Page 41 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

six christmas cookies

Mikhail

“It’s pretty, right?” my mom, Maria, asks as I’m sprawled out on the huge living room sectional, taking in the sight of the Christmas tree we just decorated together.

The white lights sparkle against the ornaments our family has collected over the past couple of decades.

My mom loves Christmas. She collects Santa figurines, nutcrackers, and every other kind of Christmas decoration you can find.

The day after Thanksgiving, every year, she pulls boxes and boxes of the stuff out of the basement crawl space, carefully unwrapping each and every item, and placing it strategically around the house.

It’s like Santa’s workshop, seriously. A Christmas wonderland.

We save the Christmas tree for two weeks before Christmas, though, because she insists on cutting our own.

She doesn’t want pine needles all over the place, so fourteen days before the holiday, we go to the tree farm and pick one out together.

Usually, my sisters join us, but this year, it was just my mom and me.

“When are Iliana and Daniella coming home?”

“Iliana won’t come until Christmas Eve,” Mom says, a note of distaste in her tone. “Her new job doesn’t offer much time off, apparently.”

“Well, she’s kind of low on seniority, so…” I shrug. My baby sister Iliana has a job at a big advertising agency in New York, and she works crazy hours, but she seems to like it.

“Daniella comes tomorrow,” Mom says of my older sister.

“With Roman?” I ask hopefully.

“Roman is with his father for Christmas this year,” she answers, with that same note of disapproval in her voice.

My sister’s baby daddy is on the He Who Shall Not Be Named list. They were engaged for a year before Daniella got pregnant, and then the moron bolted.

He came back around after my nephew, Roman, was born, but my mom is never gonna forgive the fucker for bailing on my sister.

As she shouldn’t. Mom is silently badass in a way that needs no interpretation.

“Bummer,” is all I say in response.

“You know what else is a bummer?” she asks, adjusting an angel in the display on an end table.

“What?”

“The fact that you play for a team that’s all the way across the country. When will you transfer to Detroit?”

This makes me chuckle. “Um, never? I mean, it doesn’t work like that with trades. And besides, Detroit suuuucks big time. The Crush keep winning. Why would I want to get traded from an awesome team to a bad one?”

“Because you would be closer to your mama, of course,” she says, grinning.

Frankly, the only reason I would ever even consider moving back to Detroit is for my mom. I have no desire to come home. I’m just fine with the two thousand miles between me and my hometown.

“Well, last I checked, you guys retired. Come out to Vegas more often. Come see a few games. We play like a million of ’em.”

“I’d like to come out more. But it depends on Jozem. His schedule is more detailed than mine.”

“What’s he got going on? He hasn’t worked for the past fifteen years.”

My mom laughs and smacks me on the arm like I’ve told a funny joke. “He’s still so in demand, Mikhail. He does a lot of speaking events and hockey clinics and camps.”

“In demand, huh?” I roll my eyes, earning an elbow to the ribs. “Okay, whatever. The Great Zelenka is in high demand. Too busy to come out and watch his son play pro hockey.”

It comes out more bitter than I mean it to, and honestly, I am a little bitter about it, but whatever. We don’t question The Great Zelenka. He does what he wants, what he thinks is worth his time. He’s hockey-frickin’-royalty, and I, most definitely, am not.

“Don’t pout, Mikhail. You’re too handsome for that.”

“I’m not pouting.” I say the words far too quickly. “It’s whatever…”

She sighs, then changes the subject. “Anyone special in your life these days?”

“Oh boy,” I say, mirroring her exasperated sigh.

“It’s a serious question. I want to see you settle down, meet someone special.”

“Mom, I just turned twenty-six. Please stop trying to marry me off already.”

“Well, Iliana is so focused on work, and Daniella is…well, you know about Daniella.”

I can’t help laughing. This is how my mom handles any conversation about my older sister.

“You know about Daniella” is code for “your sister done messed up her life by having a baby out of wedlock with an idiot.” My mom is a devout Catholic woman, and the fact that my sister is twenty-eight, single, and had a baby with a man she did not marry is like too much for her to verbalize.

She loves my sister, and she loves Roman to the ends of the earth, but she also loves her Catholic faith.

“What do either of my sisters’ life choices have to do with my love life?” I try my best to change the subject.

“So you have a love life?” The expression on her face is open and genuinely hopeful.

“Not the kind I think you want for me,” I say with a laugh.

“Oh, Mikhail,” she says, her lips pursed. “I hope you’re being careful.”

This sets me into a fit of laughter and also gets me smacked on the arm again. My mom tells me to be serious. That she’s serious. I finally have to ask, “Why do you want me to have a girlfriend so bad?”

“A wife, Mikhail. I want you to find a wife, and maybe someday give me grandchildren. And I can help with them because you’ll get traded to Detroit and you’ll move back home.”

“By home, I assume you mean, like, nearby. Not, like, actually, home. To this house. With my fictional wife and children.”

“Why not? We have so much space and you players travel so much…your wife would need help with the babies.”

I roll my eyes for the second time in a few minutes. “Ma.”

“You know, I’m going to have you do a chore for every time you roll your eyes at me, young man.”

“Ma,” I repeat, “no grown man comes home to live in the same house after he’s married, unless he’s a broke loser. And I’m not broke. I have plenty of money.”

“Okay, but you haven’t really answered me. You haven’t met anyone out there in Las Vegas? Are you even dating at all?”

I lay my head back against the couch and let out a sigh, lifting a shoulder. “I did meet someone back in the summer. She was fun and funny, and I liked her, but she dumped me.”

“Why would she ever dump someone like you?” My mom’s look of shock and disbelief is slightly comforting.

“Well, apparently, for her, the relationship was purely physical,” I say thoughtfully. “I wasn’t in on that, though, so I thought we were, like, an actual couple. Silly me.”

I rub my fingertips against my chest absently.

Gia was a fling, I get that now, but I did like her.

She’s probably the only woman who I’ve let in enough to break my heart.

Not sure I’m in a hurry to do that again.

“I went over a week or so ago with a Christmas present and she looked at it like it was an alien with seven heads. She told me she didn’t think we were on the same page about where the relationship was heading. ”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry,” she says softly. “You thought it was getting serious?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself there, Ma.” I nudge my shoulder against hers. “Not serious. But definitely…something. And she wasn’t into it. Which is fine. I’m okay being single for a while.”

“Were you in love with her?”

“Meh. Who knows? It’s over now.”

She leaves it at that, thankfully. We turn on the television and watch some mindless talent show, my mind still on Gia.

It was meant to be a fun thing. A summer fling.

A distraction during a boring summer. And it was that, for a while.

The sex was great. She was funny and wild and had a mouth like a sailor.

I definitely cared for her—obviously more than she cared for me.

But love? Nah. I don’t think so. And marriage?

Having watched my parents bicker for decades, why would I want that?

Mom is far too kind for someone as cruel as my father, and I can’t help but wonder if I’d become more like him as I age.

Why would I want to put a woman I love through that?

I’m deep in thought when my father comes back from whatever important event he had to attend tonight.

He’s in a dark suit, tall and broad shouldered, and still in great shape for a guy about to turn fifty-seven.

He’s got dark hair like me, slightly wavy and thick, just a few distinguished gray hairs at his temples.

In comparison, my mom is on the shorter side.

She’s always been soft and curvy, her hair also dark, her face expressive and beautiful.

My dad’s face gives away nothing but annoyance and disappointment.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him smile.

I sure can’t remember it if and when he did.

Ever dutiful, my mom jumps up as he storms in, asking if he’s hungry, reminding him she’s got a casserole to heat up for him.

His eyes find me from where I’m sprawled out lazily on the sofa and narrow. “Did you eat casserole tonight?”

“Yeah, it’s what Mom made,” I say with a shrug. Is this a trick question?

“Have you been to the gym today?”

“Nope.”

“What else have you eaten today?”

“Six Christmas cookies. A bowl of chili. Mom’s casserole.”

“That is not healthy. And you didn’t work out?”

“Dad, I’ve been on a healthy diet since summer. I’m cheating a bit now, it’s the holidays. The team has us on nutrition plans and workout plans, and I’m on vacation this week. It’s no big deal.”

My father shoves his hands in his pockets, his back ramrod straight. He never, ever relaxes. “When you get back, will you continue to allow Boris and Evan to have all the goals?” Oh, for fuck’s sake. This. Again.

“Dad, I make plenty of goals. And by the way, I’ve been a starter at left wing since I was a rookie. At nineteen. And we’ve won the Cup twice since I’ve been there. I’m doing fine.”

“Fine is not good enough,” he says harshly. “You know this.”

We stare at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds before he decides he’s either made his point or won the nonexistent argument he thinks we’re having, or whatever.

I’ve learned not to engage in these one-sided, futile conversations.

Finally, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving me alone with a twinkling Christmas tree with a zillion decorations and some dumbass show on the television.