Smokeshow: A Hockey Love story

by Miller, Raine

  Gritting my teeth, I look away, taking a breath to avoid lashing out. It disgusts him?

  “I cannot have you sleeping around,” he continues. "I will have you to come home immediately.”

  “I’m not sleeping around. I fell in love. I made love to someone I care about.” My cheeks heat as I make this admission out loud.

  My father snorts. “This is not love, daughter. This is lust, and while I am not so old to forget how our hormones rage when we are young, I also thought you had more sense. I thought you would be more practical.”

  “More practical than whom? Than Georg, who slept his way through three countries before settling down? Than Irina, who is smart and talented, and choosing to control her own body and choices?”

  “More practical than to give yourself away to the first man who looks at you.”

  A strange, choking, gasp of a laugh rattles its way up through my chest. “The first man who looks at me? Are you blind, Papa? I get looks every day, all day. I have men ask me out all the time, and I have chosen, mostly, to say no. Why? Because I'm serious about my studies, about my goals. Because I don't throw myself around for male attention and I never have. Of all people, you should trust me most when I say that what I feel is real.”

  “You are only nineteen,” he argues.

  “You were only a teen when you met Mama. Don't be such a hypocrite.”

  “Eto bessmyslenno,” he growls. “Why throw everything away for this one man, who will surely leave you crying?”

  “Who said anything about throwing anything away?” I ask, angry tears rolling down my cheeks. “What if he adds to my life? What if he makes my life better? Happier?” And what if you taking me home to Russia is what causes me to throw everything away?”

  “You are too young to understand, milaya devushka.” My father runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “He will love you and then leave you. Your head will spin and your heart will break. I know these players. I know the way they are. He will leave and you will fall apart.”

  “Papa, I am so much stronger than that. I know you think I'm so young, such a child, so soft. But I'm tougher than you think.”

  He makes a clucking sound. “Irina? She is tough, hard to crack. You? You have always been softer, quieter, more delicate.”

  “You are too overprotective, Papa. I know who I am and what I can handle. I want to give this a shot, this thing with Tyler. And I want to finish the semester here. I want to stay. I like it here and I'm doing well, working hard.”

  “This semester was a trial. I will let you stay through the semester and I will stay, too. We will stay for the final games to see your brother play, and the playoffs. After you finish your classes, we will go home for the summer to sort things out. I do not want you seeing him, though. This is not negotiable.”

  “But—”

  “No. This is for your own good. Tyler Lockhardt is not a part of your life, Zoya. If you want to stay here for your education, that is the rule.”

  I clamp down, tears overflowing again. It's not worth the argument. I've made my case, presented my truth, and he will not listen. My father is nothing if not resolute. I have rarely seen him change his mind about anything once a decision has been made. The fact that he will let me stay the rest of the semester, and also consider me coming back next semester is a huge concession in and of itself. Trying to convince him Tyler can be good for me, that he's worth getting to know, would be futile at this point.

  My heart is heavy as my phone rings, Tyler’s handsome face on the screen. I haven’t texted him or called him since I left yesterday morning. It’s been over twenty-four hours, and in that time, my heart has broken a million times. He doesn’t deserve my silence. But the grief, the pain, the guilt of what Irina will feel, has taken my confidence. This is not fair. Even if Papa is right that I “disobeyed” him, this is not right. Please forgive me, Ty. Please know I will do everything I can to get back to you. Please know my heart is yours.

  I hit “ignore,” and let my tears flow freely.

  Twenty-Eight

  Tyler

  DRUNK TEXTING

  Six days later.

  “Fuck!” I yell, pulling off my helmet and throwing it to the ground in the bad box, where I will sit for the next two minutes, watching Portland probably take advantage of the power play. We’re down one-two with seven minutes left to make up the two goals we need to win. It’s not impossible, but our play hasn’t been great tonight. It’s not just me, the whole team is flat for some reason. Kolochev seems distracted. Not really surprised there. Bastard. Kazmeirowicz is just not hitting the mark, despite tons of shots on goal. It’s a cluster, for sure, and my penalty box hat trick isn’t helping.

  I mean, I could blame it on the broken nose, but really, it’s not that. I’ve left about ten messages for Zoya over the last days with no response. I know her dad is in town—I saw him talking to the coaching staff during pregame—so I figure he’s just keeping a tight watch on her. I've stayed out of his line of sight, but I’m sure I can’t avoid the guy forever. But Zoya…does she regret what we did? I sure as hell hope not as it was one of the best moments of my fucking life.

  To make things worse, my mom was offered early release from jail as a plea deal, if she agreed to the one-year rehab out here. Her answer, according to James Blakney, the attorney, was, “Give me my goddamn kids back. You can shove that fancy rehab up your ass.” So, not so much cooperation happening. Then she got in a fight with another prisoner and they leveled her with an assault charge that’ll probably net her another six months, the possibility of any early release totally out the window. She won’t see the outside of a cell for another two years minimum.

  Fuck my life, you know?

  This is too much fucking stress. I want my old life back, and… Oh shit! Evan just crossed to Mikhail and he scored!

  Pay attention, shitbrain. Jesus. Get your motherfucking head in the game.

  The clock winds down as I put my helmet back on, shooting out onto the ice as soon as the penalty clock hits zero. Back out there, I throw all my focus into defending the onslaught of shots on goal. There’s this gangly Portland player who keeps baiting me to fight again but I don’t bite. Not gonna happen, dickbag.

  Three minutes left and Boris takes a quick pass from Viktor to the goal. This game is ours. An animated dragon huffs and breathes fire on the jumbotron—the Ice Dragon has proved once again just why we brought his ass here from Austin.

  The arena is alive. Like, it’s so loud I can hardly hear a damn thing happening in the game, and when it ends, fuck me, it’s like my eardrums are gonna burst. I love it—and normally I’d be soaking it up and heading straight out to find some liquor and some hockey honeys to help me celebrate.

  As it is, even with the high energy surrounding me, I just want to be alone. I feel like smashing something, punching something. No Bueno.

  I toss my contacts in the trash as soon as I get into the locker room, half blind and thankful I have an excuse not to look anyone in the eye postgame. I shower, ignoring the loud celebration happening, my thoughts getting darker and darker.

  Once I’m dressed, I pull on my glasses, hitch my bag over my shoulder, and walk out. No words for anyone. I just want to find a hole-in-the-wall somewhere where I can sit and nurse as many drinks as it’ll take for me to black out.

  Three drinks in and two women approach. “Hey, nice game tonight.” I barely give them a glance. Mid-twenties, average looking. I just thank them and return focus back on my drinking.

  Drink number four and I barely feel a damn thing. Fuck me, can’t even get blackout drunk like I want. I get up to take a piss and another woman approaches. This one’s hot, I guess. She’s not a Zoya scale of hotness by any stretch of the imagination, though. Zoya, the gravitational force holding me in an endless orbit. Zoya, who won’t call me back. Won’t open my texts. I growl and punch the wall, not hard enough to do any damage, not with any real conviction.

  “You okay?” the woman as
ks. “Want to go somewhere and talk it out?”

  “Lady, I spent six minutes in the penalty box this game. You really want to hang out with me in this mood?”

  She lifts a shoulder, flips her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

  Shaking my head, I do my business then head back out to my bar stool, ordering a fifth beer and a shot of tequila. Just as I shoot it back, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “Fuck off,” I yell, assuming it’s yet another bimbo trying to get my attention.

  It’s not another bimbo.

  Smokeshow is standing in front of my eyes, her beautiful face tight with worry, her soft floral scent instantly soothing. “Hey. Are you okay?” she asks.

  Am I okay? My heart’s about to leap out of my chest—at least, what’s left of it after watching her get dragged out the door by her Cro-Magnon brother.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here? It looks like a pity party.”

  “Har har. I like the way you say ‘pity party’ in your Russian accent. Way hot, baby.”

  “Where are the kids?” She ignores my flirting.

  I look around. “Nanny.”

  “Well, that's good, I suppose. They aren't sitting around the apartment trying to fend for themselves. Does she know you planned to be out late?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m not the biggest shitpole in the universe, you know. I told her I was going out to celebrate after the win. All is well.”

  “Well, you are in no state to go home, but you also don't look like you are celebrating.” Zoya puts air quotes around the last word. “In fact, you look perfectly miserable.”

  “How did you find me in here?”

  “You drunk texted me your location a few minutes ago.”

  “Whoa. I’m drunk?” I ask dramatically. “Been fuckin’ tryin’ all goddamn night!”

  Zoya tries to hide a grin as she holds out her hand. “Come on, Ty. Let’s get something in your stomach then find a place for you to sober up.”

  I take her hand and stand, suddenly wobbly. She helps me close out my tab before walking me outside into the evening. “How'd you get away from the Gestapo?” I ask as we make our way down the busy street.

  “You are being stupid. The Gestapo were German. And also Nazis. My father is not a Nazi.”

  “Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes. “He isn’t the boss of you.”

  “I’m here, right? I got your text and slipped away during our postgame dinner. My father has texted me so many times I had to turn off my phone.”

  “Such a rebel.”

  “Stop being a jerk. I came for you. Because I care for you. I want to be with you.”

  “Your family thinks I’m a piece of shit and you know what? They’re probably right. I’m not good for you. You’re sweet and innocent and I'm a big dummy. You should stay away from big dummies like me.”

  “Can you even hear yourself? You are so drunk right now, and you don't mean what you're even saying. Here's an Italian place. Can we get spaghetti or something? Tyler?”

  I nod, suddenly very tired, and we head in, sitting at a tiny, tiny table that reminds me of a little kids’ table, like one where the stuffed animals would have a tea party with plastic teacups. We order spaghetti with meatballs, a salad, and some bread, but pass on the red wine. The pitcher of iced water that arrives at the table suddenly feels like nectar from the gods. Zoya pours a tall glass for each of us and then clasps my hands across the table.

  “I love you,” she says simply.

  I meet her eyes, golden-flecked brown and arresting, shining with tears. “Why the heck are you crying? Did I say other stupid shit to you other than the Gestapo thing?”

  “You said you are no good for me, but I disagree. I think you are good for me.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because you make me happy, Ty. You make me laugh. You open up for me. I get to see the real you that other people don’t get to understand. You have such a good heart and you work so hard. You're my friend. A true friend. And now, my lover. My first lover.”

  I swallow and try to look away but Zoya pulls one hand free and puts it on my cheek, forcing me to look back at her. “I’m a poor piece of trash from Southie. I’m just shit, Zoya. I happened to get lucky, find somethin’ I was good at, but I’m nobody. Certainly not anybody your pedigree family would ever let mess with the bloodlines.”

  “Stop. Tyler. I love you. I mean it. This is not a game to me, and I'm not going to let you push me away because you think you have to live in this assigned space where people think you belong.”

  She’s wrong. Take away my hockey stick and money, and I’m still a nobody.

  “What did your dad say? Why haven’t I heard from you in like a whole week?”

  “He said you are the wild hockey player he does not want for his daughters. He says you will leave me in pieces.”

  Our food comes and we eat in silence. I admit, some sustenance does bring me slightly back to center. Slightly. I still feel buzzed as we eat, but while everything else has that fuzzy haze of inebriation, Zoya is crystal clear to me. Bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, gorgeousness. She’s a fucking angel. And she loves me.

  Has anyone ever said they loved me before?

  Certainly not my ma. All she has done throughout my life is hurt me. Leave me gasping in anger and sadness.

  “Do you think I’ll leave you in pieces?” I’m terrified I will. But I’m also terrified if she says that she’s taken her father’s words as gospel.

  “No, Ty. I don’t. I know I’m young, but I’ve been exposed to a great example of marriage from my parents. My dad can be a tyrant, and he can be an ass to my mother with his words at times. She calls him on it, of course. But seeing how they trust each other, how they treat each other…reverently. She feels safe with him, despite his temper, despite his overbearing nature. And, I feel the same with you, but without the overbearing nature of course.”

  “Wow. Okay.” I don’t know how to respond to that because the mention of marriage threw me right off. I have seen that same devotion in Georg’s expression when he looks at his wife, though. And Viktor when he looks at Scarlett. Adoration. Big word to get out when you’re drunk. And as I look into Zoya’s beautiful eyes, all I can feel is want. “You want to go get a fancy hotel room and finish this conversation in private?” I ask after another moment of soaking her in.

  She nods, biting her lip.

  Thirty minutes later, we’re inside a luxury suite at the Bellagio. I asked for a fountain view, so we could see the lights dance and change outside the window.

  We stare out the window for a long time until I get the courage to say it back to her. “I—I love you, too.” I’ve never said those three words to anyone, and although I wish I felt brave, I don’t.

  You’re lucky you have me as your ma, son. No one else would have ya. I’ve heard those words for years, so am I actually capable of love?

  Still, we don’t look at each other, though I feel Zoya clasp her hand in mine. Something about touching her sends electrical currents through my whole body. I feel alive when I'm touching her.

  When I pull her body against mine, there is little restraint to be had. I ’m still half-crocked and this is probably an awful idea, but I want her so badly.

  And she loves me.

  She loves me.

  She loves me.

  I’m a goddamn sap bastard but it's all I keep hearing in my head, over and over again, as my lips meet hers. Her mouth parts on a heavy sigh as my tongue pushes in deep and claims her mouth. She loves me and she's mine. One hand still holding hers, one on her neck I kiss the fuck out of her as her other hand finds my ass, boldly pushing my hips toward hers.

  With a growl, I pick her up, her legs wrapping around me as I push her against the floor-to-ceiling window. I kiss at her mouth, her jawline, her ears, her neck. She sighs and moans and has her hands all over me, stroking over my cock and grinding against me until I feel
like we might break the window with the force of whatever this is between us. Wild, unchained desire.

  Still attached, I walk us over to the massive California king bed, where we fall into a giggling heap. Not romantic at all, but neither of us cares as we shed our clothing, tossing shoes and socks and shirts and underwear until there is nothing between us.

  She pokes a finger at my glasses. “These are so, so sexy. Leave them on?”

  I can’t help but grin. “Nerdy.”

  “I love you nerdy.”

  “A nerdy fuckin' smokeshow, that's what you are,” I say before kissing the tip of her adorable nose. “But now, I wanna lick your pussy until I feel you coming all over my face, okay?”

  “Okay,” she whispers, looking like a fucking feast laid out on this bed at the Bellagio waiting for me to do what I've promised.

  Kissing my way down her body, I stop for an appetizer of two ripe, perfect tits, topped with hard, tightened nipples that I can't leave alone. I suck them into my mouth, releasing each one with a loud pop that makes Zoya arch and gasp each time I do it. I kiss her flat belly and tongue the ring piercing her bellybutton. I bite at her hipbones, and she moans in a way that makes my cock harder, if that's even possible.

  Zoya looks down at me as I lick her from back to front, my tongue finding its way to her clit. Her head falls back on the bed as her mouth opens, a sigh escaping. It’s all the encouragement I need as I suck that small bud onto my tongue, vibrating against it as my fingers find her wet, slippery pussy and bury two of my fingers inside her.

  She’s so responsive, her cunt tightening around my fingers as I work her into a frenzy. Hips rise off the bed, fingertips clutch desperately at the bedding, small desperate noises fall from her lips. I love it. Every movement, every noise. I love it all and I don’t stop until she stops breathing, back arching, eyes closed as she rides a wave of orgasm that seems to last into eternity.

  When it finally stops, she says, “Your turn.”

  “My turn for what?” I ask, crawling up beside her, kissing her cheek.