Smokeshow: A Hockey Love story

by Miller, Raine

  I groan again, just as Zoya sits down beside me on the curb.

  “Are you okay?” Her voice is so soft. It nearly calms me, the sound of her soft words.

  “I’m fine." I frown at the ground.

  “Your body language seemed very tense while you were talking. I saw you from inside and now I can hear you are frustrated. It is unlike the way I have come to know you.”

  “What way have you come to know me?” I am genuinely intrigued.

  “Cocky. Not serious. Interested in only sex.”

  “Well, I’m still those things too."

  “I do not think that is true. Or at least is not the whole truth.”

  “Your English is really good.”

  She gives me a look like, Really. “You changed the subject. And yes, the English is good because I study every day, and I travel all the time to many places where English is a common tongue.”

  “What does it say about me that the only word I heard just now was tongue?” I tilt my head and grin at her, trying to crack a joke, make things normal.

  “You are trying to blow this off. I promise I am a good listener, Tyler. I think there is more to you than what you share with people, and I am offering for you to share with me.”

  I bite the inside of my lip as I consider. I do not tell people about my family drama. Even Vik doesn’t know. As far as anyone who knows me goes, I'm an orphan from the system with no family to speak of. Do I want to share my crygasm with a woman who, twenty minutes ago, would barely speak to me?

  Looking into her brown eyes flecked with gold, full of compassion and curiosity, I decide that I do.

  What the hell.

  Rip that motherfucking Band-Aid right off and let my sob story flow.

  Eleven

  Zoya

  MR. GUNNERSEN

  Tyler pushes his lips out and his nostrils flare. It is a weird look; one I realize indicates he is not sure if he wants to trust me. I sit and wait, quietly, giving him time to decide.

  My mama has often done that with Papa when he’s silent and she wants him to talk. She always gets her way. She told me once that there are two reasons men are slower to communicate. Sometimes it takes men a while to formulate their thoughts and decide if they wish to share them or not. And sometimes, they are prideful and avoid sharing things until they trust in the person asking for answers. My guess is it is the latter with Tyler. He knows my brother, not me.

  I watch him as he wrestles with whatever is going on inside his mind. Finally, he starts talking and I listen—hanging onto his every word—laced in that accent of his which fascinates me.

  “I grew up in Southie, that’s the slum area of Boston, right? With a single mom so it was just the two of us. My dad died when I was young, too young to really remember him clearly. He had a work accident or something but it’s not anything my ma ever really shared with me in any great detail. And what was the point anyway? Can’t mourn someone you don’t really know or even remember.”

  He scratches the stubble on his chin and blows out a big breath. “There was a short time when things were kind of okay, like she had a decent job and stuff, but then I started to notice random guys over all the time. In and out of the house. Some of them left money after staying the night. Sex noises from her room and all that. And drugs. Lines of coke on the kitchen table. A haze of smoke throughout the house. All that nonsense. So, I was like eight or nine getting this life lesson about sex and crime and drugs, while making my own peanut butter sandwiches and putting myself on the school bus every day.”

  “That must have been so hard.”

  “I dunno. Shit, I didn’t know any different. I knew I wanted to get to school, anything to be away from the whole mess. Took the long way home every afternoon. But I also cleaned the house. And went to the grocery store. I was like a little man, you know? My ma called me the man of the house, so I was always real puffed up, like I was really takin’ care of shit.”

  Seeing this side of him makes me soften. I thought he was just a rowdy, privileged hockey boy but maybe there is more to him than I originally thought. It’s surprising me that he feels comfortable sharing this with me, and I wonder if he has had this conversation before?

  He puts both hands on the back of his head and sits back, looking up at the sky. “So, some of the guys who came around to get with my mom were rough with me. And then I started gettin’ rough with kids at school. You know, the old abused becoming the abuser bullshit. I had a gym teacher who was like, ‘whoa, kid, what the fuck?’ He told me I needed an outlet for my aggression. Got me playing hockey. I didn’t have shit to pay for skates or pads, but he got it all figured out for me.”

  “Your gym teacher sounds like a good guy.” I try to imagine what he was like as a young boy living such an unsettled life and my heart cracks open for him. Whatever preconceived ideas I had about Tyler Lockhardt before today were only a small part of the story.

  “He was. Mr. Gunnersen.” Tyler bobs his head up and down and swallows hard. “I should go back and see the old guy, huh? Thank him and shit. I joined a youth hockey team like two years later and got hooked. Wouldn’t have found any of this life I have now if not for him.”

  “Maybe you should thank him, then. You have obviously done well.”

  “I mean, I—I do send money to support the club I played for. I always send it anonymously, but in his honor. I hope maybe he knows someone cares about what he does—what he did for a lot of poor kids.”

  “Well, you are lucky you found something you love.”

  “Yeah. Yep. I started working in and around the rink to help pay for my ice time and equipment and shit. Hockey helped me channel all my angry energy and kept me out of that house. I traveled to games a lot when I played club hockey, so I got to stay in hotels and stuff. I felt like a fuckin’ king, you know? And my skills on the ice got better and better, so when I was sixteen, I got picked for an all-star team and we played in a huge tournament. Recruiters saw me and talked to me about playing for their college teams. I got offered a scholarship from Minnesota and took it because I wanted to get as far the fuck away from Boston as possible. I could've played for Boston College but no way I was gonna play with the Richie Rich boys. Fuck that.”

  “Well, it is good you could get away. So, what was this today? Your mother, I am guessing?”

  He makes a face. “It was, indeed, my mother. Asking for money. Again. Guilting me. Using my siblings to get to me. Same shit, different day.”

  “She asks you for money often?”

  “Probably once every other month. And I’ve tried, Zoya. I’ve tried getting her a good place to live, tried using connections to get her jobs, tried making sure there’s always money in the account. And she’s just a user. You know? She doesn’t appreciate shit and she’s just like a money-sucking monster who doesn’t care about anything other than her next score or high or whatever. But the kids are little, and I have no fucking clue if she’s doing to them what she did to me. It never ends.”

  “I am so sorry, Tyler. It sounds like you have done your best to care for your family.”

  “God, you’re so kind. So nice. I feel bad making you listen to this garbage.” He stands up and holds out a hand to help me up, as well. “I should probably go hold your sister’s hand like I said I would. Thanks for listening.”

  “No problem, Tyler.”

  We head inside and Tyler jogs to Irina’s side, apologizing and saying he got an unexpected call from his mother. He comments on the progress of her tattoo, which I have to admit does look really nice.

  “Where did you go?” my sister asks me.

  “I went out to get some air. Something about the sound of the buzzing and the blood made me a little woozy.” Sometimes it is an easy thing to lie to the ones you are the closest to. I just lied to my sister and I never do that.

  Tyler gives me a relieved look and I know I did the right thing by not outing him for sharing something so personal. He nods and I nod back, and in that moment, so
mething shifts between us. I catch his gaze and hold it, every ounce of me wanting him to know that it means something that he told me about his family, his childhood. It makes him more real to me, more human. Not only a hockey player.

  He still seems awkward, his lips set in a scowl as he does some sort of transaction on his phone with one hand while still holding on to Irina’s with the other. I want to ask if he is moving money around, sending his mother what she asked for, but I know it would embarrass him.

  When the tattoo is finished, Irina is a little lightheaded, but happy with the final product. We finish up, thanking Erik for his time and his excellent work. As we are walking out, I can see the lines of stress on Tyler’s face even as he jokes about being hungry enough to eat his own arm.

  “Well, we could all go out to celebrate Irina’s first tattoo,” I suggest.

  Irina spins to look at me. “You want to go out?”

  “Well, it is dinner time, right? It is Sunday, though, so I am not sure what else might be—”

  “This is Vegas,” Tyler interrupts. “There's always somewhere to go. I know just the place.”

  Twelve

  Tyler

  SMOKESHOW SANDWICH

  “Oh, this is only like two blocks from my apartment,” Irina comments as we walk into the sports bar I picked.

  We get a table and I order myself a beer. Irina orders some frilly girl drink and Zoya just orders a diet soda. The waitress, who’s cute and petite and ginger, tells me I look familiar. I’m about ready to get my flirt on when I realize Irina and Zoya might not appreciate it.

  “He is a pro-hockey player,” Irina says, grabbing my arm in a weirdly proprietary way.

  “Oh, you play for the Crush, right?” the waitress asks. “On the back line?”

  “Yup, play defense. You a Crush fan?”

  She grins. “I’ve been to a few games. Honestly, I wasn’t that into it until I saw how many hot guys there are on the team. Your teammate? With the long hair? Whew!” She fans herself with her order notebook and gets a dreamy look on her face.

  “Georg Kolochev?” Chicks love that dude’s long hair for some reason that escapes me.

  “Yes!”

  Both Irina and Zoya groan.

  “That one is our dumb brother,” Irina says, sticking her finger down her throat.

  Ginger laughs and says, “Well, I think he’s way hot. And the way his wife proposed to him was so cute. Swoon city.”

  “Well, on that note, could I get a hamburger with lettuce, tomato, and pickle?” Zoya asks, ignoring the total fangirling this redhead is doing over her brother. “With fries on the side?”

  We all order and when the waitress leaves, Zoya rolls her eyes. “I have no patience for any of that nonsense.”

  “I didn’t think she was that bad,” I say with a shrug. “So she thinks your brother’s hot. So what?”

  “It is all the time,” Zoya says. “Everywhere. I cannot go to the bank without someone mentioning my brother or my cousin or the Crush or hockey. I have lived and breathed hockey for my whole life and now I am ready to talk about something else.”

  “This is her hot button,” Irina comments. “Do not, under any circumstances, say the H word.”

  This makes me chuckle. I can understand it to some extent. Now that many of the guys are married or have girlfriends—and babies—I get just as irate when the conversation inevitably turns to those topics. Shaking my head in understanding, I drink some of my beer. “How’s the back feeling?”

  “Not too bad,” Irina says. “A little sore, like a burn. Nothing I cannot handle.”

  “Take those bandages off when you get home. Make sure you keep a thin layer of ointment on it until it starts to dry out. It will scab up and peel, then you can put unscented lotion on it to keep it moist.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” she says in a sultry voice. “I am thankful to have you to take good care of me.”

  Zoya snorts lightly on my other side. I look at her from the corner of my eye and see her smothering a laugh. She scoots out of the booth and says she needs to run to the restroom. It occurs to me that she’s trying to avoid cockblocking her sister by laughing at her obvious flirtation. And if she doesn’t want to cockblock, then does that mean I have no chance with her? I know it makes me sound like a genuine asshole, but I am not used to having women totally blow me off. I thought we had a moment back at the tattoo shop. I shared things with her that my best friend doesn’t even know. I thought I saw something in her eyes, her expression…a new interest, maybe? And no, I didn’t share my sad-sack life story with her to try for a pity fuck.

  Hell, I don’t know. Maybe I should chalk it as a loss. Irina is beautiful and totally interested. It won’t amount to anything, as I can’t risk pissing off Georg to the point that we can’t play together.

  Our food comes and we all chat about campus life. Zoya talks about her boring biology class and her frustration with her statistics class. Irina talks about a thesis idea she’s working on before switching gears to talk about her two roommates.

  “Solveig is from Norway, doing a PhD in physics. She’s a fucking genius. And Willa is from South Africa. She’s studying something to do with gender and athletics. I like them both, but I hardly ever see them. I don’t think they ever stop working.”

  “Sounds interesting,” is all I can think to say.

  “I mean,” Irina says, “that they are never home. I am always alone.”

  I turn and meet her gaze, which is full of invitation. Oh yeah. Instinctively, I look over at Zoya, who has her hamburger up to her mouth. Her eyes are wide and it’s a pretty humorous sight, but I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking. Is she shocked that her sister would be so forward? Or so forward with her still sitting here?

  The urge to know what she’s thinking and feeling is overwhelming for me. I shouldn’t care. She’s too young for me, anyway. Only nineteen, just a sophomore in college. I’ll be twenty-five in a few months.

  Irina’s phone rings and she answers in Russian, then scoots out of the booth and toward the front of the restroom. I watch her go, then turn to Zoya again.

  “Her ex-boyfriend,” she explains. “Vladimir.”

  “Still a thing?”

  “Who knows? She is fickle about these things.” We’re both quiet for a few moments, before she asks, “Are you going to sleep with my sister?”

  I swear I almost choke on the bit of burger I’ve got in my mouth. “Well, I—I mean, I—she seems like—maybe?” Holy shit, why am I stammering? And when did it get so hot in here? “It seems like she was maybe hinting—”

  “She was more than hinting, Tyler. It was an open invitation. She is always direct about what she wants, and she wants to sleep with you. It will not mean anything, so you are in the clear. She will not hound you for more.”

  “Oh.” I take that all in and chew on it for a second. “I mean, that’s cool…I guess.”

  “I know this is how you operate. There is no reason to hide it.”

  I choke out a laugh. “Fair enough. Would you be upset? If I start something with your sister?” I sound so awkward. What is wrong with me? I feel weird and nervous and tongue-tied like some teenage kid with his first crush. Christ, get yourself together Lockhardt.

  She shrugs. “Why would I care?”

  “I thought maybe you might not approve or whatever.” I sound fucking lame, but I keep right on going. “I won’t do it if you tell me you don’t want me to.”

  “You are an adult. She is an adult. I have no say in what the two of you choose to do. You can have sex with each other if you like. Plus, I am not the sibling to worry about. If Georg finds out, beware.” Zoya is prim, tight-lipped, as she says all this. And she’s looking down at her plate, not at me. This bothers her; I know it.

  Suddenly, Irina is back, and she starts by laying out six shot glasses of what I’m guessing is top-shelf vodka on the table. “Fucking Vlad,” she grumbles. “He makes me want to get drunk.”

 
; She pushes two shot glasses in front of me, two in front of her own seat, and two in front of Zoya.

  “I do not drink,” Zoya protests. “I am not of age.”

  “Oh, live a little,” Irina scolds. “You are of age in Russia and have had alcohol, so stop acting like a nun.”

  They stare at each other and I see something in Zoya’s face change. The challenge has been accepted, I guess. She tosses the first shot back, making a sour face as her sister hoots with delight. The two of us follow by taking our shots, as well.

  We eat a bit more before we do the second shot. I buy us a third round. It’s starting to get fun here. Zoya, a bit woozy now, is loosening up, telling funny stories about her brother when he was a kid.

  She slaps her hands on the table at one point and exclaims, “We should go dancing!”

  “It is Sunday,” Irina says. “Are there places open?”

  “Always. Remember it’s Vegas, baby.” I throw my credit card on the table and the waitress pops over to get us paid up. “And dancing is my middle name.”

  “That is a weird middle name,” Zoya comments.

  “Ever use contractions?” I ask her, all loose-lipped, finally feeling comfortable enough to tease her.

  Zoya tilts her head in question.

  Irina says, “When you mush two words together. That’s a weird middle name, instead of that is a weird middle name. The way you use English makes you sound very stiff.”

  “I have been told my English is very good.” Zoya pushing her lips out in a pout makes me want to kiss her right there and then, I swear.

  “It is,” I reassure her. “Really good.”

  We head out, piling into a car for a ride that takes less than five minutes. It’s still early, but there are some people dancing in the small club when we walk in. We’re all a little loaded, so we don’t care that the place isn’t hopping yet.

  We just make our way over to the dance floor and in no time, I’m the filling in a sexy Russian smokeshow-sandwich. Best Sunday night ever.