Puck Money: A Hockey Love Story

by Miller, Raine

  I asked for hard. He gives it hard. In and out. Harder and faster. His biceps bulge from holding himself above me as he pushes his cock as deep as he can go. I love it. I’m delirious with pleasure. I climax in rapid succession and feel tears on my face. I’m out of my body and no longer know where Boris ends, and Talia begins. There’s no separation of us, just we.

  With a roar Boris shudders into me, his cock twitching and jerking the last of his climax out of him and into me. He collapses on top of me, both of us struggling to catch our breath.

  We lie on my blue velvet chaise for a long time, kissing and caressing each other with softer touches of lips and hands than a few moments ago.

  Time slows down.

  Nothing is more important than this right now.

  Finally, he speaks. "I can’t stand it. I need to say it, krasotka."

  I bite back a smile. “I know you do. And I love you, too."

  Epilogue

  Four months later.

  The team is heading into winter break and I am very much ready for the time off. It has been an amazing season, made better by seeing Talia in the stands at nearly every game—even the ones on the road. She really is my good luck charm. I convinced her by pleading my case that if her being at the games helps me to score more goals so the Crush can win more than they lose, well then you keep doing it. Hockey players are superstitious as fuck, and I’m not ashamed admitting it.

  Talia is feeling better too, after finding a therapist to help her through her PTSD from the abduction. Having someone to listen and tell you it wasn’t your fault is powerful medicine toward healing the mind of painful burdens. My investors in Russia went silent in the aftermath; and I have never heard from them again. The gun fight was all over the local news immediately after it happened, speculated as a drug deal gone wrong. Two were dead at the scene and the third died at the hospital a day or two later, so there was never a witness to make a statement. Heisenberg's guys were ghosts in the whole thing, so no connection there either. The reports dwindled away as soon as the next crime story took center stage in the local news, and people quickly forgot about the mysterious Vegas underworld shooting resulting in three dead criminals with fake visas. Those three got exactly what they deserved in my opinion. Karma, you know. I don’t lose sleep over it anymore.

  It helps that my investments are doing much better, my wealth starting to take real shape under Talia’s close attention. I can fly her first class to any road games she wants to attend, upgrade our hotel rooms, and take her out to amazing places with me. It’s fun, traveling with her, exploring the cities we visit, growing closer as the months pass. For Los Angeles and Anaheim games we always make time for a visit to the home where she grew up with her parents and three siblings—two older brothers and a younger sister. They have welcomed me with open arms, though it has taken a bit getting used to so many smart, nerdy people in one family. Her father is a university professor of astronomy, her mother is the principal of a high school, her brother Deryk, the CEO of a computer engineering firm he founded, her brother Alec, a lawyer, and her little sister, Dahlia, at just eighteen, has already completed two years at university, studying to become a veterinarian. So many super-intelligent humans under one roof can be overwhelming, but the dinner conversation is never boring. I am always learning something new from listening to them go full-nerd on every topic imaginable over plates of her mom’s lasagna or her dad’s grilled tri-tip.

  When we arrive at the airport, Talia puts her hand on my arm and asks, "Are you sure you want to travel though? We're on the go all the time for games. I thought maybe you’d want a break from airplanes and buses and hotel rooms?"

  "I’m good with this travel, krasotka."

  "When are you going to tell me where we’re going?"

  “You’ll find out in another minute I think.”

  We check in at the first-class counter and I hand over my identification. "To Orlando." the attendant says.

  “Yes,” I confirm.

  When I glance over at Talia, she gives me a funny look. I can see her trying to puzzle it out. "What’s in Orlando?"

  "The Wizarding World of Harry Potter." I'm unable to contain my grin for a second longer.

  Her eyes go wide, and she jumps up and down, clapping her hands in delight. "Harry Potter World? Really?"

  "Really, krasotka." She hurls herself into my arms and kisses me until her glasses fall off her beautiful face. I set her on her feet, put her glasses back into place, and then press my forehead to hers. "I am thrilled you approve of my choice."

  "Thrilled is an understatement, my love, and you always choose perfectly because you've got game."

  "You think that I've got game? Me?" She can’t be serious.

  “So much game, dragon man, so, so much.”

  “I think you’re just saying that because you love me, krasotka, and you really want to go to Harry Potter World.”

  She shakes her head no. “I love you of course, but it’s irrelevant to your level of game-ness at any given time. Have you forgotten all those precious love notes you sent to woo me back to you, along with enough roses to fill a barn? Your love notes beat out Harry Potter World by a mile on a scale of woo-worthiness. Seriously.”

  “Oh, I remember writing the notes, krasotka. I dictated it first into my phone and then I enlarged the font size and copied it onto paper. It took a long time, though I did get faster the more I practiced.”

  “I rest my case. Not just another pretty face, folks, but whip-smart too. How did I get so lucky?”

  As my krasotka chatters away, we head toward security and our boarding gate. She likes talking about so many things all the time, and I can honestly say it makes me happy to listen to her. But I still have fun teasing her whenever I get an opportunity. “I don’t know. You won the boyfriend lottery maybe?” I suggest.

  “That and don’t forget your wooing skills,” she reminds me. “You could teach the class on wooing and hand out certificates to the guys who passed it. I’m thinking, Tyler for example, could certainly benefit from your vast and intricate knowledge on the topic of how to properly woo someone.”

  “So, are you trying to say I am good at the wooing?”

  I can barely keep a straight face when she goes quiet, because that’s when I know she’s onto me messing with her.

  “Don’t push your luck, dragon man. I know what you did there.” She gives my hand a squeeze for emphasis.

  I take her hand to my lips and kiss the top of it. “You can take it out on me when we get there.”

  “Oh, you can bet on it.” Her eyes spark with a certain look that makes me hard.

  I can’t fucking wait.

  * * *

  An hour later, we’re seated in first class about to take off, when Talia puts her head on my shoulder. "I’m so excited. Thank you for this. It’s going to be pure magic, you’ll see."

  I pull a small box from my pocket and hand it to her. “What’s this?” she asks.

  “You have to open it, krasotka.” She takes the tiny box and shakes it next to her ear. When she removes the lid and sees what’s inside, she can’t help squealing a little. I’m pretty sure she likes it.

  The Harry Potter-themed charm bracelet comes out of the box and is slipped onto her wrist. “I love it so much and I love you. Thank you.” She admires for it a moment more and then leans over and offers her lips to me for a kiss.

  I never pass up an offer to kiss my girl.

  "It’s a promise I will keep, krasotka." I point out the silver charm that reads “Always.”

  "Always, Boris." Within her stormy blue eyes, I can only see the love I have for her and the love she has for me shining radiantly up at me.

  "Always, krasotka Natalia."

  I do believe it will be.

  Sneak Peek of SMOKESHOW

  Please read on to enjoy the first chapters of SMOKESHOW, Book 5 in the VEGAS CRUSH series featuring playboy extraordinaire, Tyler Lockhardt and his “friendly” obsession, Zoya Ko
lochev, plus a look in on our friends from the previous books, of course. All books in the VEGAS CRUSH series are STANDALONE contemporary romance with a happily ever after, and always plenty of hockey hunk action burning up the pages.

  Add to your TBR now.

  Chapter 1: He’s Suddenly a Saint

  Zoya

  I’ve got my draft class schedule in hand, but the line is so very long, I fear I’ll be standing here forever. I missed the cut-off for registering online because my overprotective father only just decided that I could follow my sister Irina to UNLV, where she is pursuing her master’s degree. So now, I must stand in the line and do a little prayer that the registration gods will not shut me out of the classes I really want.

  Luckily, most of my transfer credits came through from my previous university in Saint Petersburg, so I am a bit more likely to get the more targeted classes that I need. I wanted to start over here. My father was absolutely against it. With every fiber in his body, he opposed sending me over here for college on my own. But now, since my sister got into grad school, he finally agreed. It also helps that we came to Las Vegas, where my brother plays professional hockey. He is married now and my father has threatened him with bodily harm if he does not look out for me and my sister. This idea would have been laughable a couple of years ago, but now my brother is more settled, less wild, and I believe he has my father convinced that he will truly keep an eye out for us.

  This is not a problem for me. I do not get in trouble. My sister, however? Well, let’s say my brother will have his hands full with Irina. Which is why it’s laughable that I had to beg for a year to come over here in the first place.

  I get to the front of the line and work through my class list with the registrar. I get shut out of two classes but find suitable alternatives. Once everything is in place, I get shuffled to the bursar’s line, where I wait some more, just for the privilege of handing over a check for the cost of this semester’s tuition.

  “Where are you from?” the grey-haired woman at the bursar’s desk asks as she enters my payment information into her computer.

  “Saint Petersburg,” I say.

  “Florida?”

  “Russia.”

  She looks up and giggles. “Right. The accent should have made it obvious, huh? We just see so many people from so many places here. It’s a real melting pot, Las Vegas. Have you noticed that?”

  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 English and Russian both, fluently,” I say.

  “Oh, that’s really great,” the woman yammers. “What made you all travel so much?”

  “My father is a youth hockey coach,” I say. “And my brother plays professionally. He played in the Olympics 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 sort-of surprised look on her face. “Kolochev is your family name?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  “Is your brother Georg Kolochev, then?”

  “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.”

  “I guess,” I answer with a shrug. I find hockey talk so boring. I have spent my entire life in ice hockey facilities, either watching my father coach or watching my brother play. Honestly, I just want to get my receipt and get out of here. And by the sound of sighing in the line behind me, the other students here today want me to get out of here, as well.

  When I finally burst through the doors and into the warm, Vegas sunshine, I’m ready to scream. Thankfully, my sister is waiting for me, two green-tea Frapuccinos in hand. I greedily grab one and suck down the icy, sweet concoction with an audible, happy sigh.

  “Um, you’re welcome?”

  “Thank you, Rina,” I say, using the shortened version of her name that only I am allowed to use. “This makes up for the hockey talk I just had to endure. Georg this and Georg that. It made me want to blow my brains out.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. Daddy wouldn’t have let you come here if not for Georg.”

  “He let me come because of you, too,” I say. “And how is Georg the responsible one, all of the sudden?”

  “Valid point,” Irina says, lifting a shoulder. “He’s always been the bad boy and now he’s married so he’s a saint suddenly.”

  My sister and I are both tall and slender. We both modeled a little bit back 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’s in a black leather jacket over a bright yellow tube top, black combat boots sitting below skinny, white leggings. This is in comparison to my very boring ensemble of white t-shirt and khaki shorts with Birkenstocks. 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’d rather just walk along without getting into a confrontation.

  When two guys stop us, asking first where we got our drinks (as if the logo of the coffeeshop isn’t emblazoned on the cups), then asking us if we’re angels sent straight from heaven. “That is the lamest thing I’ve ever heard,” Irina sneers in response.

  “They are just giving us a compliment,” I say, putting 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’s kind of cute in a generic way, with a snap-back hat and skater-chic t-shirt on.

  “Go straight to hell,” Irina says. “We’re not here for your amusement.”

  “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 – says, leering at her bared midriff and ample breasts in their 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. She digs in, though, becoming immovable. “You two need your mouths washed out with soap. Who told you that you could talk to women that way? Do you ever read 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 a pretty evil little smile. It creeps me out, and the feeling is only made worse when he says, “I’m sure we’ll see you both around.”

  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 confrontation if you would have just ignored them,” I say.

  “Why do they get to talk to us like that? I never gave 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 says sharply.

  “Whatever,” I say. “I just want to be left alone to get my schooling done and just walking down the street with you always leads to confrontation. 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 Me Too, 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 her ranting. On one hand, I appreciate my sister for being such a committed feminist. On a lot of 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 even 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 are a piece of meat.”

  “They do not gape at meat the way they gape at us,” I say.

  “That does not make it better,” Irina says. “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.”