Smokeshow: A Hockey Love story Read online

  “That is not at all appropriate for this event.” I roll my eyes at her outfit.

  “Yebat’ sebya,” my sister hisses.

  “So hostile all the time,” I say, refocusing on my reflection in the mirror. My hair is long and tousled, still sun-streaked from summer. I opt for simple makeup—nude lip gloss and a little mascara and eyeliner.

  “You should wear these with that outfit,” Irina says, holding up a pair of red heels. The first helpful thing she has said to me.

  I grab the shoes and pull them on, then take in the full look. It feels sexy but edgy, and still appropriate. None of my body parts are on display, so my brother is unlikely to turn eight shades of red and tell me to cover up.

  Satisfied that at least one of the two Kolochev sisters looks appropriate for a pro-hockey event, I shoo my sister out the door, locking up before we head out to see our brother for the first time since we all returned to the United States.

  Four

  Tyler

  HANDS OFF THE SESTRY

  Stupid team events. Stupid monkey suit. I hate it. I hate getting all dressed up and acting like a church boy just for the stupid press. Fuckin’ annoying. It’s not like they haven’t heard eight ways to Sunday what we think of the lineup and how happy we are with the season and blah, blah, blah. It makes my head hurt.

  Thank God, at least there’s a bar at this thing. I head over and get a beer, wishing for something stronger, then beeline for my man Viktor, who stands a head taller than all the other bodies in the room.

  “Good to see you, jerkface.” I lean in for a bro-hug. “Can’t hang with your best friend these days? Too good for your old pal Tyler?”

  “Do not be a baby,” Viktor growls. “I already have one baby to care for.”

  “Do not be a Russian robot.” I mock his accent—badly. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya. How’s dad life?”

  He gives a big yawn, which I pretty much figure is his answer. But then he surprises me.

  “I very much enjoy being a father. He is smart already. I can tell he is thinking.”

  “Babies aren’t that smart. Hate to tell you that.”

  “No, that is not true.” He pouts. “Our son is old soul.”

  “Yeah? An old soul who shits in his pants?”

  “He does do that,” Viktor agrees. “Very often.”

  I scratch my chin, wondering if I’m breaking out in hives as the baby talk just goes on and on. And on. Seriously? I think Viktor might be fucking with me, just to make me comatose or something. I have to hear about the time the baby pissed on him during a diaper change, and about the sticky poop he had the other day. It’s a goddamn nightmare.

  “You know, just fucking shoot me if I ever spend this much time worrying about someone else’s shit.”

  “Is part of being a parent,” he says.

  “Is making you more boring than usual, which is saying a lot.” I mock his accent again just to be a dick.

  “You will find someone some day and you will want to be a father,” he says. “Mark my words.” Oh fuck no. Not a chance.

  “Eat your words, is more like.” I shake my head at him. “You talkin’ about poop and puke and whatever other bodily secretions babies make is not a ringing endorsement for the virtues of parenthood, friend. In fact, it’s so fuckin’ boring that I literally want to go jump in front of the Zamboni just to escape this torture.”

  “You cannot be a manwhore forever,” Viktor argues.

  “I sure as shit can. I’m gonna take Viagra and be a baller till the day I die. It’s gonna be great in a Hugh Hefner kinda way.”

  “I hope it works out for you,” Viktor says with a smirk. I do too. That means I’ll have several blondes with enormous tits hanging off me at once without needing to know their names.

  Doesn’t get better than—holy fuck. Who the hell is Kolochev and his wife talking to?

  They’ve got to be sisters, with perfect, supermodel faces. High cheekbones, pouty lips, long, brown hair. Tall. Legs for days. Holy public erection, Batman! One looks like she’d probably bite my nut sack off. She’s in a Pussy Riot tee, ripped jeans, and combat boots. Her eyeliner is totally goth and she’s got the tips of her long hair dyed bright pink. The don’t-fuck-with-me glare is totally working for her. Total turn-on. She probably has hairy pits and a terrible attitude, but she sure is workin’ it. Yum. Come to papa.

  The other smokeshow looks younger. And a lot more demure. Her brown eyes are wide, and her lips are full and luscious. Ugh. I have to adjust myself because they really are turning me on.

  I rib my friend. “Who are those two?”

  Viktor laughs at me. Laughs, can you believe it? “They are hands-off.”

  “Why?” I ask, totally confused. “Why hands-off?”

  “They are Kolochev’s sestry.”

  “Kolochev’s what? I don’t speak Russian, bro.”

  “Sisters,” he spits out. “His sisters.”

  “And what? They’re off limits, why?”

  “Are you kidding?” Viktor stares me down. “Georg would never let you touch them. He is being protective as their father is protective.”

  I make a snorting noise of disapproval. “Well, I’m gonna get right past that chastity belt, come hell or high water. Those two are invited on my welcome wagon any time.”

  Yep, come hell or high water, I’m getting one—or preferably both—of those smokeshows into the sack.

  I think I just found my life’s mission.

  Five

  Zoya

  I AM LEAVING

  I roll my neck and blow out a big breath. Enough of the hockey talk already. I have had enough of telling each person I have met tonight that I may major in education or art or some combination of the two. More than enough of the smiling and laughing while people tell me again and again what a wild man my brother was up until recently. It is the same, always, and I just want to go back to my room to study.

  “What’s wrong?” Georg asks as Irina gets into a conversation with Pam about sexual harassment in the workplace.

  I have to roll my eyes. “She never stops.”

  “Irina?” he asks, glancing at my sister with her crazy-ass outfit and hair before shrugging. “She has always been loud about the things she cares about.”

  I just shrug back at him.

  “Thanks for coming tonight,” he says. “It means a lot. The guys were all excited to hear that you were coming to school here.”

  “Yes, I have heard that many times tonight,” I say before lowering my voice to quote all the dumb things people have said tonight. “Here to keep your brother in line? What a wild man that guy was. Well, it's good thing you are here to keep him out of trouble.”

  “Sorry,” Georg says, reaching out to pull me into a side hug.

  “It is okay,” I reassure him. “I knew you had a reputation. The one reason Papa would not let us come over sooner. Only it is just that I—”

  “You didn’t realize how it would define me here?” I hear sadness in his voice, and see regret on his face.

  “I mean, I know you have a good heart. There is more to you than those things, yet those things are all people talk about.”

  “Well, those things are not who I am anymore,” he says, his arm still around my shoulders. “At least, mostly.”

  I glance to look at him and see the impish smirk that I have known all my life. The glimmer of mischief in his eyes. One thing that has never changed about my brother is his sense of humor. He is a practical joker and a clown. In great contrast to me and my sister. She is more intense. I am more reserved. Sometimes I wonder how the three of us could have come from the same set of parents.

  “Well, I am glad you found Pam,” I tell him. “Mama is, as well.”

  “Ah, yes, let the grandchild lobbying effort commence.” He grins, shaking his head.

  “Well, I would be happy to talk about grandchildren if it meant not talking about you. Georg Kolochev, the superstar hockey player. Hockey this. Hockey that
. Can we please talk more about Georg because he is the bright star around which we all revolve?”

  Georg pulls his arm from my shoulders and put his hand over his heart, looking wounded. “Ouch, mladshaya sestra. That is just mean.”

  “Sorry, starshiy brat,” I apologize, feeling a little guilty. Not too much, but a little. “I am just tired. Ready to go home to study. Tired of talking about hockey. May I please be excused, sir?”

  He chuckles. “I hardly see you and all you want to do is run away.”

  “I am happy to see you anywhere other than at a place connected to your livelihood,” I offer, giving him a short, fake smile. “I would be happy to spend time with you and Pam at your new condo, and learn more about my sister-in-law.

  “I understand,” he says, reaching out to tousle my hair like he did when we were children. Then he raises an eyebrow and gives a silly grin. “You know I'm supposed to remind you at least once daily that Papa says you and Irina are to stay away from wild hockey players.”

  Irina, who has just wandered over to rejoin the conversation, snorts. “I can handle myself and my own body, thank you very much. This is the exact problem with the patriarchy. Women are never allowed to choose for themselves.”

  Georg and I give the same exact sigh at the same exact time. I cannot know what he is thinking, not exactly—I mean, he married a very feisty, very opinionated, very independent woman. I know my brother is not old-fashioned about gender roles or anything. And neither am I, for that matter. I mostly agree with everything Irina says. I just cannot always agree with how she says it. Often, it is presented as a jab, meant to make everyone around her uncomfortable. It is less of a conversation and more of an abuse. And here, around Georg’s teammates and the Crush staff? Is not the place for it.

  “My love?” Georg asks Pam in a syrupy-sweet voice. “Would you mind driving the girls back for me? Zoya needs to study.”

  “Sure,” Pam says. “Are you ready to go now? The car is just in the garage.”

  I start to open my mouth to affirm that I am very much ready to leave, when a tall, broad-shouldered, blond guy steps into our paths. He holds out a hand and meets my gaze, a cocky grin on his face.

  “I’m Tyler Lockhardt.”

  I shake his hand, but say, “I am leaving.”

  He laughs. “That’s an interesting name. Doesn’t sound Russian, though.”

  As his suit jacket pulls up, I notice part of a tattoo. Irina steps forward and shakes his hand, too. “That’s Zoya, which is Russian for I have to study. And I am Irina, which is Russian for I love your tattoo.”

  Tyler grins, a wicked, bad-boy thing that makes my stomach flip-flop. He is trouble with a capital T, I can already tell. My sister will chew him up and spit him out. They will have good times together.

  He points at her and winks. “That’s good. Real good.” He has a slight accent, though I do not know enough about different accents in English to know where it comes from.

  “I have been thinking about getting a tattoo,” Irina says, eager to keep his attention. My sister has gone from stone-cold patriarchy smasher to dark predator now. Part of my sister’s view on feminism is wrapped up in sexual freedom, so…you get the point.

  “Is that so?” he asks, cocking his head, seeming genuinely intrigued. “By the looks of you, I’d have guessed you already had one. Or several.”

  My sister gives him a wolf’s grin. “Maybe you can help me with the artistic inspiration.”

  He smiles right back, all teeth, then leans in and whispers, “Maybe I can. I’d enjoy helping you pop that cherry.”

  I was not supposed to hear that. I would have preferred not to have heard it. They are both laying it on thick. No doubt, he will be her first Vegas conquest. Well, she can have him. He is a hockey player and I have zero interest in hockey players.

  “When did you get your first tattoo?” Irina is asking.

  “I gave it to myself,” he says with a laugh. “I was fifteen, living in Southie. I used a safety pin, and some of my ma’s liquid eyeliner and gave myself a shitty-lookin’ baseball on my ankle.”

  “A baseball?” I ask, unable to control my curiosity.

  “Yeah, I mean, every kid in South Boston thinks he’s gonna play for the Red Sox at one point. I got it fixed by a professional later who turned it into a hockey puck. No embarrassing evidence to show you, sorry, ladies.”

  “So that is where your accent is from?” I ask. “From South Boston?”

  “Born and raised,” he says with a shrug. To Irina, he asks, “How come you haven’t gotten one yet?”

  “My father is a bit overprotective,” she explains.

  “True story,” I add.

  “You don’t strike me as a woman who lets men—fathers or otherwise—get in the way of what she wants.” Tyler’s eyebrows go up, a challenge.

  This will probably be it for Irina. If she was not already planning on sleeping with this guy, she certainly is now. They keep talking and I zone out, truly wanting to leave. Still, even though I keep silent and never say another word, Tyler still focuses his gaze on me. Not the whole time—no, he splits his attention between the two of us. When his stare is focused on me, it makes my body go warm. It makes me have a strange feeling; a feeling that makes me feel uncomfortable but also a little excited. The second part makes me angry. I should not think American hockey boys are cute or sexy. We have plenty of handsome men in Russia, and yet… he is cute in a very different way to the other men here. Rough. Less…pretty. His nose is crooked, like it was broken at one point—not uncommon in hockey players.

  His skin is tanned from the Las Vegas sun and his eyes are a steely blue-gray. His hair is very blond on the top, darker blond on the bottom, cut short on the sides and in the back, longer on top. He has it styled in a loopy pompadour right now, but I would bet it stays flat and falls in his eyes most of the time. He does not strike me as a fancy guy who does his hair every day.

  Not that I am putting that much time into thoughts of this random hockey player. No.

  “Lockhardt,” Georg finally interjects, back from whatever side conversation he was having. “Get the hell away from my sisters.”

  “Oh, these are your sisters?” Tyler asks innocently, standing to full height and putting a hand over his heart. “I had no idea.”

  “I think you knew exactly who they were, and I’ll tell you now that you will not even look at them from here on out. Not one look. Got it?”

  Tyler gives a smug grin. “You’re the boss.”

  Georg lectures him anyway. “My father gave strict instructions to keep these two behind the fence, away from the wild animals. That includes you. Go find someone else to fornicate with.”

  “Oh my God!” Irina laughs at him. “You sound like an old man.”

  Even I giggle at our brother’s outburst. This is a man who, if the Internet is to be relied on, has probably slept with a good portion of the women in Vegas. Happily married now, of course, but he was no altar boy before meeting Pam. And now he sounds like someone’s grandfather, yelling at people to get off his lawn.

  Boy, how times (and brothers) can change. Pam and I make eye contact and both burst out laughing. My poor brother. An old man at thirty years.

  Six

  Tyler

  ALMOST THREE-QUARTERS

  The Feminazi sister definitely wants me. She’s gushing over the tattoo on my wrist. Imagine how much she’d cream if she saw everything I’ve got inked on my body. Plus, if Daddy says no, I’ll bet she’s just the type to do exactly the opposite. She’s an easy mark, for sure.

  However, I’m in the mood for a challenge tonight. The younger sister is paying me about a half-percent of attention, which is annoying, but also makes me want to get the other ninety-nine-point-five. Gotta work for it. That’s cool with me. I’m feeling her as the quiet one, the soft one who just wants to go put her fuzzy pajamas on and read a book. I wonder if she wears glasses? I wear glasses when I don’t have my contacts in. Maybe it would
help if she saw me with them on.

  As I watch her, it’s clear this is really the last place on earth she wants to be. I don’t think it’s personal toward me—I just think she hates functions like this. That makes two of us, Smokeshow.

  I turn to her. “You look miserable. Can I create a distraction to help you escape?”

  She lights up—literally her whole face lights up—and she looks so relieved. “God, yes. I just want to get back to campus. I have so much work to do for my classes.”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you out to grab a cab.”

  “Oh, no, I—”

  “I don’t bite.” Much.

  “It is not that,” she says, blushing. "Pam has offered to take us back.”

  “Ahh. Well, then, tell me about what you’re studying.” And there is the face I’ve seen a few times in the past five minutes. Boredom. She must’ve been asked this a million times tonight. Idiot. I’m an idiot.

  “Art and education, I think,” she answers, though I can tell she’s only being polite.

  “What will you do after? What’s your dream job?”

  “Oh, I am not sure. I have always liked little children. I think I might enjoy being a preschool teacher, but I also draw and doodle occasionally, so maybe I could teach art.”

  Okay, okay, she’s livening up. That’s progress. She must be young, though, if she’s just starting to think about her college major. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” Please be at least eighteen.

  “Nineteen and almost three-quarters,” she says, all soft-spoken and gentle. She looks like a million bucks...a friggin’ goddess, but technically still a teenage girl. Damn. That’s pretty young. But it’s over eighteen, so we’re golden. Game on. I snort, thinking of Kolochev’s demand. “My father gave strict instructions to keep these two behind the fence, away from the wild animals. That includes you. Go find someone else to fornicate with.” Oh no, my Russian friend. Quite happy with these beauties.