by Raine Miller
I start to answer, but she keeps talking.
“You speak very good English. I’m really impressed. Have you studied long?”
“Well, my family has always traveled internationally. Everyone in my house speaks both English and Russian fluently.”
“Oh, that’s really great,” the woman chatters. “What made you all travel so much?”
“My father is a youth hockey coach. And my brother plays professionally. He played in the Olympics for the Russian team and now he is here, playing in the NHL.”
Her eyes narrow as she peers at the screen, then she looks at me with a surprised look on her face. “Kolochev is your family name?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is your brother Georg Kolochev, then?”
“For nineteen long years, unfortunately, yes.”
She giggles. “I’m sure all sisters feel that way about their brothers. But yours, my dear, has really made our city proud lately. The Crush are such a great team. They’ve had a heck of a season so far.”
“I guess,” I answer with a shrug.
I find hockey talk so boring. Probably because I’ve spent my entire life in ice-hockey facilities, either watching my father coach or watching my brother and my cousin Boris, play. Boris Drăghici, NHL superstar extraordinaire, was recently traded to Las Vegas from his former team in Austin, Texas, so he is also here playing for the Crush now...but I wisely left that part out. I’ve dealt with it all my life. The gushing praise from fan girls all over the world enthralled with my hockey-playing male relatives. So obnoxious. Honestly, I just want my receipt so I can leave. And by the sound of the dramatic sighing behind me, the others waiting in this line would very much appreciate me to be on my way as well.
When I finally burst through the doors and out into the warm, Vegas sunshine, I’m ready to scream. Thankfully, my sister is waiting for me, two green tea frappuccinos in hand. I gratefully grab one and suck down the icy, sweet concoction with an audible, happy sigh.
“Um, you’re welcome?”
“Thank you, Rina.” Only I am ever allowed to use the shortened version of her name. “This makes up for the hockey talk I had to endure. Georg this and Georg that. It made me want to erupt like a volcano.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. Papa wouldn’t have let you come here if not for Georg.”
“He let me come because of you, too. And how is Georg the responsible one, all of a sudden?”
“Valid point.” Irina lifts a shoulder. “He’s always been the bad boy and now he is married so he is a saint suddenly.”
Saint Georg. What a joke!
My sister and I are both tall and slender. We modeled in Russia when we were kids. My sister tries to cover up her looks by dressing like a punk rocker. Her hair is currently dye-dipped so that her normally dark locks have hot pink ends. She is wearing a black leather jacket over a bright yellow tube top, black combat boots tied below white leggings. This is in comparison to my very boring ensemble of white T-shirt and khaki shorts with Crocs. Normal campus wear if you ask me.
As we walk, we get looks. It happens everywhere we go, and my sister finds it absolutely annoying. Every single time a guy looks at us, she tells him to stop ogling. “Not a piece of meat, asshole,” is one of her favorite lines. It makes me turn eight shades of red every time, because I would rather there were simply no confrontations when we walked together.
When two guys stop, asking us first where we got our drinks (as if the logo of the coffeeshop isn’t emblazoned on the cups), then if we are angels sent straight from heaven, “That is the lamest thing I’ve ever heard a dude say,” Irina sneers in response.
“They are just giving us compliments.” I put my hand on her arm, trying to stop a meltdown.
“Oh, accents!” the shorter of the two says, actually clapping and hopping up and down. He is cute in a generic way, with a snap-back hat and skater-chic T-shirt on.
“Oh, you can go straight to hell! We’re not here for your amusement.” Irina digs her heels in for a confrontation. Once again.
“You can’t walk around looking like that and expect dudes not to look at you.” The other guy—much taller than his friend, with dark hair that flops in his eyes—leers at her bared midriff and ample breasts in the tiny tube top.
“I can walk around naked if I want,” she snaps. “It wouldn’t give you the right to look at me.”
“But I would look at you, because you’d be naked,” tall-guy counters, not giving up so easily.
Hat-guy adds, “Are you two, like, a package deal? Because I think we’re down with a group thing, if that’s what it takes. Do you kiss each other?”
I cringe at how crass they are but try to pull my sister away from them. Irina has put down roots though, becoming immovable. “You two need your mouths rinsed with bleached. You think you can talk to women that way and get a pass? Do you ever watch the news? It’s called rape culture, asshole, and you are perpetuating it!”
At that, the guy in the snap-back has the decency to back off. His hands go up as if he’s surrendering. “Hey, we’re just playin’—”
His friend, however, tilts his head. His eyes narrow and his mouth curves into what feels like an evil smile. It creeps me out, and the feeling is only made worse when he says, “I’m sure we’ll see you both around, babes.”
They walk away and I go into a full, involuntary body shudder before dragging my sister—now shouting profanities in Russian—toward the dorms. When she finally stops yelling, the guys are well out of hearing range. She takes a drink of her frap then makes a face. “Pridurki. Now my drink is melted.”
“Well, we could have avoided that whole argument if you would have ignored them. Why can’t you ever ignore imbetsily like them?”
“Why do they get to talk to us like that? I didn’t give them permission, and there was no good reason for it. I am not going to stand around allowing men to talk to me like I am an object, and you shouldn’t either.”
“They thought we were hot. We get it all the time. Why does every compliment have to lead to a discussion on rape culture?”
“Asking us if we kiss each other is not a compliment, Zoya,” my sister scolds sharply. “Whatever. I just want to be left alone to get my schooling done, and the simple act of walking down the street with you always brings confrontation like that one. Eto nelepo.”
“You are ridiculous,” I snap. “It is not me causing a scene all the time.”
“It is not a scene,” she argues. “I am putting entitled men in their place. You have heard of #MeToo, haven’t you?”
All I can do is roll my eyes. I swear. My sister is like a stone wall when she is like this, and no amount of arguing, begging, or pleading will make her stop ranting. On one hand, I appreciate my sister for being such a committed feminist. On many topics, I agree with her. And no, I do not think some pridurok should be able to treat me like a sex toy, but I also don’t feel the need to cause a commotion about every single comment that is made, either. Irina, though? She does not let one slip by, ever, and it often ends up embarrassing me.
A lot.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” she says. “You need to woman up and stop letting men gape at you like you’re a piece of meat.”
“They do not gape at meat the way they gape at us.”
“That does not make it better, Zoya. You need to grow a backbone and stop these men from thinking they can demean you with their looks and words and disgusting behaviors. Allowing it makes them think they have permission to do whatever they want.”
“I have heard all this before,” I say, shaking my head furiously. “Calm down and stop trying to make me into a mini version of you. You can think however you want. I want to go to my classes and make friends like a normal American college student.”
As we walk, we keep arguing, finally making our way to my dorm room. Since I am a second-year, I have to stay in the dorms. However, one perk to having a pro-hockey player for a brother is that I was able to ge
t a single room and don’t have to share with a roommate. This is best for me, as I am not always a people person. Irina is much more outgoing. Extroverted. Engaging with people often wears me out and I think it will be best, as it was in Russia, if I have a private space to go to after each day is done.
“This is a nice, little room,” Irina says, looking around. “No hockey anything, though? Papa will be so disappointed.”
“Bez raznitsy.” I shrug. “He is not here.”
Irina is smirking, so I know she is joking. She hates hockey marginally less than I do, as she hates their drinking and womanizing. She and our brother, Georg, have had many arguments over the years, since he was always a poster boy for both of those vices. Not so much these days, of course. He is now sober and found the love of his life in his new wife, Pam. They are both very good for each other. Our parents love her, probably mostly because the timing of her entry into my brother’s life coincided with him having the best playing year of his life, and consequently the best contract he has ever had, as well. In my parents’ eyes, Pam is a miracle worker. And their marriage was a miracle worker for me, too. If my brother wasn’t sober and married, my father never would have let me come here for the rest of my schooling. Irina is living off campus in an apartment with two other roommates, which I would prefer if I had any say in my situation. One of the conditions of our deal was that I had to live on campus for the first year. Papa doesn’t approve of Irina’s choices most of the time, so it was accept this condition or not come to Vegas at all.
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.
2: No Finesse at All
TYLER
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 c
rowd 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 nonsense 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.
