The Czar: A Standalone Hockey Billionaire Novel

by Selena Laurence

  “Cheers. Or thank you. I’m not sure, but it involves vodka somehow. Anyway, I don’t think you’re going to get fired, and I also don’t think that you need to be so afraid of having a relationship.”

  I snort in derision. This is where my almost sister and I part ways, because Marissa has a family—a whole family—and they love her and they’ve always been there when she needed them. My mom was a good mother, but she was all alone. She worked a lot, she was tired, she didn’t like Chicago, the city that’s been everything to me for as long as I can remember. My mother viewed raising me as putting in her time, and the minute I turned eighteen she was out the door and halfway to the coast.

  “I’m not afraid of having a relationship, I’m afraid of getting left, because that’s what people do in my world. I know you don’t get it, but you can’t deny it’s true.”

  Marissa doesn’t answer for a moment, then when she does, her voice is soft and I want to stuff my fingers in my ears and hum like a three year old so I don’t have to hear all that pity.

  “Prima. Te amamos. You know this. Family isn’t only your parents, and it’s not only people who are in the same city as you. Tia Kristina loves you, she just wanted something that Chicago couldn’t give her. Yeah, your dad left, but the rest of us are still here for you, even if that means a plane ride from Florida.”

  This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation, and it probably won’t be the last, but it never leads to a solution, because she can’t understand what I do—people can, and often do, leave. I can’t afford to have Marissa leave though, so I back down.

  “I know. I still don’t think going on a date with Mick Petrovich is a good idea, but I already said yes, so I guess I’m stuck.”

  “Way to be positive.” She laughs. “But I’m proud of you for trying, and if nothing else, get a good meal out of him, and an orgasm if you can.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I laugh. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Good. Oh, shit. Here comes my boss. She’s been ranting about the heat in the shop all day. It’s fifty-five degrees in here now, but she’s still hot. I have to go bring her a Frappuccino before she breaks out in a sweat. See you later!”

  And with that Marissa’s gone, and I’m left with all my doubts, my conflicting feelings, and four hundred more envelopes to stuff before five o’clock.

  17

  Mick

  Friday night my girls have their first game. I’ve taken to calling them my girls and Deke thinks we should name the team Mick’s Girls. One of the girls suggested The Czarinas. I quashed both of those ideas fast.

  The thing is, I’m the coach, and you don’t name a team after the coach. It needs to be something that the girls relate to. We haven’t found that something yet, so this week we’re listed as “Southside CC U14.”

  I’m nervous as we tromp down the hallway to the ice. The press hasn’t gotten ahold of the news that I’m coaching the team yet, but I’m afraid that once people see me here tonight it’ll be everywhere and these poor kids will never get a break again. I don’t want them to have to face all sorts of scrutiny and criticism if they lose or play badly. Everyone is going to have all of these expectations because I’m coaching them, and it’s not fair to the girls. So, I flip my ball cap around, brim front, and try to enter the bench as inconspicuously as possible.

  “Coach?” one of my forwards stops me before I can sit down.

  “Yeah, Linley?” Linley is a tiny little thing with red hair and freckles all over her nose, she’s fast as a bullet, and has a hard shot, only problem is that her aim is shit.

  “Is it true that we have to wear chest plates under our jerseys?”

  Wait. What? “I don’t even know what a chest plate is, Linley.”

  “You know? Like the gladiators wore? Jessica heard from her cousin on the other team that we had to so that the boys wouldn’t accidently touch…” she blushes furiously, “well, you know.”

  No, I don’t. But if I stop and think about it, things clarify. “Oh, hell no. No, you do not have to wear chest plates. Which kid said this?” I push up on my toes to look at the other bench, wondering which one of those squirrely boys has been saying crap to my team.

  “It’s not a kid,” she tells me as she points. “It’s the coach.”

  Ok. Fuck being inconspicuous. The Czar is in the house.

  Deke follows me as I make my way over to the opposing team’s bench. In the center of a knot of thirteen-year-old boys is a ruddy-complexioned blonde kid about twenty-one. He has that extra layer of pudge that tells me he drinks like a frat boy. He probably played high school hockey and now this is the closest he can get to a rink.

  He hasn’t noticed me, so I slow as I get nearer and listen in on what he’s saying to his players.

  “I’m telling you guys, I don’t care how good their record is, it’s a bunch of girls. You’re not going to lose to a bunch of girls, right?”

  The boys all start to cheer and whoop.

  “What the fuck?” Deke mutters behind me.

  We stop at the gate into the bench area, and I clear my throat loudly. The coach of the year looks up as all his kids turn around.

  “Dude!” Several of the boys call out in awe. “That’s The Czar!”

  The coach’s eyes get bigger than I thought possible, and he nudges his kids aside as he comes to the gate and sticks out his hand.

  “Wow, the Czar! Fucking awesome!” He puts his hand out and I look at it for a moment then shrug.

  “You always talk that way in front of your players?” I ask.

  He looks confused for a moment, then the lightbulb goes on. “Oh! No, man, no. It was just such a surprise. I didn’t know they were going to have Norsemen players here. You doing some kind of charity thing or what?”

  I ignore the question and look around him at the boys who are all standing elbowing each other, watching me with big eyes.

  “Hey, guys,” I say. “You ready to play hard today?”

  They all nod in unison. “We’re going to kick their butts,” says a little shit with shaggy brown hair.

  “Yeah? How do you know that?” I ask.

  “Cause we’re playing a bunch of girls,” another boy states as the rest of them jostle him and voice their agreement.

  I nod, my eyes narrow. “Huh. That’s funny, because when I was talking to my team earlier—” I point behind me to where my team is waiting on our bench, “they said the same thing except they said they were going to beat your butts because you’re a bunch of boys.”

  “You’re their coach?” I hear several of them gasp in awe.

  I turn and look at Coach Wonderboy, one eyebrow raised, “I am, and I told them that whether someone is a girl or a boy has nothing to do with being a winner.”

  Wonderboy swallows as his face flushes.

  “Winners are the players who know you never underestimate your opponent, even if they have the losing-est record in the league, because every game is a fresh start, and the winners are the players who work the hardest and have the most heart.”

  The boys look chagrined, the man-child coach is ready to explode from the humiliation. “Have a good game, coach,” I tell him before turning and walking back to my team.

  My girls beat them 4-2. I think I like coaching.

  After the game I text Solana.

  Me: We won! The girls beat a bunch of little jerks from Highland Park 4-2.

  Solana: Congratulations! Did you tell them they did well?

  Me: Yes, and I also bought them ice cream. My experience is that ice cream works on women of all ages.

  Solana: True. Combine it with wine for older women and you’re golden.

  Me: I’ll keep that in mind. Don’t forget I’m picking you up at eight tomorrow.

  Solana: I’ll be ready.

  Me: You’re killing me here, Solnishka.

  Solana: Get your mind out of the gutter.

  Me: Just promise me you’ll wear those heels you had on the other day w
hen you got home from work.

  Solana: Why?

  Me: I have plans for them.

  Solana: Good night, Mick.

  Me: Sweet dreams, Sunshine.

  By the time Saturday night arrives I’ve got everything ready and, honestly, I’m a touch nervous. I haven’t cared about impressing a woman in a very long time. It’s a foreign sensation, but I’m not completely opposed to it.

  At eight I knock on Solana’s door. I hear her talking to Ambrose as she answers.

  “Auntie Sol is going out. If you promise to be a good boy I’ll give you some of your tuna treats when I get home.”

  The door swings open and I’m speechless for a few seconds.

  “You look absolutely gorgeous,” I tell her as my eyes rake over the flimsy sundress she has on. The skirt flows softly around her legs, stopping above her knees, and the top has a deep V that shows off her cleavage and I’m betting can be undone by the one tie around her neck.

  My gaze travels down to the bright red stilettos on her feet. The pair I noticed the other day with her work clothes. Somehow with that dress, they’re even hotter than I remember.

  She smiles at me, her cheeks pink, her blonde hair up in some sort of messy thing on top of her head. I’ll never know how women get all that hair to stay that way, but they must know how much it makes men want to test it. Give it a tug to see if it all comes tumbling down.

  “You realize that dress is going to make it impossible for me to think tonight?”

  She laughs. “Well, that was my evil intention when I put it on.”

  I don’t doubt it. The woman knows her power, and isn’t afraid to use it.

  “Sounds like you and Ambrose are getting along better,” I say as she gestures me inside.

  “He hasn’t peed on any of my shoes in a week,” she says, grabbing a purse off the kitchen counter. “Maybe he does feel better since you’ve spent some time with him during the day, although I’d like to think he’s finally accepted he’s stuck with me and he wants to get fed.”

  “When does your professor get back?”

  I give Ambrose a scratch on the head and we both move toward the door.

  “It looks like she’s going to be gone all summer. Since she wasn’t teaching any classes until fall it’s great timing for her, and her mom is going through cancer treatment.”

  I nod and usher her out of the apartment.

  “So, you ready for our date?” I ask.

  “Make it good, hockey star,” she answers.

  “I always make it good.”

  I know when I lead her up the stairs of the building that she’s confused, and doubting me. But then I open the door to the rooftop deck and her eyes grow almost as big as her smile.

  “Oh, Mick!” she cries, putting her hands over her mouth in surprise. She stands, taking it all in, and I relax for the first time in several hours. I think I did good.

  I put my hands on her bare shoulders, and breathe in her sweet scent. A touch of lavender and vanilla, along with something that’s just her.

  “You like it?” I ask softly. “I was afraid you might be disappointed we weren’t going out someplace glittery.”

  She turns in my arms and gazes up at me. “It’s perfect,” she answers, her voice even more quiet than mine. “It’s glittery right here. Perfectly glittery.”

  My heart clutches inside my chest at the look in her eyes, the sweet lift to her lips, the pink in her cheeks. I can’t help myself. I bend my head and tenderly touch my lips to hers for just a moment. She’s like warm honey and I have to remind myself not to act like a rutting pig and take her right there on the asphalt of the rooftop.

  “Come on,” I say as I hold her hand and lead her toward our table. “Let me show you everything.”

  18

  Solana

  I feel like I’ve walked into a fairyland. Somehow Mick has managed to turn the rooftop into some sort of candlelit playground. There’s the standard table and chairs with covered dishes of food, but that’s where the similarity to the movie-perfect rooftop setup ends. The entire roof is covered in huge balloons that are drifting around in the light breeze. The parapet is high enough that they don’t go sailing off, but you have to kick them aside to walk around.

  And speaking of the parapet, there are candles in glass holders on the entire length of it on both sides of this half of the roof. They’re not all uniform sizes, so some are tall and narrow, and others short and squat. It makes the whole area blaze with warm twinkling light.

  Surrounding the table are all kinds of things, and I wonder where he found the time and how he came up with the ideas for this grown up amusement park. To the far right is a tent that’s like a giant tee-pee. When I walk closer to inspect it I find it’s filled with soft pillows and comforters, along with a big screen TV for showing movies. I look first at the bed, then at Mick, my eyebrows raised.

  “For watching a movie later,” he’s quick to point out. “Really. No assumptions. No pressure.”

  I can’t help but smile to myself. Given the way our last date was going he’s not making too much of an assumption. I don’t really have a policy about when I’ll sleep with a guy, and in all honesty, I haven’t slept with that many. I’ve been too busy with school and internships to spend a lot of time on relationships which is why I only had the one serious boyfriend—Sam. But I know the decision of whether or not to sleep with Mick is going to be a hard one—no pun intended. I want him like no one else I can ever remember, but he can also do more damage to the thing I care about most in this world than anyone I’ve ever known. The idea of losing my job and career because of him is terrifying. It’s the war to end all wars between my body and my mind.

  “And in case you get cold…” Mick guides me to a Jacuzzi that I’m willing to bet wasn’t here yesterday. “Hundred and two degrees,” he says. “The perfect temperature.”

  Next on the tour is an area that has been divided into sections by white paint. There is an area about six feet square and then a different section rectangular in shape facing it. Inside the square section is a collection of funny little wooden blocks, shaped like cylinders.

  “Gorodki,” Mick says, standing behind me just a touch too close.

  I turn and realize he’s more than just a touch too close, but I don’t step away, because no matter how much I think I should, I can’t make myself do it. He smiles down at me and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “It’s a Russian version of bowling. I’ll teach it to you after dinner.”

  “I’m a terrible bowler,” I warn. “I’m so afraid I’m going to get my fingers stuck in the ball that I end up dropping it too soon and half the time it winds up in the gutter.”

  He chuckles, and I take a deep breath, inhaling the clean, scent of citrus and soap.

  “There’s no ball in Gorodki. You throw a wooden stick instead. You’ll be great, I promise.”

  “I can’t believe you did all of this,” I tell him. “It’s only our second date. I can’t imagine what you’d do for an actual girlfriend on Valentine’s Day.”

  He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “I’ve never had a girlfriend on Valentine’s Day and I’ve got nothing but time right now, Solnishka. If I can spend my day doing something that will make you happy, why not?”

  “You make it hard,” I say.

  “I think that’s my line.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me and I can’t help but laugh. “But what do I make hard? Elaborate to your heart’s content.” He takes my hand and walks me toward the table.

  “I’m trying not to get distracted by you. I have a new job, student loans to pay, a career to build. I can’t be swooning over some playboy.”

  Mick pulls out my chair for me and I sit at the lovely table all draped in white and silver. Before he walks to his side though, he leans down and I feel his lips at my ear, his breath hot, his words sizzling. “I’ve never made anyone swoon but you. And I can’t think of anyone else I want to
be playing with right now either. Maybe it won’t be so hard if you just quit fighting it and let me distract you.”

  I’m breathless as he makes his way around the table to the other side. When he sits down he flashes me a grin that says he knows what he’s doing to me, and he’s damn proud of himself for it. I huff out a little sigh of disgust and narrow my eyes. But then he lifts the lid of the first dish and I forget to be upset. I forget pretty much everything except the food in front of me.

  “You ordered Spanish,” I gush.

  “I did. I thought maybe it would help you not miss your mom so much, plus, it’s delicious.”

  I have a hand over my heart, trying to still the fluttering because I haven’t had Spanish food since my mother moved away. Sure, there are plenty of authentic Spanish restaurants in Chicago, but they’re typically pricey, and I missed her so much the first few years it only made me sad to eat food that reminded me of what was gone.

  But now it looks and smells amazing, and I’m so stunned by how thoughtful Mick is I’m not sure what to say.

  He asks me what I want and scoops portions onto my plate – paella, gazpacho, tapas—it’s all perfect.

  We both dig in and for several minutes things are quiet except for my occasional moans of pleasure as I taste the delicate spices and flavors of my childhood. Saffron, and chile, and tomato all roll across my tongue. I close my eyes and I’m taken back to my mother’s kitchen in the summer time when she would serve us gazpacho and tapas. She would put on flamenco music as she danced around preparing everything. I can almost feel the beats of the Cajon, and hear the rapid-fire notes of the guitar.

  I open my eyes and find Mick looking at me, heat and something dangerous in his eyes. Our gazes are locked, and it feels like he’s stripping me bare, not just to my skin, but deeper, down to the very center of me, to the essential me.

  “You like the food,” he finally says.

  “Yes,” I answer simply. “It’s delicious, and it reminds me of home and my mother. Thank you.”