Sunday Snippet

 

Today's snippet is from Enforcing Emory, a hockey player/ice skater romance. Currently on sale for $1.99 for a limited time.  Purchase your copy at AMAZON

Blurb

Olympic figure skater Emory Lowe falls in lust the moment he lays eyes on his new neighbor, hockey player Nikolai Vetrov. On the surface, Nik is a typical badass enforcer, intimidating and dangerous, on and off the ice. The only son of Ukrainian immigrants, Nik has been groomed from childhood to fulfill his father’s dream of seeing him in the Hockey Hall of Fame. Igor guides his son toward that goal with a controlling—and oftentimes abusive—hand, steering him clear of anyone who might ruin his chances.

Although Emory is the US National Figure Skating champion, he’s in-your-face gay, and his audacious persona rubs Nik and his family the wrong way. Raised by supporting and loving parents, Emory is Nik’s polar opposite in every way but one—his desire to succeed. Underneath the feather boa, glitter, and makeup beats the heart of a fierce competitor, and this side of Emory’s personality begins to close the distance between the two athletes.

While the attraction is one-sided in the beginning, Nik finds himself responding to Emory’s flirting. But before the incongruous pair have a chance at any sort of relationship, they must survive the pressure of career, separation, and most importantly, Igor’s ruthless homophobia.

Snippet

Nik stomped back across the street, pissed off by that entire exchange. Noticing the murderous look on his face, everyone in the apartment stopped what they were doing and asked what happened.

“Stupid Americans,” he said in Ukrainian, instantly regretting the insult. He, of all people, should have known better, but Tom’s obvious disdain and Emory’s ridiculous assertion that he could do as well, if not better, on the ice rankled like nothing else since they’d come across the border. He was hoping things would be better now that he was a legitimate hockey player, but attitudes toward foreigners seemed to be the same in Chicago as they were in Toronto. Once he opened his mouth and they heard his accent, he became the dreaded Slavic import who’d come to take the place of some local boy who could push the puck around as well as anyone else.

There was something about Russian-block countries that seemed to push Americans over the edge of civility. He’d read his history books and knew there was an inherent lack of trust between two of the most powerful nations in the world, but that wasn’t his reality. He’d been born in 1994, a few years after the Cold War had ended, and the political doctrines pervading the world prior to his birth meant nothing to him. Yet the misconception that Eastern Europeans were a group of cold-blooded killing machines continued, a stupid notion perpetuated by spy movies.

“What did they do?” his father Igor bristled.

How could he explain that Tom hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary? He was the usual flag-waving national, judging Nikolai by his heritage without bothering to find out how his family had come to be in the West. If Tom had given him the opening, he would have told the Lowes how his father had traveled from the same small village in the Ukraine where Wayne Gretsky’s grandfather, Anton Gretsky, had lived before fleeing after World War I. The man and his grandson were a legend back home, and as much as American fathers dreamed of their boys becoming the next Babe Ruth, Igor Vetrov had worked extra hours at the power plant to buy the best ice skates he could find so his five-year-old might one day become the next “Great One.”

Nik’s formative years on the ice had been measured against Wayne’s, and any time he’d wanted to quit, Igor would rattle off the statistics, citing each and every accomplishment his idol had achieved at that age. If Gretsky could do it, so could Nikolai. He’d learned to stop using the phrase “I can’t” or “that’s impossible,” because it had been done, and very successfully Igor would add. It was a foregone conclusion that they would emigrate the moment they’d saved enough money.

Unlike his father’s idol, Nikolai hadn’t been born and bred in Canada, and the opportunities didn’t fall into place as Igor had hoped. Nik was competing with a nation of young men who learned how to skate before they could even walk. Ice hockey was the Canadian national pastime, and his young peers were every bit as good as he was. Choice spots were awarded to the local boys, and scouts were hesitant to sign on someone who’d recently planted roots. They had rinks full of potential players who didn’t have language or cultural barriers. Nik usually came up short when they were handing out key positions.

The opportunity to play for the Chicago Wolves had come just as he was seriously thinking of switching careers. He’d been taking night classes in accounting, hoping to become an independent tax consultant, and although he’d nod off in the middle of class from boredom, the idea of a steady income and a mouth full of his own teeth were very appealing. Not to mention that leaving Canada after five long years of trying to fit in wouldn’t suck.

But Igor had pounced on the offer, much as a starving bear devoured the first edible thing in its path. He convinced Nikolai that one pro team was as good as the next; he’d hone his skills, build up a reputation, and move up in the rankings so that one day a team like the five-time Stanley Cup-winning Chicago Blackhawks might notice him. Living in the same town would certainly be useful, and that was what finally convinced Nik to move. In addition, he’d get to live on his own for the first time in his life. His parents and sisters, Irina, Luba, and Mara, had come along for the long drive and would stick around until he was settled, but eventually, they planned to return to Toronto, where Igor had a job and a family to support.

His mother, Alla, never far from Igor’s side, looked at him in concern. “What did they do?” she asked, repeating her husband’s question.

In their native tongue, he gave her an edited version of the encounter with Tom and Emory.

“Did that man really tell you to stay away from his family?”

Nikolai nodded an affirmative but immediately realized he should have lied. His mother was fiercely protective of her children, especially Nikolai, her only son. She loved her three daughters unconditionally, but they didn’t have to struggle for recognition or live up to the ideal Igor had saddled on her Kolya. She’d never tolerate anyone who thought he was better than her boy.

“What’s the guy’s name?” Irina asked. She was two years younger than Nik and had taken to Western society like a duck to water. Hooked on social media, she was never far from her iPad. “Let’s google the creep.”

Nikolai snorted. Irina considered Wikipedia and Google the sources of all information, and if she couldn’t find her answer with a few keystrokes, it didn’t exist. She whistled in astonishment after she typed in Emory Lowe and hundreds of links popped up. Images of the saucy young man in every costume imaginable filled her screen, and everyone looked over her shoulders to see what was so shocking. There were photos of Emory caught leaping in the air, frozen in time as the camera captured him performing one intricate move after another. When Irina looked him up on YouTube, they watched him perform his short program at Nationals, and the room hushed as the sound of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet filled the room. Nikolai couldn’t take his eyes off the tiny screen, mesmerized by the graceful movements.

The gangly youth was artistic on the ice, a fluid nymph who appeared oblivious to the huge crowd staring down at him. He owned the performance, one minute soft and tender, the next fiercely determined to win his prize, executing the complicated number with a series of jumps, including a quad, and ending the program with an I-spin that seemed to go on forever. The applause when he stopped and posed without wavering was loud and heartfelt, and that funny grin Emory seemed to have mastered appeared through the heavy makeup. Nikolai felt something twist deep down in the pit of his stomach. Christ, the figure skater wasn’t just bragging—he was dead serious. The guy was fantastic, and Nikolai felt like a lumbering oaf comparing his skills to Emory’s immense talent.