Smokeshow: A Hockey Love story Read online

I flop on my bed and wave to my sister as she heads for the door. “See you later, Rina.”

  “Having a famous brother can have its perks,” she answers, looking around my room one more time. “I had the smallest room in undergrad with two roommates who smelled like fish.”

  She leaves and I am left thanking the hockey gods that I do not have any roommates. Especially not ones who smell like fish.

  Two

  Tyler

  NO FINESSE AT ALL

  I stick my glasses on my face and wipe the steam off the mirror, rubbing my five-o’clock shadow and trying to decide if I should shave or not. I just got in a killer workout, followed by a hot shower. The locker rooms are oddly quiet, creepy even, without the noise of a bunch of dudes.

  I'm glad the holiday break is over. It’s been too damn long with everyone out of town and I'm ready to be back on the ice. We’re having a banging season, so this year, I’ve set my sights on my name finally gettin' carved into Lord Stanley's motherfucking Cup. Everybody should have some life goals. It’s my year, I can feel it. Of course, Vegas has to pull off another championship season for it to happen.

  I decide against the shave—chicks dig the shadow—but acknowledge I need to stop at the barber shop for a trim to my undercut. Gettin’ a little shaggy and can’t have the flow lookin’ raggedy as we hit the ice in the new year. I head to my locker to dress just as a text comes through.

  Viktor: I cannot meet you for drinks as planned.

  Tyler: The fuck?

  Viktor: We are all jetlagged.

  Tyler: Get over it. Be a big boy.

  Viktor: It is different with a baby and a wife.

  Tyler: So Red doesn’t want you out tonight?

  Viktor: She is fine with it. I am just tired.

  Tyler: Not much of a wingman these days. Disappointing.

  Viktor: Do not be such a baby, man.

  Tyler: Go change your baby’s diaper or something.

  Viktor: Change your own diaper.

  I send him a GIF of a guy giving the middle finger, then follow with a winky-face emoji so he knows I’m not really all that mad. I mean, yeah, it’s a wicked pisser that my big-ass best friend is now tied down to a lady-love and tiny baby person, but I also get it. Scarlett’s hot as hell. If I found a piece like that, I might…

  Babies? Nah. Not so much. I’m not sure Viktor would’ve chosen to have a baby so fast, either, but whoops. Now he’s got one, and boy, has it fucked up our social life. Curses to babies and relationships. I’m staying single until the day I die. No one needs that ball and chain. No way.

  What I do need? A stiff drink and a hockey honey on my lap. I send out a couple of texts and my buddy, Terrence, who works in ticketing, shoots back that he’s already out and I should get my ass out there with him. Done. Don’t have to tell me twice.

  I make the three-block walk down to a club, finding Terrence and two other guys from sales already half-drunk and surrounded by women. The more the merrier, I always say. I sit my ass down and order everyone a round.

  “Good man!” Terrence salutes me, his arm muscles bulging to the delight of the women sitting near him. They fawn all over him like he’s Idris Elba or something.

  “Hey, I’m the pro, here,” I say, making a muscle and winking at the girls, “so give this guy some love, too.”

  “You kidding?” Terrence asks, his grin wide. “They only came because I said my man Locksey is on the team.”

  “That’s better,” I say as one of the girls crawls onto my lap. Terrence and I clink beer bottles and I swig some back. “I’ve gotta use whatever I can, man, ’specially when my friends are as good-lookin’ as this motherfucker.”

  Terrence rolls his eyes, but that dude knows he’s good-lookin’. I swear to God, the Crush only hires good-looking people. I can’t think of a single person who works for the place who isn’t at least semi-attractive. And I’m under no illusions that I’m even close to the top of the hotness list. Fuck, I mean even my big, dumb friend Viktor looks like he was molded out of clay.

  No, I’m just a poor kid from South Boston with a bad attitude, a hot temper, and a marginally good defensive spirit. I got lucky somehow, got a smidge of talent, and a lot of grit. And so-so looks, I suppose. Coulda done worse.

  “Where’s the big man tonight?” Terrence asks after we drain our beers and order another round.

  “Bah,” I grunt, waving a hand like I swatting away a fly. “Just got back from Mother Russia. Everyone’s jetlagged, according to him. I think he’s just being a big puss.”

  Terrence raises a shoulder. “Meh. I mean, his old lady probably doesn’t want him out in places like this anymore, especially now that they’ve got a baby.”

  “Are you talking about Viktor Demoskev?” the girl on my lap asks.

  “Yes, ma’am. Giant Russian bastard and my best friend.”

  “You two play so well together out there,” she says, fawning.

  “We aim to please, doll.”

  Terrence leans forward, grinning. “I need them to play well so I can sell a shit-ton of ticket packages. You know, there was a time when we couldn’t sell half of the seats in that arena. Once Kolochev got dry, you two peckers gelled on D, and the Ice Dragon got set up at center, we were on fire. The coaching staff’s gotta be nutting themselves over such a lineup.”

  “I think it’s you who’s nutting himself ’cause of all that bank you’re makin’ on commission. Plus, I know you think I’m damn pretty.” I grin at him and wink at the girl.

  We have a couple more rounds before the place starts to liven up for the night, a DJ coming on to spin some EDM. The girls have staked their claim, evil-eyeing any other woman who tries to approach. It’s kind of a shame, really, since these girls are just...okay. Not hard on the eyes or anything, just not knockouts. Actually, they’re fine to look at, and at the end of the day, beer goggles are a guy’s best friend. It’s not like they'll get anything more than a one-night stand anyway.

  They’re jabbering about what they do for a living. One’s a teacher or some shit, and she keeps talking about how teaching has pretty much made her positive she never wants kids. That’s encouraging, I suppose. I only tune in and out to be polite. I don’t really care what any of them has to say. I don’t need to know their favorite color or where they grew up. I’m not interested in whether or not they have pets. But I do need to pretend to be listening, at least, and so I watch the crowd and tune in every so often just to nod in agreement or answer a direct question.

  The most recent is, “Do you want to dance?”

  “Yep,” I say, standing and giving a big stretch. The woman who was on my lap earlier is blonde with big tits. She’s the teacher who doesn’t want any kids. I take her hand and haul her out to the dance floor, where we grind on each other as the crowd thickens around us. She’s a decent dancer, I’ll give her that. She turns around and bends up and down, her ass on full display in a skin-tight, stretchy dress. I bet her employer would have something to say about this kind of behavior.

  Before long, we’re lined up against each other, one of my legs between hers, rubbing at that most sensitive place. She’s got her hands on my ass and I’m semi-hard.

  “You want to go somewhere for a fuck?” she asks against my ear.

  Bingo.

  I nod and we push back through the crowd and up to the quieter second floor. We find a mostly unoccupied women’s room and barge into a stall, kissing as we struggle to make room in a tiny space for two people—one of them a six-foot-two hockey player.

  I push her dress up to her waist and shove a hand inside her barely-there panties. She’s soaking wet. Totally ready. She moans as I finger fuck her, two fingers in and out. I’m being careless, not using any kind of finesse, but she still seems to like it. In fact, I know she likes it because she breaks out in a high-pitched whine and then her pussy clenches around my fingers as she comes all over them.

  “My turn.” I pull my cock from my jeans and she ogles it, making some non
sense about how big it is.

  There really isn’t room to fuck in here, and frankly, I’m not sure I want to. I press lightly on her shoulders and she takes the hint, making her way to her knees, her dress still up around her waist. She takes my balls in one hand and wraps the other hand around the base of my cock as she slurps my cock like a popsicle. She licks along the length, then swirls her tongue around the head. It’s good. Feels good, but I want her mouth around my cock. I want the tip to touch the back of her throat, so I encourage her to open up for me. She does, but I can tell she’s not into giving me a good deep-throat, so I don’t fuck her mouth like I planned. Instead, I let her do her thing, and it takes a few minutes but with some concentration, I’m able to get off. She swallows, grimacing, and I know that’ll be the end of the action between the two of us tonight. She can’t take me balls-deep and she acts like swallowing jizz is the worst thing ever. It’s time to say thank you and goodnight now.

  I help her back up, straightening her dress and stuffing myself back into my pants before we step out of the tiny stall. I wash my hands as she splashes water from the sink in her mouth, swirling it around and spitting it out. She’s still at the mouth-rinsing as I head out. When I get back to the table, Terrence is grinning.

  “How was it, champ?” he asks.

  “Lackluster. Think I’m gonna go.” And sadly, that’s all it’s been lately. Yeah, it’s sex. Relieves some pressure. But what’s the point of a hot mouth or pussy that I have to work to enjoy? Defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?

  He raises a shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

  “See ya later.” I wave and make for the door.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m on my couch in nothing but boxers, playing Fortnite on the PS4. Username IceDragon90 is online, so I grab my headphones and invite him to chat.

  “Hey, asshole, back from Nerd Town, are we?”

  “If, by Nerd Town, you mean the most magical place on earth, then yes,” Boris’s girlfriend, Talia, responds. “Boris is grabbing a drink from the fridge.”

  “Hey, if it isn’t the hot librarian,” I tease.

  “I’m not a librarian, Tyler. Investment manager, remember?”

  I hear some muffled talking, then Boris comes over the headset. “And she’s making me a killing already.”

  “Guess I need to make an appointment,” I say. “My investments are all over the place.”

  “I thought you were going to say your investments are drowning in beer,” Boris taunts.

  “Hardy har har. I’ll have you know I’m wicked good at budgeting. I have a beer budget that I strictly adhere to.”

  “To which I strictly adhere,” Talia interjects.

  “Grammar police much? Jesus. Go learn a book, darlin’. Let the big boys play.”

  “Let the big boys play a game for children?” she asks.

  I have no answer for that, so I just snort. This is the way things are with Talia, who I thought was a shrinking violet, nerd-type but is really sassy and smart and not afraid to cuss or swear or say whatever damn thing pops into her Brainiac head. She’s a good match for Boris, who is way more reserved. He comes out of his shell for her.

  I'd never admit this to anyone, but honestly? All the guys have found women who make them better. They all seem happier and more secure now that they’re in relationships. It’s cool I guess. Doesn’t mean I want to be within smelling radius of a relationship myself, but good for anyone who finds something meaningful.

  While Boris and I play a round, he and Talia tell me about their recent trip to Harry Potter World in Orlando, where Talia got to pick out a wand and wear a cape or some other nerdy shit. She seems way excited about all of it, though I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about.

  It’s pretty late when I hear some smoochy sounds that lead to whispering and giggling. I could take a bet on how long before—

  “Hey, I’m out. Got to get my princess to bed.”

  “Gotta get laid, is more like,” I mumble, rolling my eyes as IceDragon90 logs off.

  And now I’m alone in my apartment, playing a children’s video game—alone—wide awake and wishing all my friends weren’t tied to the ball-n-chain of their dreams.

  Three

  Zoya

  NOT TALKING HOCKEY

  Two weeks later.

  My biology professor is a tiny, gray-haired woman with a voice that could put a person to sleep. She just drones on and on, barely taking a breath, and certainly not inviting questions or discussion about the topic at hand.

  Honestly, I am not a math or science person by nature, so this would be boring even if someone really amazing was teaching. I front-loaded the last of the tier 1 math and science I needed into this semester in hopes I could get it all out of the way and then focus on the fun stuff next semester. Now I am almost regretting it, but c’est la vie.

  In order to get through what I am sure could be classified as cruel and unusual punishment; I doodle. It’s just a loose portrait rendering of my mom, who I miss more than I expected since being in the States.

  The guy sitting next to me leans over and whispers, “That’s really good.”

  I turn and catch his eye. “Thanks. Just doodling.”

  He’s cute, this guy, with wavy, long-ish hair that curls around the collar of his blue polo shirt. The way he grins at me makes me blush and shut my notebook, straightening up and trying to pay better attention to the class.

  He pokes my notebook with his finger. “Why are you embarrassed?”

  “I am not,” I say. “I should be paying better attention.”

  “This woman is a fossil,” he whispers. “She must be a hundred years old and I swear she hasn’t taken one breath the entire lecture.”

  I can’t help but giggle. “That is what I was just thinking.”

  “See? Great minds think alike. We should be friends.”

  Thankfully, class ends and I’m able to divert from the conversation as I gather my things. Still, the guy follows close on my heels. Outside, he catches up and says, “I’m Jay, by the way.”

  “Zoya.” We shake hands, which I suppose is better than him ogling my breasts or something. And he is shorter than me, which is kind of a funny surprise. By at least two inches.

  “Wow,” he says. “You’re taller when you’re standing up.”

  Chuckling, I say, “I only stopped growing last year. My father and sister are tall, also.”

  “Are your sister and father also Russian?”

  One side of my mouth quirks up. “Who says I am Russian?”

  “Okay. Are your sister and father also supermodels?”

  “Nope, we are all just tall people with very strange accents. And yes, we are from Russia. And no, my father would never let me model past the age of ten, unless maybe for turtlenecks.”

  He shrugs. “I think you’d look pretty good in a turtleneck. Or a plastic bag. Or really anything, honestly. But your dad is strict, I take it.”

  I nod. “Very. It took a lot of work to get him to agree to let me come to Las Vegas for school. And only because my sister came to do her master’s in Vegas and my older brother lives here that he even considered it.”

  “Well,” he says, folding his arms and appraising me, “I’m very curious to hear more, but I also have a huge need for caffeine. I think our teacher might be an energy vampire. Can I help renew your energy level as well?”

  “I cannot. I have to get back to change for a post-holiday party with the Crush.”

  Jay’s eyes widen. “Whoa. I’m impressed. How did you score that invite?”

  “My brother plays for them.”

  “Who’s your brother?”

  “Georg Kolochev. On defense.”

  He laughs out loud like I’ve said the funniest thing. “He’s not just on defense. Seriously? Your brother is Curious Georg?”

  I roll my eyes and let out an epic sigh. “Here we go again.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means I am tired of everyone go
ing fanboy over my brother. Hockey is not that important in the grand scheme of life.”

  “Uh, I beg to differ. Especially here. People are apeshit over the Crush, and every one of those first-string players...they’re like gods. You should be proud of your brother. He’s a superstar.”

  “He is just my goofy brother. And I grew up around hockey, so I was really hoping to come here and not have to see hockey or talk hockey or think about hockey every minute.”

  “Wrong town, wrong time, Zoya.” He shakes his head at me. “Las Vegas loves the Crush and they love hockey. And it’s about to get worse if they keep playing like total studs and win the Cup again.”

  “Great. Well, then I regret to inform you that I will not be able to be friends with you, Jay from biology class. I simply cannot be friends with a person who obsesses over hockey. It is my personal principle for which I make no exceptions.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. If I promise to never talk hockey in front of you, then can you be my friend?”

  I give him an amused grin. “I will consider it.”

  “I even promise not to geek out if your brother comes around.”

  “Do not make promises you cannot keep.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “It is a maybe,” I say. “I have to go, but I will see you in class.”

  * * *

  After a quick shower I throw on a pair of distressed jeans and a sheer, black, sleeveless tunic. I’m working on my hair and makeup when Irina comes through the bathroom door.

  “Ever hear of knocking?” I scowl at her through the mirror.

  “As if you have any parts I haven’t seen before, sister,” she retorts.

  “What if I had been in here with a man?”

  “That is very unlikely.”

  She is right, but I don't want to admit it. Instead, I take in her outfit—ripped mom jeans and a Pussy Riot T-shirt with Doc Martens.