Anton
A Chicago Blaze Romance
Brenda Rothert
Silver Sky Publishing, Inc.
Copyright © 2019 by Brenda Rothert
All rights reserved.
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 in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Juicy Rebound
Also by Brenda Rothert
Chapter One
“Whas’ good here, doll? Sides you, a course.” A drunken customer leers at my tits as he slurs his words.
“The water’s delicious,” I respond.
He cackles and leans over the bar. “Gimme ‘nother Mich Ultra.”
“Another pussy beer, comin’ up.” I grin at him.
He lowers his brows. “What’d you say?”
“I said coming right up.”
“Mia, I need that mojito!” yells Lana, a waitress at Lucky Seven, the bar I’m tending singlehandedly on a busy Friday night.
I ignore her and get the Mich Ultra. I always serve my customers first, because they’re tipping me, not their waitress. Lana’s a bitch, anyway, and mojitos take forever to make.
After filling two more orders, I start the mojito. I’m crushing the mint when a loud wave of laughter pours into the already loud bar, bringing with it a burst of chilly November air as the door is held open for a dozen women to walk in.
It’s a bachelorette party, the bride decked out in a crown of bows and a hot pink boa. I can’t help smiling at the look of absolute joy on her face. It reminds me of the way I felt before my own wedding eight years ago. Little did I know then what I huge mistake I was about to make.
A fresh-faced woman from the party approaches the bar and asks for ten shots of Fireball. When she reaches into her purse, I stop her.
“First round’s free for bachelorette parties,” I say.
“Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
“Oh my God, that’s so nice!”
I just smile because I can’t tell her the real reason the owner of the bar, Janice, gives the first round free to bachelorette parties. Janice was the seventh wife of Mike McGill, an obnoxious dick who owned a sports bar in the south side of Chicago called The Penalty Box. I never knew him, but from what I’ve heard, he regularly beat the shit out of her. When he dropped dead of a heart attack, Janice burned all his prized sports memorabilia and renamed the bar Lucky Seven. Janice says the least she can do for a woman about to get shackled to a man is give her a free drink. Can’t say I disagree.
“Hey, can I get some service?” a woman yells from the end of the bar.
I look up and then walk in the other direction to help someone else, because fuck her. Janice told me on my first day here eight months ago that she wanted me to be salty. Pushover bartenders lose her money, she said. And again—works for me. Nothing turns my stomach like letting someone walk all over me. My husband has done enough of that to leave me feeling ground into the dirt.
As soon as two people get up from their seats at the bar, a tall man in a suit grabs the back of one and pulls it out. A pretty brunette slides onto the seat and he hangs her coat on the back of her chair before sitting down himself.
“What can I get you guys?” I ask them.
“What would you like, babe?” he asks her, his eyes warm.
As she thinks about what she wants to order, I look at them both during the few seconds of silence. He’s handsome—clean-shaven with short blond hair and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. She sits close to him, her dark hair over one shoulder.
“I’ll have a margarita, please,” she says. “On the rocks.”
“Guinness for me,” the man says.
I nod and as I’m turning to fill the order, she leans over to kiss his cheek. They seem so happy. He seems thoughtful. I’m guessing they haven’t been together very long.
I’m working from 6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. tonight. At ten o’clock on the dot, Janice comes out from her office in the back and joins me behind the bar.
“Take a break,” she says, pulling up the sleeves of her shirt.
“You sure? I’m slammed.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Damn, girl.” A male voice says from the other side of the bar. “You’re like a fresh Oreo cookie, ain’t ya? Double stuffed.” He eyes my tits and grins.
Being biracial, I’ve heard all types of words meant to denote my skin tone, even if in this case he’s commenting about my breasts more so than my mixed skin tone—a combination of black and white.
I’m damn proud of my heritage though and as I’m about to tell him to fuck off, my boss beats me to it.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Janice demands, eyes narrowed. “Get your ass out of my bar!”
He draws back, shocked by her reaction. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”
“Well then you shouldn’t have opened your redneck mouth! You’ve got ten seconds to move your ass before I grab my shotgun.”
His mouth drops open and he takes off. Janice shakes her head.
“Prick,” she mutters.
I know better than to thank her. I have before, and she silenced me with a sharp comment every time.
“Sure you want me on break?” I say instead.
“You already wasted your first minute standing here.” She glares at me and then takes an order from one of the waitresses.
I walk back to the supply room where employees take their breaks. The wood-paneled walls are lined with cases of alcohol, but there’s a space carved out for a small table with three chairs around it. Janice’s late husband didn’t allow breaks, and that was one of her first rule changes when she took over.
My green canvas backpack hangs from a hook on the wall, my worn, wool winter coat over it. I fish through the bag until I find my macroeconomics textbook and the Ziploc baggie with a peanut butter sandwich inside.
I’ve got fifteen minutes to read up on how interest rates affect the economy. It’s not remotely interesting, but I have a test tomorrow. I’m twenty-nine, but it’s nights like this I feel nineteen again, holed up in my dorm room studying while others are partying.
If I could go back, I’d do things much differently. But like my grandma always said, life only has one gear—drive, so I keep moving forward, the only way I can go.
Chapter Two
Anton
My brother’s a fucking asshole. I’ve known this since I first learned how to walk thirty years ago. My mom loves to tell the story about me taking my first tentative steps across our tiny Saint Petersburg apartment, my lips pursed in concentration. That is, until my twin brother Alexei crawled up behind me like a bat out of hell, laughing as he upended me and I fell on my ass.
“How’s that water?” He grins obnoxiously at me from across the table at our favorite Chicago steakhouse, his first glass of Heinek
en nearly gone already.
“Water’s water,” I say, shrugging. “How’s your liver?”
“My liver’s a fucking champ. It’s scrappy. If there was a Hunger Games for livers, mine would definitely be the winner.”
“You think?”
He arches his brows. “You only live once, man.”
Our server ends the conversation as he approaches with our dinner. Even though I devoured a salad already, my stomach growls as the plate with double portions of grilled chicken and steamed vegetables is set in front of me.
Alexei looks just as famished as he eyes his sixteen-ounce filet mignon and an enormous baked potato loaded with butter and sour cream.
“Another Heineken, sir?” the server asks him.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I’ll bring more bread, too.” The server picks up the basket Alexei emptied, slathering each piece with butter as I ate my salad. “Anything else I can get you?”
“I think we’re good, thanks,” I say.
We both eat in silence for a couple minutes, until my brother sets down his fork and gives me a stern look.
“You do realize I had the game tonight, right? If Lenz hadn’t been fucking asleep in front of the net, we’d have won. Easily.”
“Here we go.” I roll my eyes.
“Don’t start that shit, Anton. You know I’m right.”
“I know you lost.”
“Lenz practically escorted you to the inside of our net, man.”
“4–2.” I remind him of the score. “A decisive win, I’d say.”
“We’ll have a new goalie by Monday, guaranteed.”
“We smoked you, Lex. The big talking Comets got shut down.”
He glares at me as he puts a giant bite of steak into his mouth and chews it slowly. This is his old trick for thinking of a comeback when he’s got nothing.
My brother and I played on the same team from the time we immigrated to the US from Russia at age five until we both graduated from Boston College, where we played hockey on athletic scholarships. My full-time job in college, in addition to playing hockey and studying for class, was keeping my hard-partying brother out of trouble so he wouldn’t lose his scholarship.
After college, we entered the NHL draft and signed with different teams. There’s only room for one Petrov brother on an NHL team, because while our personalities are like night and day, we’re very much the same on the ice. We’re both first line centers who fight hard and never quit. Both team captains who accept nothing less than one hundred percent. And we’re also both stubborn as hell.
Alexei started out playing for Minneapolis, but now he’s with the Austin Comets and I’m with the Chicago Blaze. No one gives me more shit than my brother, but no one loves me more either. I know for sure he’d walk through fire for me, and I’d do the same for him. Dinner at Robertson’s Steakhouse is our tradition after every game we play against each other in Chicago, no matter how pissed off or beat down the loser feels.
“You could pick up some speed if you cleaned up your diet and quit drinking so much,” I say.
Alexei scoffs. “Which of us is leading the league in goals scored? It ain’t you, fucker.”
My brother was born with a natural talent for the game of hockey. When our parents sent us to Detroit at age five to live and train with a top youth ice hockey coach, Martin Carr, Alexei took to it right away. He was skating circles around me within the first week. The stick seemed like a natural extension of his arm, doing exactly what he wanted right when he wanted.
Training was mandatory six mornings a week, Monday through Saturday. And every Sunday morning, while my brother slept in and watched cartoons, I trained anyway. I had to bust my ass to master every skill, practicing harder and harnessing my frustration over falling short to Alexei.
The tide turned in high school, when my dedication in the weight room helped me become faster than my brother. We competed like never before over the first line center position on our team, him constantly bitching to me about actually having to train for once. The position went back and forth between us all four years, our coach thrilled at the good fortune of never having to ask us to work our asses off.
Hard work is in our blood. It’s the Russian in us. Our childhood there wasn’t easy, but it toughened us both up.
“Why settle for less than your best?” I ask Alexei.
It’s a familiar refrain. I’ve never been able to hide my frustration over my brother’s lackadaisical attitude. He drinks like he has a hollow leg and eats like a death row inmate every day.
“Fuck off, Anton,” he says. “You won. Enjoy it and quit bitching at me like a mother hen. And again,” he points at his chest, “leading the league in goals scored.”
I point at myself. “Highest paid.”
My twin turns his finger and points it at me. “Biggest asshole.”
“Biggest dick, too.” I look down at my crotch and grin. “Literally.”
He snorts. “Yeah, but is it doing you much good, Father Anton?”
I shake my head at his use of my teammates’ nickname for me. Not sure why they’re all so fixated on my sex life. Or lack thereof.
“I’m in a dry spell,” I admit.
“By choice. You can get ass anytime you want.”
“So why does it matter whether I want to?”
Alexei shrugs and lifts his empty glass, signaling to the server for another beer. “Why wouldn’t a man want to get laid? You having trouble getting it up?”
“Hell no.” I glare at him.
“Well then…?”
“Back off.”
I look from side to side, tense about our conversation being overheard. I get plenty of shit from my teammates over not being with a woman in so long; I sure as hell don’t need other people hearing about it.
Alexei looks amused as he speaks to me in a low tone. “This is the most private table in the place, Annie.”
“Don’t call me that, shithead. I’ll beat your ass.”
He puts up his hands, conceding. “Fine. Sorry. And look, it’s not the sex itself I’m wondering about. It’s the why. Knox told me you haven’t been with anyone in more than a year. What’s going on with you?”
I make a mental note to tell that second line center to fuck off. “Knox needs to shut his trap.”
“Are you with someone?” Alexei’s amusement seems to grow. “Look, I know I talk a lot of shit about commitment, but man, you are tailor made for it. If you’re in a relationship, you don’t need to hide it from me.”
“Christ, you’re a narcissist. Not everything is about you.”
“Well then…? This conversation is starting to feel like asking a woman where she wants to get dinner. Will you just answer the fucking question?”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
My brother scoffs with annoyance. “That doesn’t work with me, prick. We tell each other everything. I even told you about that rash I got on my junk after I went scuba diving.”
“Yeah, and I’m so glad you did.” I roll my eyes.
“Just spill it, asshole.”
I get a brief respite when the server brings a fresh beer for Alexei and fills up my water. But as soon as he leaves, Alexei’s expectant expression returns.
“Look, I don’t want you telling Knox or—”
He turns serious. “I’d never tell anyone. You know that.”
I nod. I do know that. And while my brother and I keep in close contact by phone and text, this dinner is a rare chance for us to catch up on stuff that matters in person. The staff at Robertson’s always saves us this back corner table, where no one approaches for autographs or eavesdrops on our conversations.
“There’s someone I’m interested in,” I admit.
Alexei brightens. “Good. What’s the issue, then? It’s not like you’re shy.”
“It’s complicated.” I take my time eating a bite of chicken, trying to figure out how to placate him without actually saying too much.
�
��Don’t give me that bullshit. Spell it out. What’s complicated about it? Is she underage? In prison? Actually a man?”
“Jesus, Alexei. She’s married, okay? Now will you drop it?”
His easygoing demeanor fades as his smile flattens and his brows drop down, giving me a seriously disappointed look. “You’re seeing a married woman?”
“No. I wouldn’t do that. You think I’d do that?” I scowl at him.
He shrugs. “Well, from what you said…”
I lean my elbows on the table. “Look. She’s off limits. But that doesn’t stop the way I feel about her. God knows I’ve tried everything I can think of to get past it. But it doesn’t even matter because she doesn’t know how I feel. No one knows but me, and now you.”
“So you just…?”
“I just…focus on other things.”
Alexei’s expression is so confounded it’d be comical if I wasn’t wound so tight right now.
“Okay,” he finally says, clearing his throat. “I can help with this. You need to fuck this woman out of your system.”
I shake my head and then drop it into my hands. “I don’t need your help.”
“Just hear me out. I caught feelings for a woman a few years ago and this is how I got rid of ‘em.”
I glare at him. “Because feelings are such a bad thing?”
“We’re only thirty-one, man. I’m not even considering settling down ‘til I’m forty.”
“You’re like an overgrown frat boy. I’ve been over mindless fucking for a while now.”
For two years and seven months, actually, but I’m not telling him that. From the first time I laid eyes on Mia Marceau, nothing’s been the same for me. For the first few months, the guilt alone made me try hard to find another woman I could fall for.
Anton Page 1
