Red Rocket
A Hockey Love Story
Raine Miller
Brit De Mille
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.
New York Times Bestselling Author
RAINE MILLER
writing as
Copyright © 2020 All rights reserved.
Raine Miller writing as Brit DeMille.
Cover Design: Designs by Dana
Cover Image: Sara Eirew Photography
Editing: Marion Archer
Proofing: Proofing with Style
Contents
RED ROCKET
Preface
1. Scarlett
2. Viktor
3. Scarlett
4. Viktor
5. Scarlett
6. Viktor
7. Scarlett
8. Scarlett
9. Viktor
10. Viktor
11. Scarlett
12. Viktor
13. Scarlett
14. Viktor
15. Scarlett
16. Viktor
17. Scarlett
18. Viktor
19. Scarlett
20. Scarlett
21. Scarlett
22. Scarlett
23. Viktor
24. Scarlett
25. Scarlett
26. Viktor
27. Scarlett
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of PUCK MONEY
Chapter 1: Enter the Ice Dragon
Chapter 2: A Total Rebuild
Chapter 3: Don’t Drink the Water
Chapter 4: No Nathaniel Here
Chapter 5: Very Perky Indeed
A Request
Acknowledgments
About Brit DeMille
Also by Raine Miller
RED ROCKET
“They call me The Mad Russian for a reason.”
Viktor Demoskev, VEGAS CRUSH
My reputation as an Enforcer was earned one game at a time. Fighting on the ice for my team is something I take very seriously because I came to the USA to play hockey, not be a celebrity.
Unfortunately, this logic has my public image taking a beating—not that I care very much how others think of me.
Except for her.
Scarlett.
A woman as gorgeous, and fiery, and sexy, as that long red hair of hers. Which would look even more stunning spread out on my sheets with my hands tangled in it all night long, while naked of course.
It is unfortunate that she also works for the team. In Public Relations... So yeah, the no-fraternization policy is an issue but hardly my main concern. The biggest hurdle is Scarlett thinking I'm part of a gambling ring for the Russian Mafia.
Crazy, right?
I can deal with setting her straight about her ridiculous suspicions, but cracking through that hard shell she has built around her broken heart? This is my real challenge.
But oh how I love a good fight. Winning is everything to me.
Especially when the prize is the Las Vegas beauty I named the Red Rocket…
*RED ROCKET is a sexy STANDALONE sports romance about a Russian hockey enforcer with bad reputation and the feisty redhead from the PR department who just might be the one person who can help him shine up his tarnished image. "Public Relations" is about to take on a whole new meaning!
Dedication
For those who are,
and always will be…
VEGAS STRONG.
Preface
Extensive creative license was applied in portraying some elements of NHL playoffs, awards, schedule, and fan events at games that would not happen in real life. I did this intentionally to create a more enjoyable reading experience within the storyline. This story has been carefully crafted for your reading pleasure and in no way is meant to be a true and accurate representation of NHL best practices and rules.
This is Hockey Romance F-I-C-T-I-O-N all the way!
xoxo
One
Scarlett
LIFE TROUBLE
Well, I’ll be damned. Georg Kolochev just scored the first goal in game seven. Pretty impressive for a solid defenseman.
Of course, that dude’s on top of the world. He just got engaged a few days ago and won the Norris Trophy earlier tonight, so who knows what the rest of this game holds for him. He’s having the time of his friggin’ charmed life out there.
I came in through the back entrance today because the hype is real. As in: Las Vegas comes out for its team. On any regular season game day, that’s the standard around here. But throw in the Stanley Cup Finals, game seven, winner takes all?
Yeah, the Crush fans are very “extra” tonight.
There was a stage set up out front, with a performance by some Vegas-based rapper that I’ve never heard of. There’s a drum line of kids from a local high school, with banners and balloons everywhere. The marketing team hired a crew of good-looking college kids to shoot T-shirts out of cannons at the crowd. They even set up a big video screen outside, so people could watch the game if they didn’t have tickets.
In my lowly position as a media coordinator for the Crush, I mostly write press releases, send them out, and then make follow-up calls to reporters. I like it okay. It’s a job that didn’t require a college degree, just writing skills and a bulldog’s determination. I’ve got both of those.
Before this job, I filled in for Holly Laurent—sorry, Holly Kazmeirowicz; Holly Laurent-Kazmeirowicz? Holly-Married-to-the-Hottest-Guy-Ever?—while she was out on maternity leave. Holly is our social media manager and she is a genius.
I thought I could top her performance while she was out, but I learned otherwise. Holly has a vision, and she knows how to execute it. Some people are just talented like that.
Me? I’m just trying to make it from point A to point B, wherever point B is. Hopefully, it’s not anywhere near my second job, where I’m a cocktail server at the Tangiers casino. Hopefully, it’s also not anywhere near the World Series of Poker…or the mafia. Both of those have caused my life trouble. No, let’s shouty caps that and call it like it is. LIFE TROUBLE.
Right now, the “in-between” is in the owner’s suite for game seven of the Stanley Cup finals with the Crush fighting to retain their championship status for a second year. My boss, Fiona, is up here, as well as my coworkers Holly and Daisy. Daisy is a shy, quiet sort. She embarrasses easily, as was evidenced when her dumbass ex-boyfriend sent like eleventy million flowers to the office and called as many times. He wanted her back even though she was done with him just on principle, and for embarrassing her at work.
My boss, Fiona, is married to some corporate type who works in Los Angeles. I think it’s a loveless marriage and I doubt she sees him very often. She probably has some boy-toy-side-action, but who knows. Actually, I doubt it since she acts so uptight. She probably hasn’t been laid in a long time.
It’s exciting to be in the suite. I feel out of place with all these smart, rich people, but it’s still fun to be up here, seeing the game from a place of privilege.
“Hey there,” Pam says, nudging my shoulder with hers. Pam’s a physical therapist for the Crush as well as the newly minted fiancée of hockey god, Georg Kolochev. She�
�s got a celebratory glass of champagne in one hand and her phone in the other, as she takes photos of the game below. She’s probably just having her break because she’s dressed in her work attire, on call in the therapy room for players who need attention during the game.
“Hey. Congrats again to the two of you. That proposal the other night, though.”
“Go big or go home,” she says with a shrug and a mischievous grin.
“Well, you went big. And he’s probably big, so…”
Pam snorts. “Way to go for the obvious, Scarlett.”
“So, he is big, then? Asking for a friend, of course. For clinical and research purposes only.”
Pam rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue. She still looks pretty, even when she makes stupid faces. “I will not be sharing information about Georg’s big dick—umm, I mean his endowments with anyone.” She grins wickedly at first but then her expression takes on a wistful quality. I don’t need to guess what she’s thinking about right now. The big stick Georg is packing in his hockey pants.
“I want one of my own,” I whine. “You’ve got Georg. Holly’s got Evan. Where’s my muscular, hot, well-endowed, hockey-playing Prince Charming?”
“No go with the nerd boys from the bar?” she asks, referencing our bar-fly night a while back.
“Oh, geesh, no. I don’t even know why I gave them my number. They’re from, like Ohio or something, in Vegas for a tech convention. I’d have more luck on Tinder.”
“Wait, you’re not on Tinder?” Pam’s eyes go wide. “Scarlett Woods, you have truly shocked me.”
“Very funny, girlie. I had it, but it’s really just for booty calls. The dick pics got gross real fast.”
“You’re so young, I’d think you’d just want to get out there and play for now. Why the rush to find everlasting love?”
I shrug and look out at the crowd, the ice. Anything to avoid crying. “I don’t know. I just…” She’s right, I am young—in years. I don’t feel young though. I feel old and jaded from certain life experiences I never want to repeat as long as I’m on this earth.
Pam’s voice softens before she lays the big question on me. “I know you were in a relationship not too long ago, right?”
“I was…I-I don’t talk about Stephen much. He was a pro-poker player. His life was in the games. He, um, committed suicide. We think.”
“You think?”
I nod, an errant tear escaping. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “It was really weird and suspicious. But that’s pretty much the story of my life.”
“Weird and suspicious?”
“Yeah.” I take a big breath in and then let it out slowly. “Growing up in Vegas has been a wild ride.”
“You should write a book someday, my friend,” she says with a gentle smile and a quick hug. “And on that note, my break is over. See you after the game? We can talk some more if you want.”
“Maybe, yeah.” I smile and send her on her way.
After Pam is out of the suite, I look over my shoulder and see a cute guy by the buffet table and decide to do something about it. Scarlett, you’re gonna go flirt with that cute guy over there and make yourself feel better.
I am so ready to get away from thoughts of Stephen, or the need to talk about him, or his gambling, or his death. He’s the whole reason I took this job with the Crush, so I guess that’s a good thing. I like hockey a lot, and it’s been a decent, low-drama position. Exactly what I need out of a job that was meant to help me save up to pay off some debts from the past. Sucks to have obscene debts at the ripe old age of twenty-two, but that’s right where I’ve landed in the scheme of things.
As I approach the buffet, the cute guy gives me a smile. A good start. I smile back and ask, “Enjoying the series so far?”
I grab a plate as he affirms that he is enjoying the series. Turns out his name is Leo and he’s Max Terry’s son. Which means he’s rich and educated and sophisticated…and totally out of my league.
“Do you come to many games?” I ask as we nosh at a highboy table near the bar.
“No, I live in New York, so I just come for big games, or I watch when the team plays closer to home.”
“Did you watch the game last season in New York, when Evan Kazmeirowicz got hammered by Viktor Demoskev?”
“I did see that game,” he confirms. “My fiancée now refuses to watch Crush games because she hates that guy so much.”
His fiancée. He said that on purpose. Whomp, whomp. At least he’s loyal to her. That’s something at least.
“A lot of people sort of hate him. But honestly, he seems to have it together this season. The guys all get along pretty well now.” I leave out the part about being inappropriately attracted to the big Russian defenseman. One, there’s a strict no-fraternization policy for employees of the Crush and players on the team. Two, I’ve never even met Viktor Demoskev. I strictly admire from afar. I may let my mind whirl with inappropriate thoughts on occasion, but I’ve made sure to follow the rules.
“That’s good,” Leo says. “They make a formidable first line.”
I nod and decide it’s time to not make it awkward. “Well, nice meeting you, Leo. Enjoy the rest of the game.”
He nods. “You too…Rosie?”
“Scarlett.” I think I’m just gonna…go…now.
With my cheeks probably a match for my hair, I turn toward the exit, only to find Holly coming through it holding a crying baby. Her baby, of course.
“Hey Scarlett, thank God you’re here.” She looks like she could use a hand—and possibly a stiff drink.
“What can I do to help?” I’d love to have something useful to do other than feel out of place in the owner’s suite. Hobnobbing is just not in my skill set.
“Pam is working during the break between periods and I’d like to include it in the postings. Unfortunately, Dany is super fussy, so I need to change and feed her. Can you round up a photographer and get down there to do some captions and photos for social media?”
“I would love to.”
“Really?” she asks, looking relieved but still a little unsure. “I know it’s way more fun to be up here. I wouldn’t ask if…”
“No, it’s cool. I’d much rather have something useful to do.”
“You’re a lifesaver and I could kiss you right now. I think we’re at a stage when I’m going to have to get someone to watch her during games.”
“I don’t think anyone minds her being here,” I say, trying to distract the baby with a silly boo-boo face. “Max Terry sure turns into a pile of mush around her. And you, for that matter.”
She blushes. Kind of normal for her. “He’s been really sweet to us all,” she says. “Okay, so I’ll just let Sid Lane know to meet you down in the locker rooms.”
I give a thumbs-up and make my way to the door. The arena is kind of a maze, and I still get a little turned around sometimes, especially when heading to areas where I don’t spend a lot of time. The locker rooms would be included on this list. I think I’ve been in there twice. I need to go down three levels to the main level and then take a service elevator down another level. I go the wrong way off the elevator, of course, and end up walking all the way around the circle like a big dummy.
Sid Lane, team photographer, waits for me in the hallway. He’s young looking, with rosy cheeks and messy, dark hair. His eyes are bright blue. He’s cute, if a little on the scrawny side.
“Heyyyy Sid,” I greet him, batting my eyes and being purposely silly and flirtatious. “How’s life today?”
“Livin’ the dream, Scarlett.”
He always says that, by the way. He’s either hopelessly optimistic or darkly sarcastic. I can’t tell.
“We’re supposed to get therapy pics and captions for Holly’s social media?”
“That’s the marching order,” he says. “There’s a coaching review going on, but once they finish, we can go in.”
“Perfect,” I say, just as the door opens.
And wha
t do you know…
The first thing to meet my eyes is my “inappropriate attraction” stretched out on a therapy table being worked over by Pam.
I give myself a mental shake and put on my professional mask, reminding my libido I’m here to do a job. A task that absolutely does not include ogling Viktor Demoskev.
I tell myself that. I really do.
But I don’t listen very well, because I find myself wishing those were my hands on his body instead of Pam’s.
Two
Viktor
THE MAD RUSSIAN
“My fucking hamstring is tied in knots,” I growl.
“Cramp or injury?” Pamela, the blonde therapist asks.
“Cramp.”
“All right,” Dale, the trainer says. “Let’s have Pam do a deep-tissue massage and then you and I can do some stretching.”
I lie face down on the table as Pamela starts to work on my leg. “Xуесос,” I snarl. Cocksucker. That hurt. “Sorry, Pamela.”
“I’ve heard worse,” she says with a laugh. “I owe you a little bit of pain anyway, though, don’t I?”
Red Rocket: A Hockey Love Story Page 1