Page 45 of A Vegas Crush Collection #2
not talking hockey
Zoya
Two weeks later.
My biology professor is a tiny, gray-haired woman with a voice that could put a person to sleep. She just drones on and on, barely taking a breath, and certainly not inviting questions or discussion about the topic at hand.
Honestly, I am not a math or science person by nature, so this would be boring even if someone really amazing was teaching.
I front-loaded the last of the tier 1 math and science I needed into this semester in hopes I could get it all out of the way and then focus on the fun stuff next semester.
Now I am almost regretting it, but c’est la vie.
In order to get through what I am sure could be classified as cruel and unusual punishment; I doodle. It’s just a loose portrait rendering of my mom, who I miss more than I expected since being in the States.
The guy sitting next to me leans over and whispers, “That’s really good.”
I turn and catch his eye. “Thanks. Just doodling.”
He’s cute, this guy, with wavy, long-ish hair that curls around the collar of his blue polo shirt. The way he grins at me makes me blush and shut my notebook, straightening up and trying to pay better attention to the class.
He pokes my notebook with his finger. “Why are you embarrassed?”
“I am not,” I say. “I should be paying better attention.”
“This woman is a fossil,” he whispers. “She must be a hundred years old and I swear she hasn’t taken one breath the entire lecture.”
I can’t help but giggle. “That is what I was just thinking.”
“See? Great minds think alike. We should be friends.”
Thankfully, class ends and I’m able to divert from the conversation as I gather my things. Still, the guy follows close on my heels. Outside, he catches up and says, “I’m Jay, by the way.”
“Zoya.” We shake hands, which I suppose is better than him ogling my breasts or something. And he is shorter than me, which is kind of a funny surprise. By at least two inches.
“Wow,” he says. “You’re taller when you’re standing up.”
Chuckling, I say, “I only stopped growing last year. My father and sister are tall, also.”
“Are your sister and father also Russian?”
One side of my mouth quirks up. “Who says I am Russian?”
“Okay. Are your sister and father also supermodels?”
“Nope, we are all just tall people with very strange accents. And yes, we are from Russia. And no, my father would never let me model past the age of ten, unless maybe for turtlenecks.”
He shrugs. “I think you’d look pretty good in a turtleneck. Or a plastic bag. Or really anything, honestly. But your dad is strict, I take it.”
I nod. “Very. It took a lot of work to get him to agree to let me come to Las Vegas for school. And only because my sister came to do her master’s in Vegas and my older brother lives here that he even considered it.”
“Well,” he says, folding his arms and appraising me, “I’m very curious to hear more, but I also have a huge need for caffeine. I think our teacher might be an energy vampire. Can I help renew your energy level as well?”
“I cannot. I have to get back to change for a post-holiday party with the Crush.”
Jay’s eyes widen. “Whoa. I’m impressed. How did you score that invite?”
“My brother plays for them.”
“Who’s your brother?”
“Georg Kolochev. On defense.”
He laughs out loud like I’ve said the funniest thing. “He’s not just on defense. Seriously? Your brother is Curious Georg?”
I roll my eyes and let out an epic sigh. “Here we go again.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I am tired of everyone going fanboy over my brother. Hockey is not that important in the grand scheme of life.”
“Uh, I beg to differ. Especially here. People are apeshit over the Crush, and every one of those first-string players...they’re like gods. You should be proud of your brother. He’s a superstar.”
“He is just my goofy brother. And I grew up around hockey, so I was really hoping to come here and not have to see hockey or talk hockey or think about hockey every minute.”
“Wrong town, wrong time, Zoya.” He shakes his head at me. “Las Vegas loves the Crush and they love hockey. And it’s about to get worse if they keep playing like total studs and win the Cup again.”
“Great. Well, then I regret to inform you that I will not be able to be friends with you, Jay from biology class. I simply cannot be friends with a person who obsesses over hockey. It is my personal principle for which I make no exceptions.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. If I promise to never talk hockey in front of you, then can you be my friend?”
I give him an amused grin. “I will consider it.”
“I even promise not to geek out if your brother comes around.”
“Do not make promises you cannot keep.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It is a maybe,” I say. “I have to go, but I will see you in class.”
After a quick shower I throw on a pair of distressed jeans and a sheer, black, sleeveless tunic. I’m working on my hair and makeup when Irina comes through the bathroom door.
“Ever hear of knocking?” I scowl at her through the mirror.
“As if you have any parts I haven’t seen before, sister,” she retorts.
“What if I had been in here with a man?”
“That is very unlikely.”
She is right, but I don’t want to admit it. Instead, I take in her outfit—ripped mom jeans and a Pussy Riot T-shirt with Doc Martens.
“That is not at all appropriate for this event.” I roll my eyes at her outfit.
“Yebat’ sebya,” my sister hisses.
“So hostile all the time,” I say, refocusing on my reflection in the mirror. My hair is long and tousled, still sun-streaked from summer. I opt for simple makeup—nude lip gloss and a little mascara and eyeliner.
“You should wear these with that outfit,” Irina says, holding up a pair of red heels. The first helpful thing she has said to me.
I grab the shoes and pull them on, then take in the full look. It feels sexy but edgy, and still appropriate. None of my body parts are on display, so my brother is unlikely to turn eight shades of red and tell me to cover up.
Satisfied that at least one of the two Kolochev sisters looks appropriate for a pro-hockey event, I shoo my sister out the door, locking up before we head out to see our brother for the first time since we all returned to the United States.