Page 75 of A Vegas Crush Collection #2

drunk texting

Tyler

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 asks. “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 has 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.