Smokeshow: A Hockey Love story

by Miller, Raine

  “How is dorm room?” Mama asks, her English jerky.

  I flip the screen so they can see the room while I tell them about how Georg paid to get me a private room. My father grumbles again in Russian, something along the lines of, “On tratit slishkom mnogo deneg.” Translation? My brother spends too much money. He is hard to hear in the background, but it would be right on point for him. Papa is a frugal man and my brother is not, and never has been. Still, he leans in and says he is glad I am able to have my own space and he thinks I must be safer that way.

  Safety—always my father’s primary concern.

  “You are make friends?” Mama asks.

  “Yes. I mean, it has only been a couple of weeks but so far, things are good. There is a guy in one of my classes, Jay, who seems nice.”

  “A man?” Papa booms in the background.

  I roll my eyes at my mom and she giggles. “Just a friend, Papa. I think I need to get a job or volunteer somewhere. I might be able to meet some people. Or join a club. I have not decided.”

  “Is there a Russian heritage group or something?” he asks.

  I scrunch one side of my face at the thought. “Why would I want to hang out with a bunch of Russian people, Papa? I just left Russia.”

  “Safer for you, my Zoya. How are your studies? Focus on grades first, social life second.”

  “They are mostly good. It is very early in the semester. There is plenty of time.”

  “Do not fall behind. You are there to learn.”

  “Yes, Papa. I know this. I am committed.”

  “Good girl. Mama and I are proud of you.”

  “I struggle with my statistics class,” I admit.

  “Oh, I am good at statistics,” Papa says.

  “You should be. Coaching all these years.”

  “Perhaps you need a tutor?”

  A shrug is all I can give him in response. I have never needed a tutor before this class. Maybe it is because my classes are all in English now.

  “Get one if you need one. Do not let yourself get too far behind.”

  “I won’t.”

  Then he says, “Well, maybe having a job or volunteer role might keep you away from the party scene.”

  I have to laugh at him. “Have you ever met me?” I never party, and they know that. My sister, on the other hand?

  My father seems to remember who he is talking to, because he says, “We should probably call and check in on Irina.”

  A huff of a laugh escapes me. “Uh, yeah. Though good luck trying to control that one.”

  “Is she being bad?” Mama asks.

  “She is being Irina,” I answer. “I think she likes it here, though. Feminist heaven.”

  My mom makes a confused face. She does not understand the "feminist heaven" part. My father does, though, based on the smirk on his face. He stops smirking when I tell a story about how Irina got in a shouting match with a man on the street who was harassing a prostitute. My father is, of course, mortified and says he’s going to call Georg and have him keep a better eye on us.

  “Georg is busy, Papa. He has his own life and he is in season. Everyone loves him here. They love the team.”

  My father relaxes the minute I start talking hockey. He asks if I have been to a game and I say no, but that we went to a mid-season press event and met a lot of the players and staff. He says I should at least go to one game to cheer on my brother.

  “He would like it,” Mama agrees. “To see you on the seats.”

  “It is fun to watch a winning team, Zoya,” Papa adds. “The crowd will be loud. It will be fun.”

  “I have had enough hockey fun to last my whole life, thank you. Georg can live without having me in the stands.”

  “One game, Zoya,” my father says sternly.

  “Okay, okay. Fine. I will go to one game. But for now, I need to get going on some homework. Did I mention I hate my stats class?”

  “No, you say trouble,” my mother says. “No hate.”

  “Okay, I greatly dislike the class because it is giving me trouble. How is that, Mama?”

  “Better. Get tutor.”

  We talk for a few more minutes but then I insist I need to get off the phone to study. It is getting late there, so they agree to let me go. I know they miss seeing us. I miss them, but honestly, only having to report in over the phone is much nicer than being watched over my shoulder every day. Papa is like any other Russian father—protect family at all costs. It is all he knows. It is all I know. But with the feeling of freedom alive in Vegas, I am enjoying being away from home right now…so much more than I thought I would. Even though Mama’s eyes looked sad as I said goodbye, I know getting a life in Vegas will make her proud and happy. This is for you, Mama. But it is also for me.

  * * *

  I am allowed exactly twenty minutes of quiet study time before my sister barges through my door, her eyes bright and an excited smile lighting up her face.

  “Come with me. I’m getting my first tattoo today!”

  “Papa is going to murder you, Rina.”

  “He will not. It will be fine.”

  “He is going to call you. I just hung up with him and Mama twenty minutes ago.”

  “Well, you don’t have to answer just because they call,” she says.

  “That is rude. They are our parents. They pay our tuition.”

  “Whatever. Are you coming with me or not?”

  “I have so much work to do—”

  “Don’t be such a drag. I need you there with me.”

  I make a face but then get up and pull on some jeans and an oversized, black T-shirt. I twist my hair up into a messy bun and slip on a pair of lemon-yellow Keds. Irina bounces impatiently while I get ready, and the second I look presentable, she grabs my hand and literally tows me from my room. At least that has been consistent since I arrived. Irina pulling me toward something drama-filled.

  “I hope you will not end up regretting this, Rina.”

  “I never regret, little sister. Never.”

  Ten

  Tyler

  WILL THIS HURT?

  I’m leaning against the glass window of the tattoo shop where I’ve gotten the last three of my own tats. Irina asked me for a recommendation and while there are a lot of world-class artists in Vegas, there are like four times as many shitty ones. And I don’t need one more reason for Brother Georg to be pissed at me. Once he finds out his sister and I have been texting, despite his clear orders to stay far away, he’ll blow a gasket. Adding in a bad tattoo would only causing more fucking hassle for me. My face is too pretty to be beaten by a Kolochev-size fist.

  Honestly, I wasn’t going to text her anymore when she said she wanted to get her first tattoo. I really wasn’t. I was gonna be the good boy, the adult in the room, and stay away as asked. But when she sent me the name of a shop that I know is a total tourist trap, I couldn’t in good conscience let her go there. See? I was doing a good thing. I mean, I suppose one could argue I could've made the recommendation and then walked away. I didn’t have to agree to come in person for her appointment. Still, I consider it a humanitarian aid mission. She’s from another country. I don’t want her to get ripped off or worse. A tat gone bad is a serious deal.

  A car pulls up and Irina shoots out like a ball from a cannon. I’m immediately enveloped in a giddy hug, and I’m so dumbfounded that I almost miss the additional person who exits the car, casual and effortless with her hair piled on top of her head and supersized sunglasses that nearly cover half her face.

  I couldn’t tell you what Irina is wearing. My sights are fixed on Zoya, clearly uncomfortable and maybe somewhat disapproving, her lips down in a model’s pout. Goddamn. I am certain I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman.

  “Hey, ladies,” I say as Irina steps back a bit bouncing on her heels excitedly.

  “Thank you so much for setting this up,” Irina says, her grin wide.

  I shrug. “My pleasure. I had to use my pro-athlete status to get you i
n on a Sunday, though. They usually book several months out, but I’ve spent a lot of money in here, so they made a special time.”

  Irina’s grin just gets wider. Zoya, however, looks totally unimpressed. She still hasn’t said a word. Not even a hello.

  We wander inside and I introduce them to Erik, the artist. A massive Swede with an inclination for all things goth, he asks Irina about her interests and sketches a few things as they talk. She wants something empowering, which is no surprise to me at all.

  I notice Zoya perusing the wall of flash art and wander over, leaving Irina and Erik to figure out the design since I have no input to provide about feminist imagery.

  “See anything you like?” I ask from behind her.

  She stays facing the art wall. “No. This is all generic.”

  “You’re right. Flash is meant to be a quick money-maker. Most people want custom ink on their bodies, something no one else has. To get that, you pay more, and it usually takes more time to prep and do the work.”

  “I doubt I would ever get one, anyway,” she says with a soft shake of her head. “They are not for me.”

  I think of my own highly tattooed body and wonder if she would find my ink unattractive. For the first time ever—seriously, ever—I feel kinda self-conscious about my body art. Usually women find it sexy and I sure as hell like how it looks. But here’s this one woman, who clearly doesn’t give a shit about me, and I’m seriously rethinking former my life choices. At least, as it relates to tattoos.

  “Yo, Lockhardt,” Erik calls over to me as he draws. “You on the road soon? Due for some away games since you’ve been at home the last few, yeah?”

  “Yep. We have a four-game roadshow coming up. We’re in Jersey, New York, Boston, and Philly.”

  “Oh, you are from Boston, right?” Irina asks. “Will you get to see family while you are there?”

  “Thought you were spawned from the underworld, yo,” Erik says with a chuckle. “You got a family?”

  “You’re not so far off on that one, brother. But I mean, maybe. Yeah. I guess I might try to see them while I’m in town.”

  Erik and Irina both eye the design he’s come up with. Irina proclaims it perfect and holds it up for Zoya to see. Zoya gives a half-hearted thumbs up then comments on the fact that the flower in the design is the Russian national flower, which looks like a little yellow daisy to me.

  Design done, Erik goes to get everything set up, having Irina lie face down on his table. She’s getting the tattoo on her lower back, presumably so she can hide it easily from her parents. Not sure if I should tell her that it’s considered a tramp stamp.

  “Will this hurt?” Irina gives me a grimace from the table.

  “Probably,” I tell her. “That part of your back can be sensitive. But the pain is more like getting stung by a bee a bunch of times. It’s more of an annoyance than real pain. You know what I mean? It’ll be like a sunburn while it heals.”

  “Hold my hand while he does it?” Irina thrusts her hand at me, so I fold my much larger one around hers. All I feel is delicate cold skin. Her hand holds no heat at all.

  But before Erik even has the stencil placement set onto Irina's back, my phone starts blowing up. It’s my mom. Ugh. I cringe and hit the “decline” button to send it to voice mail. Zoya sits on a stool next to her sister as my mom calls back again about two minutes later. And then again, another couple minutes after that. Fucking great.

  “Your sister will have to step in, sorry.” I hold up my phone. “I gotta take this.”

  As I step outside into the sunlight I pick up. “Ma.”

  “Tyler,” she barks into my ear, “can’t answer the first time I call?”

  “I was busy. Whattaya need?”

  “You think I only call when I need somethin’?” She sounds...wounded for lack of a better term. I hear the flick of a lighter and an inhale as she lights her cigarette. The sound instantly takes me to a dark place and fills my gut with anxiety.

  “I would say ninety-nine percent of the time, yeah. You doin’ okay?”

  “Well, my welfare check won't be comin’ on time this month. Somethin’ got messed up at the office and now I gotta go fill out new paperwork. It’s a whole headache I don't need right now.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Ma.”

  “You know,” she says, her voice going all up and down like she’s trying to cry, “it's never easy for me. With these two mouths to feed, it can get hard. And you’re out there livin’ the high life.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a job playin’ hockey. What’s that got to do with your situation? Just go in and fill out the paperwork.” Or, you know, go out and get a job yourself.

  “It ain’t that simple, son. I go in and then they gotta review it and then they gotta go, like, eat seven donuts at Dunkies, and then they gotta think about it. It takes forever. And in the meantime, I get no check and can’t get groceries.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to do, Ma.” I do know. It’s the exact reason I don’t want to pick up her calls. Money. Always fucking money.

  “You’re a rich, famous athlete, aren’t you? You’ve got money to burn on booze and your whores. You can help your family, surely!”

  “You know, I hate it when you try and guilt me like this. I’ve given you plenty over the years. Tens of thousands. Rent on a nice place to live and you trashed it and got kicked out. Money in a bank account for the kids, and you spent it all. Got you a car so you could get back and forth to work and then you got fired and sold it. Do I need to go on, Ma? Do I?”

  My head hurts. This is what conversations with my mom are like. Every time.

  She whines into the phone. “What about your brother and sister, though?”

  I blow out a long breath and push my hands through my hair. I’d like to rip it out, this is so frustrating. Logan and Haley. My four- and six-year-old half brother and sister. Even though they have the same last name as me, we only share a mother. No clue who their father/s is/are.

  Also, the only reason I pick up when my mother calls.

  And ninety percent of the reason I keep shelling out coin.

  The other ten percent? My Ma. She did give me life after all, so I love her for that. She’s had a hard go. I had a hard go until I got away from that life. Darlene Lockhardt has been in and out of treatment three times for drugs over the years. She’s had men in and out of her life, most of them heavy drinkers and abusers who made life even worse for her. And she’s got two little kids to show for it; kids I’m not always convinced she really wants. I think she likes getting extra money from welfare each month, though she sure as hell doesn’t use it to make their lives better. I’ll never tell her—I don’t trust her for shit—but I set up two trust funds for them so they can go to college someday, make something of themselves. Get away from the mess that is my ma. Theirs too. Poor kids.

  She goes on and on about how hard it is, crying and getting more and more hysterical. I sit on the curb, head in my hands, ready to throw my phone across the road.

  “Everything you’re tellin’ me right now just makes me think I should call my lawyer and get custody of the kids."

  She laughs, a sharp, shrill sound. “That’s about as likely as hell freezin’ over, kid. You can barely take care of yourself. You’re like an overgrown teenager with your hand up every girl’s skirt. You take to the bottle as much as anyone else. What the hell’s the court gonna see in you that’s better than their own mother?”

  “Uh, I have a stable income and a home that doesn’t have cockroaches crawling in and outta the cupboards. Oh, and I don’t have a string of abusive assholes rolling in and out of their lives through a revolving door.”

  “No, you just got a cupboard full of liquor and a different whore in your bed every night. That’s much better. You’re such a hypocrite. Barely an adult yourself! You don’t know shit about takin’ care of kids. And get off your high horse. Just ’cause you got money now don’t mean you’re better than me. You’re still ju
st trash from Southie and that’s never gonna change, son.”

  “I didn’t say I was better than you, Ma, just more stable.”

  “But I’m stable,” she protests. “I got a little part-time job. I’m tryin’, son, I really am tryin'. I lost weight. It’s better now. I just need a boost this month while the paperwork gets sorted out. Just a little to stay afloat, son.”

  A sound escapes the back of my throat, somewhere between a growl and a groan. “Fine. I’ll wire some money, but you better use it on food, not drugs.”

  “Thanks, Tyler. You’re good to—”

  “I’m done,” I growl then hang up. Fuck. Me. Why?

  You’re such a hypocrite. Barely an adult yourself! You don’t know shit about takin’ care of kids.

  Well, fuuuck.

  Ma’s not wrong.

  I’m not the best role model for Logan and Haley.

  I’m just another pro-athlete who travels all the time and rarely has an evening at home. A guy who spends his free time drinking and fucking his way through North America. Not a newsflash to anyone. This story's been told time and time again in every professional sport by a thousand different guys. That I just happen to be the NHL's wild child of the moment? Okay fine, ya got me. But what's so wrong about any of that for a single guy on his own?

  Which I am.

  I'm a regular guy trying to make something of his life.

  A twenty-four year old who invests way more than I spend. I set up trust funds for Haley and Logan. I give money to charity. I’m not a bad person and I’m not an alcoholic. Drinking is social for me. It’s not something I do alone or anything I require in my life. I could give those kids a home if I had to. I’ve got a three-bedroom place. A fridge stocked with healthy food. The means to provide for their needs in a clean and safe environment.

  But fuck. What would I do with two small kids when I’m on the road all the time? I mean, they barely know me. I hardly ever see them, and usually only on FaceTime. Christ. This situation sucks balls. But do I want them? Do I want the responsibility?