by Raine Miller
Puck Money
A Hockey Love Story
Raine Miller
Brit De Mille
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
* * *
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are created by the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
New York Times Bestselling Author
RAINE MILLER
writing as
Copyright © 2020 All rights reserved.
Raine Miller writing as Brit DeMille.
Cover Design: Designs by Dana
Cover Image: Eric Battershell
Editing: Marion Archer
Proofreading: Proofing With Style
Contents
PUCK MONEY
Preface
1. Enter the Ice Dragon
2. A Total Rebuild
3. Something in the Water
4. No Nathaniel Here
5. Very Perky Indeed
6. Life and Stuff
7. Terrifying and Sexy
8. Bitcoin and Blockchain?
9. Mr. Honest Engine
10. Or He’s Really a Saint
11. Welcome to the Crush
12. What Hot Librarian?
13. Shower Dreams
14. Tread Lightly
15. A Terrible Wingman
16. Girls Who Wear Glasses
17. To Cross or Not to Cross?
18. Read to Me
19. You Sick or Something?
20. You Should be his Sex Advisor, Too
21. Ice Dragon is Not Yours
22. Why do You do That?
23. Taking Care of Business
24. What About the Russians?
25. F#CK the Game!
26. Krasotka
27. Naked Storytime
28. Quidditch Match?
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of SMOKESHOW
1: Saint Georg
2: No Finesse at All
3: Not Talking Hockey
4: Hands Off the Sestry
A Request
Join my Newsletter
Who is Brit?
Also by Raine Miller
PUCK MONEY
A HOCKEY LOVE STORY
“They call me The Ice Dragon but it’s really just all for show.”
—Boris Drăghici, VEGAS CRUSH
* * *
A super nerdy financial manager running from a scandal.
A smoking hot hockey player with an embarrassing secret.
Plenty of Las Vegas shenanigans and some really steamy _ _ _ _ ing sessions.
A knitting kitty.
Sexy Harry Potter readings.
Russian accents and Dragon tattoos.
*PUCK MONEY is a sexy STANDALONE sports romance about a Russian/Romanian hockey center with money problems and the tantalizing financial advisor he's hired to sort out his pucking investments. Boris and Talia are in for the ride of a lifetime in Fabulous Sin City as they follow the money trail and fall further in lust for each other.
* * *
This is NOT your parents’ “Financial Planning”!
Dedication
For those who are,
and always will be…
VEGAS STRONG.
Preface
Extensive creative license was applied in portraying some elements of NHL playoffs, awards, schedule, and fan events at games that would not happen in real life. I did this intentionally to create a more enjoyable reading experience within the storyline. This story has been carefully crafted for your reading pleasure and in no way is meant to be a true and accurate representation of NHL best practices and rules.
* * *
This is Hockey Romance F-I-C-T-I-O-N all the way!
One
Enter the Ice Dragon
Boris
Saving a terrified mother and her screaming child from disaster in the Las Vegas Airport baggage claim wasn’t on my to-do list today. But what else do you do when a woman is fighting to keep her stroller from crashing down the escalator, her child screaming bloody murder as I head down to the baggage claim. Potentially a straight-out disaster in the making, I feel bad for both of them. I steady the stroller when it tilts to the next step as she pulls her crying toddler into her arms. Once we’re on solid ground, she gives me an apologetic smile, a soft, “Thanks,” and rushes the whole mess into the nearest restroom.
Disoriented, I look around and find the amiable smile of my agent, Scott Rose, where he stands with a few other guys. Everyone holds a sign with a name on it, apart from Scott. I point to the signs. “No ‘Welcome Ice Dragon’ sign?”
“Sorry, bro.” He grins and gives me a friendly slap on the back. “How was your flight? I see you started do-gooding right off the bat. That’s nice what you did for that lady.”
“Is do-gooding a real word? My English is pretty strong but that is a new one for me.”
“Come on, let’s go grab your bags, do-gooder.”
Bags in tow, my agent leads me out into the hot Las Vegas sun. We cross four lanes of traffic and head to the short-term parking, where Scott’s Mercedes SUV is parked. It’s shiny and white and very, very clean. Kind of like Scott, I suppose. He’s slick as all get-out in his suit, no tie, and I feel a bit underdressed in jeans and a button-down as I climb in. I will say I’m glad I am not in a suit, though, because I’d be sweating like crazy. Apparently, Scott Rose does not sweat.
“I’ll get the air going,” Scott says as he starts the engine. “It’s hot as dragon’s breath out here today.”
“Hotter than Austin,” I comment. “How is that possible? It must be ten degrees hotter here and Austin is further south.”
“One of life’s great mysteries, the weather. I think hockey players are somewhat more sensitive to the heat, though, since they’re on the ice all the time.”
“Perhaps that is true.”
“You excited about moving to Sin City?”
I nod. “It is more the team that excites me. I like what I have seen from the lineup.”
“A city full of gorgeous women, plentiful liquor, and endless nightlife, and your head is already on the game. I knew there was a reason I took you on. I wish I had ten of you on my client list. Easy peasy.”
“I am a boring guy,” I say with a shrug.
“Not on the ice, though. There’s a reason they call you the Ice Dragon. You’re one of a very short list of the NHL’s best forwards. Play you with Evan and Mikhail on wings, Georg and Viktor on defense, damn. Can’t wait to see what you all can do out there, and I don’t care what the rabble-rousers are saying online. Evan and Georg are still among the best on the ice.”
“People are saying otherwise about them online?” I press.
“Bah,” Scott grunts, waving off the question. “Fall from grace, lucky championship season, aging players. You know, same old garbage, different day. Some even say they’ve gone soft since settling down. Frankly, I’m glad Georg isn’t dead from liver failure. I’ll take a sober, serious, and much less reckless Georg any day.”
“He was a wild man,” I agree. “Hey, thanks for your help with the contract negotiations.”
“That’s my job, buddy. You ready for the big pressure, though? You’re here to make sure those yahoos stay on their top game. To add to the good mojo. Max Terry wants that cup again. Wants to prove it’s not just a fluke out here.”
“Big p
ressure comes with big paychecks,” I answer, watching the Strip come into view. There are so many people. It’s still midday, so I’m sure I’m not getting the full view of the famous area with its lights and fountains. But I get an idea, just from the masses of people, tourists with cameras, taking selfies with their phones, carrying shopping bags.
“Quite the place, huh?” Scott gives me a look. “You’ve never been out on the Strip before?”
“Not really. I didn’t go out exploring the times we came in to play the Crush.”
“Well, this city is a distraction. Be careful not to let it shift your focus. Just ask Georg how easy it is.”
“Georg could be distracted by a paper bag.” I’m not lying. Georg has always been that way. He and I are distant cousins, so I have many memories from when we were kids. Well, his father and my mother are cousins, somehow way back in the bloodlines. It’s complicated in the way that families are complicated with marriages and divorces and babies, and the rest of what comes with that. We saw each other at family gatherings, and hockey events too, but a lot more after my mother moved us back to her native Saint Petersburg.
“If there was a liquor bottle in it,” Scott says.
“True,” I say, nodding. “He’s clean this past year though, I heard. Right?”
Scott bobs his head in affirmation. “Clean. Married. Focused. I took him on once I saw how good he could be when he wasn’t dicking around.”
“I am excited to play with him again. It’s been a while since we’ve been on the ice together, but what I’m really looking forward to is playing with him on the same team.”
“He had raw talent then. He’s really grown into it now. It’s much more powerful. Very exciting to watch.”
“I remember from the playoffs,” I say with a nod. “He was a surprise on the ice.”
“To us all, buddy,” Scott agrees. “To us all.”
We pull into a garage system that looks attached to a hotel, dropping the vehicle with a valet who asks for a selfie and tells me how awesome it is that I’ve come to play here. We walk out into the hot sun, traveling on foot for a block before heading into the arena where I will play very soon.
Inside the owner’s suite, Max Terry and I shake hands and then he tells me basically everything Scott just said on the way from the airport. He wants another chance at the cup, and he thinks this is the lineup to make it happen. And I can’t deny that he’s right. On paper, at least.
He hands me an envelope, which he describes as a “Welcome letter,” and I find myself frowning at the inoffensive piece of paper for long enough that I realize it probably sends the wrong message, so I fold it, shove it in my back pocket, and force a smile to make sure no one gets the wrong impression.
Too late, though, as Max asks, “Are you unhappy with this trade, Boris?”
I shake my head rapidly. “No, not at all.”
“Your contract was satisfactory, I assume? I mean, you signed it,” he says. “I assumed this acquisition was a good one for us and for you. The numbers we put up were quite generous.”
“No, I apologize,” I say quickly. “Everything is in order on all fronts. I think I’m just a bit jet-lagged from the early morning flight.”
“Ah, good.” The handsome, well-dressed, silver-haired owner claps his hands once. “This is a tremendous acquisition for our team. We want to make sure you come in with good feelings. Get off on the right foot.”
“Both feet are here in Las Vegas and I feel good,” I assure him. “I just want to play hockey, sir.”
Two
A Total Rebuild
Talia
I have about fourteen boxes of paperwork to fit into three drawers of a file cabinet. It’s actually surprising how much business my boss, Harold Shaw, managed here in Vegas, even from his home base in San Francisco. He sent me here with the historical files, even for clients we no longer manage. Now I have this monumental logistics issue to figure out.
Maybe someday I’ll convince him we need another person here, just an administrative assistant to help digitize the files, answer the phones, manage the calendars. Good thing I can do all of that too—otherwise, I’d be tearing my hair out right now.
I mean, I guess it makes sense that a financial advisor would be somewhat organized, right? It would be weird if I was really good at analyzing market performance and investment strategy but unable to figure out how to organize a few files.
When Harold offered me the opportunity to rebuild Baseline Investments here in Vegas, I jumped on it in a heartbeat. He once had a respectable market share here among the sports and entertainment professionals, but he has many high-profile clients in San Francisco now and he can’t get down here as often. Some of his clients have moved to other markets and are handled by other members of the team. He realized this was an untapped market, ready for someone hungry to come in and build it back up.
I mean, I know it was a favor, too. This opportunity spared me the need to dig a hole and jump inside. He’s been supportive and discreet, but it’s never a good thing when your boss realizes you’ve been sleeping with a client. A very rich, very married, very important client.
I can’t stomach seeing the guy and Harold can’t stomach losing me from the team, so this is our compromise.
This office is a box. It’s probably ten feet wide by seventeen feet long with one window to the outside world and a tiny, attached bathroom. It’s nothing special, and I know it’s temporary, only until I can get enough clientele booked to justify a better space, but still. It’s kind of a hole. Well, I guess I did jump in a hole after all, now, didn’t I?
A hole you dug for yourself, one shovelful at a time.
I push my glasses up and gaze out at the street below. It’s busy with what I presume is a wide mix of tourists and locals. My office is not quite on the Strip, thankfully, but it’s close enough, and there is a row of restaurants just outside my office doors. I found an apartment within a safe walking distance, though I bought pepper spray and a set of knuckledusters that both hang on my key ring just in case.
My first client of the day comes wandering in as I’m staring outside. The sound of the bells on the door make me jump to attention. I smooth my skirt and toss my long hair behind my shoulders as I reach out to shake his hand.
“Imari,” I say, “good to see you again.”
“Thought I might not see you again after I moved here. Good news for me, you got traded, too.”
I grin. Imari is tall and lean, a forward who played for Golden State until he broke his leg. He started coaching for the Dons in San Francisco and came to us for money management advice. Namely, he wasn’t making as much as an offensive coach as he’d been making as a pro player, and he needed to figure out how to better protect what he had. Now he’s head coach at UNLV and feeling much more comfortable with his salary.
“Sorry for the mess.” I look around and realize I don’t have a chair to offer him, so I move two boxes to the floor to open up one of the guest chairs before heading around to my office chair to pull out his files.
“Why no assistant? This place is like a little, tiny prison. You get promoted or put in prison, Talia?”
I laugh. Probably too loud because I’m socially awkward like that. And he kind of hit the nail on the head. It’s both a chance to build my client list and serve a good strong dose of career-purgatory as punishment for doing something very, very stupid.
“Maybe both?” I answer, cringe-smiling. Ever done that? Smile and cringe at the same time? It mostly looks like you’re passing gas. Not pretty. I school my face to what I hope is neutral and add, “Harold wants me to get a few new clients before he’ll spring for extra help. A few more than that and I may be able to get new digs. So please go out and say nice things about me to people who need an awesome financial advisor. Baby wants a new office chair.”
“I’ve already done that, girl. Expect a few calls in the next week, for sure.”
“Yay. You’re the best.” I offer a fistb
ump, which he reciprocates. “Speaking of…how’s your better half?”
“Shai’s good,” he says. “And the girls are growing up fast. They’re having their seventh birthday party in a month and they literally won’t stop talking about it. You should come if you’re into that sort of thing.”
Imari has twin girls with his wife, Shai. They are such a nice family; I just adore them. Which is why I spend an awful lot of time analyzing and adjusting his portfolio. He got a bum, random deal when it came to that injury. He was expecting to be able to play for at least ten more years and losing that time meant he had to face some unexpected realities when it came to his long-term financial plans.
“Seven-year-old birthday parties are my jam, so you can count me in. I’m reserving my own personal jumping session in the bouncy castle right now, so tell Shai.”
“On it.” He laughs at my ridiculousness and taps something into his phone. “Done.”
“Well, then, I’ll be on the lookout for my invitation. You’ll be pleased to hear I have good news that I can’t wait to share with you.” I veer us back on track to the purpose of this visit.
