by Brit DeMille
Crushed, A Hockey Love Story
VEGAS CRUSH #1
Brit De Mille
Copyright © 2018 by Brit DeMille
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are created by the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
Cover Design: Designs by Dana
Cover Image: Sara Eirew
Contents
CRUSHED
Foreword
1. Holly
2. Evan
3. Holly
4. Evan
5. Holly
6. Evan
7. Holly
8. Evan
9. Holly
10. Evan
11. Holly
12. Evan
13. Holly
14. Evan
15. Holly
16. Evan
17. Holly
18. Evan
19. Holly
20. Evan
21. Holly
22. Evan
23. Holly
24. Holly
25. Evan
26. Holly
27. Evan
28. Holly
29. Evan
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of SIN SHOT
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About the Author
CRUSHED
A Hockey Love Story
“No-fraternization policies were made to be broken.”
Evan Kazmeirowicz, VEGAS CRUSH
This may sound reasonable coming from the star winger for the VEGAS CRUSH the day he lays eyes on the new social media manager for the team, but for Holly Laurent it’s a whole different story. Dating a “player” is a risky business, especially if she wants to keep the job she just landed with the hottest team in the NHL.
Holly loves her independence and her career. She’s doing just fine on her own, thank you very much. Allowing her head to be turned by a hot hockey player and putting her job at risk?
Not. Happening. Ever.
Not even if he looks like a god. Not even if he possesses enough charm to tempt the panties from a nun. Not even if she has to cross her fingers behind her back every time she tells him she’s not interested.
Policies exist for a reason. Rules are not meant to be broken and sexy players are not to be trusted. Right?
Dedication
For those who are,
and will always be…
VEGAS STRONG.
Foreword
This story is the debut novel from Brit DeMille. Writing a sports romance was something I’d wanted to do for a very long time. So, seven months ago, on a complete whim, I decided to begin writing a hockey romance and also to set my fictional team in Las Vegas. Since it was brand new territory for the hockey world in general, with the newest expansion team—the Vegas Golden Knights—starting up for their very first season in the NHL, I figured there wouldn’t be a lot of back history to compete with for my fictional Vegas Crush team, and it would be a fun world to place my characters in by having them working and living in fabulous Sin City.
Crafting the story for CRUSHED was done while watching many a hockey game, but especially while following along as the Vegas Golden Knights won games. And kept winning. And kept on winning; fighting their way to the top of the standings in game…after game…after game.
Flash forward to late May 2018. The Vegas Golden Knights have won the Western Division and are in the freaking finals for the Stanley Cup! Watching their rise has been crazy fun. An unexpectedly thrilling adventure for fans of a real Las Vegas hockey club which has grabbed the attention of the entire world with their fairytale of triumph in a brand new arena. It’s the stuff that romance novels are made of. Quite literally.
Writing in my fictional universe of the Vegas Crush has been the highlight of my year, and I hope you enjoy this small peek into Evan and Holly’s wonderful world as much as I did writing it.
Happy reading!
♥ Brit
One
Holly
Just one step outside and I have to turn myself right back around again.
As I head back inside to grab some darker shades and a water, I remind myself yet again that I now live in the Mojave Desert. An extra water could be the difference between life and death sometime in my future. It’s best to be prepared.
It’s crazy to think about going into an ice hockey rink when it’s easily pushing 100 degrees on this late September day. Of course, I haven’t really been in an ice hockey rink, apart from the two times I interviewed with the Las Vegas Crush. I guess I’d better get used to the odd juxtaposition between the Las Vegas desert climate and the seemingly endless winter of the hockey world.
My condo is situated in a totally vanilla suburb that’s about a fifteen-minute drive to the very non-vanilla Strip. The hockey arena sits on the edge of all of the insanity. I’ve learned that most Las Vegas natives barely ever see the Strip, unless they work there. Apart from all the lights and fountains and casinos, Las Vegas is a pretty normal place.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at that. Having grown up in Los Angeles, I know all about how to ignore the tourist traps.
As I make the quick commute—one of the best parts about this move, since LA traffic is just as bad as people say it is—I blast some music, dancing and singing my way into my assigned parking spot. Still humming, I gather my bag and pull on my suit jacket before heading into the arena to observe my first practice.
My uncle Troy is a scout for the Crush. He played hockey professionally until he was well into his thirties, then started scouting once a knee injury put him out of commission for play. He called me two months before I graduated UCLA’s Communication Studies program, asking me if I’d be interested in interviewing for a social media position with the Crush. He thought it might be a good fit, since I’m an athlete. At first, I balked—I’m a distance runner and I’ve never been to a single hockey game—but once I learned about the job, it sounded great. I interviewed, and much to my surprise, was hired. So here I am, a hockey neophyte, LA expatriate, heading to my first day of work with the Vegas Crush.
And there he is. Tall and broad-shouldered, my uncle is still a handsome guy. He shares my dad’s side of the family’s ginger hair, a little grey on the sides, and blue eyes. I, of course, got the brown hair and brown eyes of my mom’s side of the family.
He pulls me into a hug, patting me on the back with enough vigor that I pull away laughing. “Hey,” I say, “I’m not choking. No need for violence.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, grinning. “I’m just so excited that you’re here. And damn proud of you. Do you know how many people want to get their foot in the door in sports marketing? And you beat out people who know way more about hockey than you do. You must be pretty damn good with this social media business.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure that Social Media Manager is, like, the lowest on the totem pole, and I’m sure being related to their star scout probably didn’t hurt, but it’s a great start and I’m really excited to get going. I have lots of ideas for how we can engage fans and connect them to the players via the different platfor
ms,” I say. “Thanks for thinking of me. Now you’re totally on the hook for making sure I know enough by opening day to not bomb.”
“Interns are actually lowest on the totem pole, not anyone with the title of manager,” he corrects, elbowing me. He points me in the direction of the arena and starts walking. “And I am more than happy to begin your hockey education. I know enough for the both of us.”
“Well, you should be out scouting so I can’t rely on all that knowledge if it’s locked up in your big brain. Spill it, uncle.” I love to joke around with him.
“Oh, Holly-dolly,” he says, using the name he’s called me since I was a little kid, “always so bossy.”
“Well,” I do have manager in my title, as you pointed out.”
Troy laughs at this. “So, the arena can also be called the barn. There are lots of slang terms that you’ll hear the guys say. Some are appropriate, and some are not, so talk to me if you’re not sure what something means before you use it publicly.”
“Wait, hockey players can say inappropriate things? I’m shocked, Uncle Troy.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. As we walk in, players are already on the ice.
“Shouldn’t I head to HR?” I ask.
“They’ll be ready for you whenever we’re finished down here. It’s a Sunday, so it’ll be a paperwork day. They’ll show you your cubicle, get you set up on a computer and whatnot, but not much else until tomorrow.”
“Ah,” I say. “Okay.”
We take seats in the third row from the glass. “It’s the end of rookie training week,” he explains. “It’s actually a really good day to be here, because now the other team members will come out and scrimmage the rookies. Should be fun to watch.”
We watch as the more seasoned players take the ice. As the action starts, I find myself fascinated by the quick pace of the game. But I understand very little about what’s going on. Troy explains as things occur, pointing out when someone smothers the puck, or when a call is made for icing. He talks about the power play as a rookie gets put into the penalty box.
It’s a lot, honestly, and I take notes, but decide I’m going to have to get some books, and maybe just watch like a thousand hockey games on YouTube before tomorrow morning.
At one point, two huge guys crash against the glass. I jump as it rattles, but Troy lets out a “Whoop!” that tells me this is quite normal and probably fun for the audience. The larger of the guys, from the veteran team, pushes the rookie. There’s a little tussle that causes both of their helmets to fall onto the ice.
The two players, red-faced and wet-haired, battle it out until finally, the coach blows his whistle and skates over. There’s a verbal argument. The rookie says the older player checked him on purpose. The non-rookie tells him to grow a pair and asks if he’s ever played hockey before.
I watch, rapt attention on the battle between two guys who are supposed to be teammates. The coach says what I’m thinking, “You two better kiss and make up. You’re on the same team, for fuck’s sake.”
The rookie shrugs and reaches down for his helmet, skating away. But the bigger one? He looks at Troy and me. Well, he looks at me, because our eyes meet, and I swear I feel it all the way down into places unmentionable. He’s frowning, which isn’t the expression I want to see when a hot guy checks me out, but still, there’s a weird charge between us. And it lasts all of twenty seconds before he spits on the ice—gross—grabs his helmet, and skates toward the penalty box.
“Phew…that was intense.”
“All part of the game,” Troy says. “These are good guys, hard workers, but they do get competitive. Even with each other. And the older players always feel like they need to toughen the younger players up. It’s a thing.”
“Who was the guy who stared a hole through us?”
“Evan Kazmeirowicz,” he says. “He came to us a year ago, played so well they gave him a multi-year, multi-million-dollar contract.”
“So, he’s barely out of rookie-hood, himself,” I comment.
“From an NHL sense, I guess, but not really.” Troy says. “He’s been bred to play hockey. Grew up in Ukraine. Played on the Ukraine Olympic hockey team for the first time when he was, like, eighteen. Played again at twenty-two, then came to the States to play minor league hockey. Got recruited here last year and just tore some shit up.”
“Did you scout him?”
“I did,” he says like a proud dad. “He was the team’s leading scorer last season. Plays left wing, or forward is another name for it. He’s born to score.”
Yes, he is. But I keep my mouth shut because I know it will only make it more obvious that my lady parts are on fire after that weird stare-down.
“C’mon,” Troy says. “Let’s get you upstairs so you’ll be all set for tomorrow,”
I stand and follow my uncle out of the arena. Just because I’m a glutton for punishment, I turn back and glance at the penalty box, only to find Evan Kazmeirowicz staring right back.
Yep. I am in trouble.
Two
Evan
My concentration has officially been fucking broken. I was in the zone, ready to pummel some rookies into submission when I look over and see the prettiest pair of pouty lips I ever wanted to meet. Or kiss. Or do a whole list of things with.
With dark hair in a long ponytail, dark eyes, and those luscious pouty lips I’d like to plunder for days, she’s got my full attention. I sincerely hope she’s a recruiter because no player who likes pussy would ever say no to playing for a team where that beauty works.
She looks back at me as she leaves and I legit want to jump the barrier, skate to the glass, and beg her to let me sink my biscuit into her net. Somehow, though, I think this might get me fired. Or kicked in the balls. No one needs that.
As soon as my penalty time ends, I get my head back in the game, playing hard until Coach splits us up for drills. Of course, because Coach Roger Brown doesn’t like drama and bullshit, he pairs me with the young rookie.
The drill we run requires us to do short passes back and forth while we make our way from one end of the ice to the other. The tight set of the kid’s lips and jaw tell me he’s still pissed about the way I checked him earlier.
“Kid, let it go. Part of the game.”
“Whatever, yeah,” he grunts, his English good despite a thick, Russian accent.
“What’s your name?”
“Mikhail,” he says after a moment as if he’s deciding whether or not to grace me with a response. Punk.
“Is that your first or last name?”
“First.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
I gather one-word answers are all I’ll be getting because not only is he a punk-ass teen, but also a rookie, and he doesn’t want to be told a damn thing. I guess it’ll be up to Coach to work that chip off his shoulder, but I get it. He’s probably banking on a good year or two, followed by a multi-year contract that will set up his family for years. It’s a common story for these kids who come straight to the NHL as teenage phenomes. There’s a great deal of pressure to perform well.
We move to other drills which include passing for distance and shooting on the fly. Coach yells, “Shots on goal! Shots on goal!” This is his mantra. He wants us to take shots, and then take more shots. If we don’t take shots on goal, we won’t score.
After practice, we head in for feedback from the coaching staff. Nothing major just yet, since we’re all just getting to know each other. Some of the guys head to the showers, but I hit the gym with my buddy Georg to lift some weights.
He spots me on the bench, of course threatening to let the thing drop on my head.
“I should fire you,” I say, grunting at the weight. I’ve been pushing myself hard in the weight room lately. I want to be in top physical shape this season. No contract slump for me.”
“As your friend, or as your teammate, or as your spotter?” he asks, grinning.
“All of the above,�
�� I answer with a sharp exhale of breath on my fifth rep. “You suck. Your suckage is overwhelming me right now.”
“Speaking of suckage,” Georg says. “You’ll probably be able to get any woman you want on her knees now that you’re making the big bucks.”
“No need for money,” I say. “My cock is a beacon with or without a wallet full of cash.”
“Indeed,” Georg says. “You’ll have to get bodyguards to fend off all those bunnies. Pussy magnet is what you are.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I say, finishing the set. I sit up and take a long swig from my water bottle. “What about you? You still seeing your little waitress? Wasn’t her name, Bunny?”
“Bambi,” he says. He shrugs. “Every so often. Netflix and chill, you know?”
“How’s she feel about that?”
“You’re asking about her feelings?” Georg asks, incredulous. “Since when do you give a shit what a woman feels?”
“I care,” I say, making a duh face. “I’m not heartless.”
He rolls his eyes. “You need me anymore? I’ve got my own workout to do.”