The Czar: A Standalone Hockey Billionaire Novel

by Selena Laurence

  “But now she hates me,” I tell him. “So how am I going to fix it?”

  “I just told you—some drinks, tell her she looks great, a little dry humping.”

  I stare at Dmitri for a moment. When did my life become so pathetic that I need to come to my baby brother to ask him how to…what? Date?

  I swallow nervously. “It sounds like you’re saying to take her on a date,” I say cautiously.

  “That’s sort of what the rest of us do, Mick.” His expression is full of pity.

  I mull it over in my head for a few minutes. And because he’s my brother, Dmitri just sits with me, deep in his own thoughts. Both of us comfortable with one another in a way we aren’t with anyone else on the planet.

  A date. With Solana. Drinks, maybe dinner, a kiss goodnight that might lead to an invitation inside. Some groping on the sofa that maybe leads to some nirvana in the bedroom. A date.

  And just like that I know I want it. I want to take Solana on a date. I want to flirt with her in a bar and hold her hand over a dinner table. Ask about her day at work and listen to her tell me stories about her girlfriends. I want to have that moment of hesitation as I walk her to her door—do I kiss her? Will she let me? And if we do, will it be short and sweet, or hot and overwhelming. I want to press her back against the door of her apartment and make out with her like we’re in high school.

  “You’re right,” I say, standing and looking down at my brother. “I need to take her on a date. Hell, I want to take her on a date. She’s worth it. She’s worth so much more than what I offered her. No wonder she got pissed.”

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  I clasp his hand and he rises to his feet at the same time. As he walks me to the door I can’t help but tease him. “This in no way means that you know more than me, brat. I just needed a small reminder about how to do things out here in the land without groupies. I’m still smarter and better than you in pretty much every way.”

  He punches me in the shoulder and I wince. “Hey. No violence or I’ll tell Baba.”

  “Fuck,” he responds, pulling the next punch before it comes. We’re both scared of our grandmother who raised us. It’s just a fact.

  “But let’s grab some dinner this weekend, yeah?” I say as my hand reaches for the doorknob.

  “I’m going to be out of town this weekend, but I’ll text you next week,” he answers.

  I want to ask where he’s going, but he has an odd look on his face, so I let it go. “Okay, I’ll talk to you then.”

  On the way home in the back of the car, I plan out how I’m going to get Solana to go on a date with me. And at the same time I realize that this is the happiest I’ve been in months.

  10

  Solana

  I saw Mick again tonight. He didn’t see me luckily, but now I can’t stop thinking about him. Watching him walk through the lobby from my spot in the elevator before the doors closed was like watching pure desire walk across the marble floors. It was the first time I’ve seen him in anything but casual clothes or hockey jerseys, and the dress shirt and slacks he had on fit his muscular frame perfectly. His broad shoulders, that sculpted chest. I drooled like a Rottweiler on a hot day.

  He’s a player, I know this, I experienced it firsthand. And even if he were the greatest guy on earth, he’s off limits to me. Completely. But I can’t stop my wandering libido. Those few moments when his body was so close to mine, our breath mingling, the heat in his eyes and the scent of his skin—I lost all rational thought.

  Then he had to go and open his big mouth and ruin it all.

  I flop from my left side to my right and sigh loudly into the darkness. It’s two a.m., and I haven’t slept a wink. Stupid, sexy, Russian hockey star. The Czar. Who thought up that dumb nickname anyway? I mean, really. It’s not like his family is royalty. They’re rich, yeah, but they probably came from Russian peasant stock, not the aristocracy. And yes, he sort of takes charge of a room when he walks in, but he’s not actually the boss of anyone, cause he’s pretty much unemployed.

  Hell. Who am I kidding? He’s like a force of nature no matter where he is, and he probably has more money than the British royals, so he might as well be the king of the world. In addition is the fact that while he doesn’t know it, his father is the king of my world for the foreseeable future.

  And there’s a little issue I’ve neatly avoided. Thank goodness he ended up being a jerk, now I don’t ever need to confess that tidbit. He’d probably treat me very differently if he knew I worked at his family’s company.

  My conscience rears its ugly little head to remind me that being treated differently is exactly why I didn’t tell him. “Face it,” the little bastard says, “you liked it when he came on to you. You wanted him to like you.”

  I sigh and roll back to my left side. Yeah, having The Czar’s attention was pretty heady. He’s hot, and alpha, but he’s got this unexpected tender streak, like when he charmed Ambrose. My professor’s had that cat for as long as I’ve known her. Apparently she named him for some guy she knew in college, and he’s been her constant companion during her rapid rise to super respected business professor at Loyola. What I mean is, I think he’s been her only companion. It’s made the cat pretty psycho. It must be a lot of pressure being someone’s everything.

  I shiver slightly and snuggle further under the covers.

  So, Ambrose is a pain in the ass. He’s persnickety, and mean. But Mick charmed him in seconds. And the way his voice went soft and kind. It was amazing. I’d have never thought such a big, rough guy had the capacity to be so…sweet.

  Sweet yet obnoxious, overbearing, but considerate, and so damn hot. I can picture the way his ass looked in those thin sweats as he bent over to talk to Ambrose. That sliver of skin across his back where I could see the muscles flex and shift.

  I turn onto my stomach now and punch the pillow a few times. Then I close my eyes and try to get the images out of my head. Brilliant blue eyes and all that wild, dark hair sticking out around his ballcap. And those arms. Sweet baby cheeses those arms. He has some sort of Russian letters tattooed on one bicep, and his hockey number on the other. And when those guns flex it’s all a girl can do to keep from licking them.

  Tingling heat floods my core and I grit my teeth. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep, Solana.

  Maybe I should have encouraged him? Maybe if I could have one hot, sweaty, wild encounter with The Czar it would cure me of this relentless want. I wish I could understand why he hates the family business though. It’s one of the most successful corporations in the world, and their marketing department is a goldmine of genius. I worked my ass off in grad school, but I was still really fortunate to get the position with Petrovich. It’s an amazing company, cutting edge marketing strategies and upscale, timely campaigns. And they’ve been doing it for decades.

  See, most huge corporations started off cutting edge, creative, unique. That’s what got them the attention. But as they grow, become staples in their industry, they naturally fall into a rut, doing the kinds of marketing campaigns that they know are effective, have served them well year after year, and will retain their core market share. It’s tough to be the cool kid for decades. You can see this with a certain large, fruit-related computer company right now.

  But Petrovich has managed to do what no other major beverage company in recent history has. They’ve stayed young. While that famous craft brewery with the campy graphics expanded too fast and became one in an industry of brightly labeled bottles and cutesy beer names, and the natural soda maker with the local legends on the inside of their bottle caps stagnated with hokey statistics about an island no one after Generation X has ever heard of, Petrovich made it through three decades with ten-figure revenues, surviving the fickle nature of cocktail trends—because in the liquor industry, it can be tequila one year and bourbon another. If you’re not “in” you’re out. In all honesty, Alexei Petrovich is my corporate idol.

  And right now he signs my payc
heck—well, some guy down in H.R. does, technically, but he can only do it with Mr. Petrovich’s permission—so I need to focus on him, not his sizzling, confusing son.

  Decision made, I throw one arm over my eyes, clench my thighs together and will myself to fall asleep.

  The alarm announces the beginning of my next workday a mere two hours later.

  I’m struggling to keep my mind on the research I’m doing for our Lemon Ice product line when Adrienne, my boss, rushes into my cubicle like the demons of hell are on her tail.

  “Where is the portfolio on the Olympics campaign?” she practically shrieks.

  I swivel the six inches to the shelves behind my desk. “Right here.” I pull the big binder off the shelf.

  “This has all the staff notes, but the ad mockups and other records are in the digital file.”

  “Bring your laptop then,” she commands, motioning me frantically to follow her.

  “Okay.” I fold my laptop closed and slide it off my desk, trotting to catch up with her. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Mr. Petrovich wants to see the campaign.” We get to the elevator and she presses the up button repeatedly. I quell the urge to grab her hand and hold it still for just a moment.

  Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m nervous. I saw Mr. Petrovich walking out of a conference room last week, but I’ve never met him. I sure as hell wish she’d given me a little warning. It would have been nice to make sure I don’t have lipstick on my teeth or whatever.

  “When we get there let me do the talking,” she tells me as we enter the elevator. She leans her head toward mine so the other occupants in the little metal box don’t hear. “Your job is to be as quiet as possible and bring up the right files when I ask for them.”

  I nod my understanding and try to modulate my breathing as the doors open on the building’s top floor.

  Adrienne leads me through the reception area, nodding curtly at the receptionist who waits until she’s past and then rolls her eyes at me. Guess Adrienne is as popular up here as she is down on my floor.

  We go down the hallway lined with executive offices, and wherever a door is open I see each room is bigger and more elaborate than the last. We finally stop at the doors to a conference room and Adrienne smoothes her skirt before twisting the knob and leading me in.

  The three men seated at the table rise as we walk in. I recognize Dave Briggs, the head of marketing. He greets us, and pulls out a chair for me politely. I’m introduced to the second man, Gary someone from the budgeting division, and then I turn to the CEO himself, Alexei Petrovich.

  “Alexei, this is Solana Warner, our newest junior marketing executive,” Dave says as Mr. Petrovich faces me from his seat at the head of the table.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, sir,” I say, reaching across Dave to shake Mr. Petrovich’s hand.

  “Please, call me Alexei,” he says, smiling warmly. I’m breathless for a moment, because while I didn’t see it immediately, his smile makes it so obvious—Mick is made in his father’s image, their eyes, smiles, and size nearly identical. I swallow, trying not to think about what Mr. Petrovich would do to me if he knew his son had me pinned against a kitchen counter last week.

  As we sit down, Adrienne tells me to connect the Bluetooth on my laptop to the room’s projection system, then she closes the blinds. She’s clearly nervous as she stumbles through a brief explanation of the campaign and some of the ideas and concepts we’ve come up with so far.

  “And which of these three options do you think is the best fit?” Mr. Petrovich asks when Adrienne finally pauses from her word vomit to take a breath.

  She stares at him like a deer caught in the headlights. Frozen. She’s fucking frozen in terror. We all sit, waiting, one beat, two. And nothing’s happening. I see her turning pink, and I can’t take it anymore. I know she said to keep quiet, but I can’t let her humiliate herself this way.

  “We’ve been looking at the second option as the one with the most potential,” I interject.

  Mr. Petrovich’s eyes swing to me expectantly.

  “Solana,” Dave says, “why don’t you explain the rationale behind that choice.”

  I take a deep breath and modulate my speech so I don’t rush. After a few words my heart rate slows, and I fall into the content of the project, which has honestly been my brainchild.

  “The Olympics are about heart. They’re considered the biggest challenge an athlete can undergo. The years of training, the many personal sacrifices the athletes make, the idea that you could spend your whole life preparing for this one event and then have it go poorly. It’s a gamble, a risk, and only the exceptionally committed and courageous are willing to undergo that challenge.”

  “My son was a member of the Olympic team four years ago,” Mr. Petrovich says, pride shining in his eyes.

  “Yes, so you know exactly what I’m describing.” I swear I hear Adrienne growl from across the table.

  Mr. Petrovich, however, smiles and nods for me to continue.

  “This campaign would focus on you and your family. We think that the way you’ve built this company from the ground up is the perfect analogy to what an Olympic athlete does when he trains all those years. You’ve trained for a very long time to have Petrovich in the Olympics of business, so to speak. You’ve endured economic ups and downs, you’ve sacrificed time, all sorts of personal possibilities, you’ve competed fiercely, retooling when necessary, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, but never giving up.

  I pause, watching the eyes of everyone around me. My glance at Dave tells me to keep going. His smile is small, but I can see the gleam in his eyes.

  “And low and behold, your son takes that same tenacity, that same winning spirit and brings it to the actual Olympics, to professional sports. It’s a family trait. The Petroviches are Olympic-caliber people, and this company is a gold medalist in the Olympics of life.”

  “And how do you envision this concept playing out?” Mr. Petrovich asks.

  I click on the laptop, bringing up the rough ad the art department put together based on our ideas.

  “We do a blitz of billboards and digital—a series that tells a story over the span of maybe a half dozen ads. The billboards will be placed in key locations around the Olympic venues, the digital ads will run during prime time Olympic events, on the two major channels that cover the Games.”

  Mr. Petrovich nods, so I keep going.

  “This is an example of the type of ads we’d run. The archive department was kind enough to dig up this photo of you when you attended the first International Spirits Council meeting.”

  Mr. Petrovich laughs. “Look,” he says. “All that black hair. I was a handsome devil, yes?”

  We all laugh with him. He still has most of that hair, but it’s gray now. The photo has been filtered into sepia, and shows Mr. Petrovich holding a bottle of Petrovich Black Label, laughing as he presents it to a couple whose backs are turned to the camera.

  “And images like this will be accompanied by textual history of your company and your family.”

  I click again and words filter over the photo. I read the caption out loud. “In 1982 Alexei Petrovich left the only home he’d ever known with $500 and a dream. Today Petrovich Vodka employs over 5,000 people on three continents. Because of our special initiative to support Olympic competitors, ten of our employees will represent their respective nations in the Thirty-First Olympic Games. Petrovich, Gold Medalists in the Olympics of Life.”

  A clap explodes through the air of the conference room as I finish.

  “Bravo!” Mr. Petrovich cries out. “I adore this.” He turns to Dave. “Where have you been hiding this young woman?”

  Dave smiles indulgently. “We just hired her, Alexei, you have to give us a chance to get her trained up fully. But she’s definitely going to be one of our stars.” He grins at me and I try to control my own urge to run around the room high fiving everyone.

  Mr. Petrovich stands and puts out his
hand. As I shake it he says, “I am very glad we had this chance to meet, Solana. I would like to see this campaign fully ready to present to the board in six weeks. Can you do that?”

  I nearly point out to him that it’s not like I have much of a choice, but the saner portion of my brain wins out.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Very good, but you really do need to call me Alexei. Gentlemen.” He nods at Dave and the guy from finance, then he’s gone. And it’s as if Adrienne wasn’t even in the room. I can feel the hostility radiating from her. It interferes with my high, but honestly, not that much.

  “Thank you, Solana,” Dave says. “We’ll have the team meet in a couple of days and start moving on this.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Gary the finance guy is already moving to the door, so I follow him.

  “Adrienne, if you’ve got a minute,” Dave says. I try not to cringe as I slip out the door.

  I don’t see Adrienne again the rest of the afternoon, but even if I did, I don’t think it would interrupt the party in my head. I’m on my way. After all these years, I’m finally doing what I was trained to do. I’m finally getting what I’ve always wanted, and it’s every bit as fabulous as I’ve always imagined.

  11

  Mick

  The lobby of my building has become much more interesting to me since I decided that I’m going to get Solana to go out with me. But after two weeks of hanging out here as much as I can, I still haven’t had a sighting of her. I could try to run into her on our floor, but it feels too stalkerish, lying in wait in our hallway—at least in the lobby there are other people around so she doesn’t have to be scared of me in addition to thinking I’m an asshole.

  But I’ve been trying to pull it together so that I can make a good impression when I do track her down. I’m proud to say that I finally let the cleaning lady back in after several months yesterday, and she’s scrubbed my place from top to bottom and washed every stitch of clothing I own. I even got a haircut, and Deke hasn’t bitched about how I smell in days. It’s an improvement, right?