone guest chair. After the box is on the floor, I gesture that he should sit. He looks at the chair, then at me, as if he’s unsure he’s in the right place. Honestly, I get that a lot with new clients. I look too young and they think I can’t possibly be the person who will help them with their sizable fortunes, especially if they’ve already met Harold, who is the quintessential slick finance guy.

  I run my hands over my crisp, white shirt and black pencil skirt and push my glasses up on my nos
e before holding out my hand. "I’m Talia."

  "Boris Drăghici." Gods, his voice is sexy. "I’m looking for Nathaniel Wentworth."

  A tiny laugh escapes my throat and Boris looks confused. "It’s Natalia," I say. "That’s me. I’m Natalia Wentworth."

  Boris’s look of confusion on settles further into his handsome face. "I thought you said your name was Talia?"

  Tah-lee-ah. The way he says it, stretching out the syllables…is really quite lovely.

  "Natalia," I say, my voice stupidly breathless. "Talia for short. I promise you I’m the one you’re looking for."

  He meets my gaze and for just a moment, there’s almost surprise in his eyes. Surprise that disappears as he pulls his top lip through his teeth and looks away, his cheeks turning slightly pink. It’s disarming; he seems genuinely shy. And don't forget hot. So very insanely hot.

  "Have a seat?" I gesture again to the lone chair.

  His name sounds so familiar, but I can’t place it right. I blame his good looks. They have scrambled my normally high-functioning brain. He obliges and I return to the other side of my desk, thankful to sit back down, thankful to hopefully talk numbers, a subject that will return me to an intelligent and functioning frame of mind.

  "You seem young for a financial planner," Boris comments. He looks around the very boring office space. Beige walls. Brown tile floor. No art. Unpacked boxes scattered about. A half-eaten sandwich on top of the file cabinet. No doubt it’s not only my age that’s causing him to doubt my ability.

  "I’m twenty-three, which is young by most standards. However, I graduated high school at sixteen and college at nineteen. Harold hired me as an apprentice right out of school and I’ve had my own portfolio of clients since I was twenty. I promise I know what I’m doing."

  "I am…intimidated," he says with a half-smile. "Perhaps you are too smart to talk to me."