Alexei: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Read online

  Alexei

  Brenda Rothert

  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

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  1

  Alexei

  I must have one hell of a hangover. My alarm sounds like it’s underwater and my eyelids feel like they’re covered in concrete.

  I try to tune out the alarm blaring from my phone. When it doesn’t work, I try to reach over to my nightstand and grab the phone, but my arm won’t move any easier than my eyelids.

  Maybe it’s not a hangover. Am I knocked out on the ice right now? They may have to cart me off with a stretcher because there’s no way I’m gonna be able to stand up. If Mason McAllister knocked me out, I’ll jump that fucker’s ass as soon as I can stand, though. He’s a winger for Toronto, and he’s had it out for me since he found out his sister took me home after a game up there last year.

  “I volunteer to give him a bath,” a female voice says.

  There’s a chuckle and another woman says, “Get in line.”

  Well shit. Two female voices means this is the morning after a threesome, and from the way my head’s pounding right now, that’s two more women than I feel like dealing with right now.

  I open my mouth to speak, but all I can get out is a grunt. And then, finally, after what feels like a fucking year, my eyes slowly crack open. The bright light shining in my face makes me squeeze them closed immediately.

  “Well, hi there,” a woman says. “It’s good to see you awake.”

  I force my eyelids open again, squinting at her. She’s middle-aged, with graying hair and a warm smile. I mean…she’s not unattractive, but she’s quite a bit older than I usually go for.

  Fuck. I must’ve gotten really hammered last night. I hope I was good in bed.

  When I try to sit up, I can hardly move. This is the worst hangover I’ve ever had. Maybe it’s alcohol poisoning. Or maybe someone slipped something in my drink and fucked me up. Whatever’s going on, I just want to get the hell out of here and go sleep this off at home. There’s no way I can make it to practice this morning.

  “Go get Dr. Harvey,” the middle-aged woman says to the one next to her.

  I notice they’re both wearing pale green pajama tops and pants, kind of like scrubs. It hits me all at once—I’m in a hospital. The beeping wasn’t from my alarm, but from the machines I’m hooked up to.

  That’s all I can make out so far. And since I can’t remember how I got here, my first instinct is to frantically check and see if all my body parts are still attached. But I’m still so groggy and slow that nothing’s moving as fast as I want it to.

  “Alexei, you’re at Austin Memorial Medical Center,” the woman left in the room says to me. “My name is Sherrie and I’m a nurse here.”

  When I try to speak, my throat is so dry I can’t make the words come out. Sherrie holds a cup with a straw up to my mouth and I take a sip, clearing my throat.

  “You were in a car accident,” Sherrie says. “You’ve been in a medically-induced coma for around seventy-two hours now. The doctors wanted to give your body time to rest.”

  I clear my throat again, using all my energy to get two words out. “How…bad?”

  Sherrie smiles. “I’ll let the doctor talk to you about that. Just try to relax for now.”

  My hospital bed is stationed at a slight upward incline, and I turn my head to survey my surroundings. It’s a regular old hospital room, almost every surface either beige or white. There’s a dry erase board with my name written on the top in blue marker, and the date scrawled beneath it is four days after the last day I remember.

  A tall doctor with short dark hair comes into the room.

  “Alexei, I’m Dr. Harvey. How are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” I admit.

  “Yeah, that’s to be expected.” He pulls a stethoscope from around his neck. “I’m going to look you over and then we’ll talk about your injuries.”

  He pokes and prods me, and it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open. Sherrie looks on from the foot of the bed, and I realize then that we’re the only three people in this room.

  My twin brother Anton’s not here. Martin and Laura, my adoptive parents, aren’t either. My coaches and teammates are also conspicuously absent.

  Does anyone even give a shit about me? I’ve been in a coma for three fucking days and no one’s here to see if I wake up or not.

  Typical. Anton’s always been the golden boy and I’ve always been the fuck up.

  A car accident…I don’t remember that. The last thing I remember is driving past a bunch of cows on my way home from a bar.

  Dr. Harvey puts the stethoscope back around his neck and pulls a chair up beside the bed. Not a good sign.

  “You got lucky,” he says, his dark eyes loaded with judgment. “Broken wrist, dislocated hip, swelling on your brain and lots of cuts and bruises. But it should all heal.”

  I look down at my right wrist, set in a cast, and decide it’s probably not the best time for a joke about being unable to jerk off.

  “Did someone call Anton?” I ask, my voice gravelly. “And my coach?”

  Dr. Harvey nods. “Your coach has been coming by to check on you, and your parents have been here, too. They went to their hotel to get some sleep.”

  “The Carrs? Martin and Laura?”

  “Yes. They said they’re your parents. They are family, right?”

  “Yeah. Adoptive parents.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  I manage a single grunt of unamused laughter. “Like I got run over by a truck.”

  “Soreness?”

  “Not really, I’m just foggy.”

  “Good. We’ve got you on a slow drip IV pain medication.”

  “How long until I can play again?”

  The doctor looks away. “I don’t know. It’s hard to say for sure.”

  “But you said everything’s gonna heal, right? I’ll be able to play after this?”

  He sighs heavily. “You need to focus on getting better for now. And when you’re up to it, the police want to talk to you.”

  “Shit,” I mutter.

  “I’ll let them explain things—”

  I cut him off. “No, just tell me. What happened?”

  “From what I understand, you veered off the side of the road, driving around 70 miles per hour, and drove about a quarter of a mile through a farmer’s field…before you ran into his barn.”

  “That explains the cows,” I mutter.

  “Sorry, what?”

  I want to answer him, but it’s taking all my energy just to keep my eyelids open.

  “Get some rest,” he says, standing up. “Bottom line is that you’ll be here for a few more days, and if all goes well you’ll be released into physical therapy.”

  Not only can’t I answer him, I can’t even keep my eyes open anymore. Sleep takes over.

  This time it’s easier to wake up. I blink as my eyes adjust to the light in the roo
m. Then I wince at the sound of a loud, annoying female voice.

  “You are a moron,” she says from the screen of the TV mounted in the top corner of my hospital room.

  I sit up, trying to figure out where the damn remote is.

  “Good, you’re awake,” a man says from a chair in the corner of my room. “I thought Judge Judy might do the trick.”

  He stands up and walks over to my bed. I take in the nicely combed hair and fancy suit, trying to figure out who he is.

  “Are you a cop?” I ask, my voice still raspy.

  He arches his brows, looking amused. “No. I’m Olivier Durand.”

  I scrunch my face in confusion. “The Chicago Blaze owner?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Am I still sleeping right now?”

  Durand laughs and pulls a chair up to my bedside. “No, why?”

  “I just…can’t figure out why my brother’s not here but his team owner is.”

  “Anton’s fairly well pissed at you, Alexei.”

  I scoff. “So he sent you to see me instead?”

  “No.” Durand’s expression turns serious. “The Comets released you when they found out about the accident.”

  My heart starts pounding at a rapid pace, like a machine gun in my chest. “Released?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m their first line center. No fucking way they’d—”

  Durand pulls a cell phone out of his pocket, passing it to me. “You’re welcome to call Tim if you want to confirm it.”

  When he mentions the Comets owner by name, shit gets real. Durand has no reason to lie to me about this. I wave off his offer, willing my heart to stop hammering so hard.

  “You can report to their minor league team after your rehab is complete,” Durand says.

  I give him a look of absolute horror. I can’t believe I’ve been dropped by my team—it’s unheard of to just release a first line player this way.

  “I’ll pay for the damages,” I say, still in disbelief. “The barn I hit, and anything else. I’m not trying to get away with anything. Is that what they think?”

  “It’s not about the barn.” Durand’s tone is smooth, unbothered.

  “Did I do something else? The doctor told me I hit a barn.”

  Durand sighs softly. “You did, and your blood alcohol test came back at three times the legal limit.”

  “Shit.”

  “Are you surprised?” Durand cocks a brow.

  I hesitate before saying, “I don’t know.”

  “You shouldn’t be. Witnesses said you pounded enough vodka at that bar to knock out a horse.”

  “Who’s fucking business is it how much I drink but mine?” I snap.

  He shrugs. “No one’s, as long as you don’t mind giving up your driver’s license and playing for the Huntsville Hustlers.”

  “Christ.” I look away, disgusted.

  Durand clears his throat. “Look, I have to catch a flight back to Chicago soon, so I’ll be brief. I’m here because of your brother. He’s a good man I consider a friend, and he’s also my top player and team captain. So his state of mind is important to me.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m sure he’d jizz hard from that verbal jerk off.”

  Durand’s eyes darken. “I’ll pick you up from Austin if you agree to my terms. And if you do, that’ll be the last time you speak to me that way.”

  “Terms?”

  “You’ve got a choice, Alexei. You can go to the Beckett Recovery Center outside of Chicago and complete their rehab program, and then once you’re medically released to play again, you can play for the Blaze. Or you can play for the Hustlers.”

  “Or I can retire.”

  “Can you afford to?”

  I cut a harsh glare his way. “Yeah, I drink a lot but it’s not like I’ve got an expensive drug habit. I’ve saved most of what I’ve made.”

  I’ve got more than $20 million in the bank, but that’s none of his business. Besides, it probably wouldn’t sound like much to a billionaire like Durand.

  Durand shrugs. “Okay then. You can retire.”

  I exhale hard, looking up at the ceiling. “No. I’m not going out like this.”

  “You’ve got a long road ahead of you if you accept my offer.” Durand’s tone is softer now. “Beckett’s program is tough, and you must complete it to be on my team. Even then, you may never be the same after dislocating your hip and if you complete Beckett, you’ll still have to earn your spot on the team.”

  “I get it,” I say bitterly. “I’m sure my brother would get a kick out of seeing me on the third line of his team.”

  Durand stands. “If that’s what you think, you really don’t know your brother at all.” He heads over to the door. “I hope to see you clean and sober in Chicago, Alexei. I truly do. But this is a one-time offer. If you quit Beckett or have any more public relations disasters, it’s off the table.”

  My jaw tightens as I stare up at the ceiling. “Is Anton coming by, or is he too busy?”

  “He said he can’t see you right now, that he’s too angry. But he asked me to tell you he wants you to man the fuck up and take this chance I’m offering.”

  “Noted,” I say flatly.

  Durand leaves the room and I lean back against my hospital bed, not even hearing Judge Judy yelling from the TV anymore.

  There’s no fucking way I’m playing in the minors, so I guess my choice is made.

  Rehab. What a load of shit. I don’t think rehab fixes a damn thing, and there’s nothing about me that needs fixing, anyway. I overdid it on the vodka one night and got behind the wheel when I shouldn’t have—it happens.

  But if crying about my feelings is the way back to hockey, I’ll do it. I can bullshit with the best of them.

  I don’t care what injuries I have, I already know I won’t just get back to playing hockey—I’ll be back better than ever. Because of all the shit pressing on me right now, the one thing I won’t tolerate is being Anton’s charity case.

  2

  Graysen

  “You didn’t get coffee.” I glare at my roommate Amelia. “Are you trying to make me kill you?”

  She looks up from the turkey sandwich she’s making, grimacing. “Sorry. I knew I was forgetting something when I went to the store last night.”

  I sigh at the empty cannister, leaning down to get a whiff of the few grounds left at the bottom. It smells like heaven. If I was alone, I’d probably stick my finger in the cannister and dig out what’s left.

  “You need to quit staying up so late,” Amelia tells me as she cuts her sandwich in half.

  What I need is some coffee. But Amelia and I have been roommates since our sophomore year in college—eight years now—so I don’t say that because I know she always has to have the last word.

  Instead, I open a bottle of iced tea and start making my own lunch. It’s Intake Day, which means I won’t have much time for a break after mid-morning. I decide on a turkey sandwich and some pretzels.

  I’m packing my food, and another bottled iced tea, into my bag when Amelia says, “I’m making scrambled eggs, want some?”

  “No, but thanks.”

  “Toast? I’ve got time to make it while I wait for the eggs to cook.”

  This is her peace offering for forgetting the coffee. I nod and say, “Sure, that would be good.”

  “It’s Intake Day, isn’t it?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “So this means you’re done with the rock star?”

  I nod. “Finally.”

  “You did your best,” she says absently.

  That’s the kind of thing we always say to each other, so it just comes out like second nature. We met in a summer class after our freshman year at Northwestern, both of us sociology majors hoping to change the world.

  And maybe we haven’t remade the world, but we both like to think we’ve at least changed some lives. The two of us took different paths—Amelia put her bachelor’s degree right to work as a c
ounselor at a private practice and I went on to grad school and then started working at the Beckett Recovery Center.

  “I guess he’s going back out on tour,” I say, leaning against the counter as I drink my tea.

  I’m still thinking about Ashton Banks, the rock star I spent the past month trying to help kick his drug habit. In the end, though, he just didn’t want to. He’s pushing sixty years old and has lost touch with his entire family over his poor choices. If that didn’t make him wise up, I’m not sure anything will.

  “Well, he was sober when he left Beckett,” Amelia says. “Maybe something you said will stick.”

  I give her a sad smile. “I hope so. He’s not going to live much longer if he doesn’t make changes.”

  I never told Amelia my “rock star” patient was Ashton Banks. We talk about our client cases, but never use their names so we can respect their privacy.

  “I’ll get some coffee during my lunch hour,” Amelia promises.

  “I’ll get it. I have to get some other stuff anyway.” I push off the counter. “I better go get in the shower.”

  I’m still thinking about Ashton Banks as I wait for the water to get hot. He seemed like a genuinely nice man who’s been wrapped up in drugs for forty years now and just can’t imagine an alternative lifestyle.

  Could I have done more? Was I too bad cop and not enough good cop? These aren’t just the questions I ask myself in the shower when a patient doesn’t make it through the program—I ask them while riding the El Train to work, lying in bed at night staring up at the ceiling or wandering the aisles of the grocery store.

  My work is my life. I want it that way, but it hits hard when I feel like I’ve failed a patient.

  As I lather coconut-scented shower gel onto my arms, I try to envision washing away the lingering feelings I have over Ashton. The statistics on beating addiction are bleak, but I pull for every patient to beat them.