Olivier: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Read online

  Olivier

  A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

  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

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Maverick: A Sin City Saints Hockey Romance

  Also by Brenda Rothert

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Olivier

  “I don’t like surprises.” The irritation in my voice is rising by the second. “This isn’t what you promised me.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry about that.” Tony Giovanni’s tone is pleading. “But if you’ll just sit down with me and take a closer look—”

  “Tony, I was clear that I expected full transparency when we discussed me buying into your company.” I glance at my watch and lean forward in the backseat of my SUV, asking my driver Ben, “How much longer?”

  He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Should be about twenty more minutes, Mr. Durand.”

  I exhale hard and lean back. Ben knows I’m not pissed at him—he’s a retired Chicago cop who knows the fastest route to any destination in the city. I’m running late because my last meeting ran over.

  “This deal is almost done,” Tony says from the other end of the phone. “All we have to do is sign.”

  I clench my hand into a fist. “The financials would have been a technicality if they’d shown what you told me they would. But your P&L statements were way off. You lied to me about your profits from the past three years.”

  Tony huffs a sigh into the phone. “I wasn’t lying. I was just making my best guess.”

  “Your best guess?” I can’t help but let out an unamused laugh. “Here’s some free advice—next time you request millions of dollars to save your dying company, know the numbers. You’re either incompetent or a liar, but frankly I don’t care which, because I don’t do business with either.”

  “Please, Mr. Durand. I need that money to stay afloat. I may have embellished the details, but—”

  “You didn’t embellish. You lied. The deal’s off.”

  I end the call and toss my phone on the seat next to me, then rub my forehead. I invested countless hours for a possible ownership stake in that plumbing supply company, and I have nothing to show for it.

  Some days I wish I could focus all my energy on being the owner of the Chicago Blaze, the NHL team I bought a few years ago. That’s where my passion truly lies. I don’t work for money anymore—I’ve got plenty. I’ve always liked the challenge of turning around struggling companies. The money I make from my two tech companies allows me to invest in passion projects, and I enjoy taking something that’s broken and putting it back together.

  But sometimes deals fall through. I have a mantra in business that’s never failed me—always be willing to walk away.

  Hell, that mantra applies to life in general. I think about using it as the theme of a speech for the speaking engagements I do, and I start taking mental notes.

  “Well, shit,” Ben mutters, slowing to a stop. “There’s an accident ahead. Scratch that twenty-minute ETA.”

  “What’s going on? Can you see it?” I pick up my phone and text my assistant Jack to bump back the meeting I’m heading to.

  The sound of a woman screaming sends Ben scrambling to unbuckle his seatbelt.

  “I have to go up there. I might be able to help.”

  Ben retired from the CPD after an injury that left him with a pretty bad limp. I don’t want him hurting himself trying to run towards an accident.

  “I’ve got it, Ben,” I say, as I rush to unbuckle my seatbelt and jump out of the car before he has time to argue.

  The sound of the woman screaming is amplified now that I’m out of the car. I move to the shoulder of the road and break into a run, my dress shoes squeezing my toes as I sprint.

  “Somebody help! Please!” the woman’s voice cries.

  Her shouting makes me run faster. I channel my early-morning treadmill sessions, pumping my arms and running as fast as I can, my heart pounding and my quads burning.

  Orange flames finally come into view, and I slow as I take in the absolute chaos of the accident.

  There’s a full-size conversion van with a smashed front end, skid marks showing it crossed over from the other side of the road. Two men are helping kids out of the van. And about fifty feet away, a small car is completely flipped over, tires in the air and flames alight beneath it.

  “There’s someone stuck in there!” The woman who was screaming runs up to me and grabs my arm, frantic.

  “How many people?” I take my suit jacket off, my mind switching into Handle-This-Emergency mode.

  “I don’t know. No one has gone over there but there has to at least be a driver. I’m afraid the car will explode.”

  A line of bystanders watches as I run over to the car and get on my hands and knees on the ground. The fire must be coming from the engine, and has already spread to the passenger seat. I look towards the driver’s seat. A side airbag is blocking my view, but I can see a woman’s hand hanging limp, her short nails painted pale pink. I don’t think she’s conscious, but I call out to her anyway. There’s no response. I don’t even know if she’s alive.

  “The police are on the way!” a man yells from the row of bystanders. “Don’t move her! Let them do it.”

  The fucking car is on fire. And with rush hour traffic and no sirens approaching, I might be this woman’s only hope.

  I try to open the front door, but it’s crunched into the ground along with the roof, and it doesn’t budge at all.

  “I need a knife!” I yell to the crowd. “Somebody get me a knife!”

  Taking a deep breath, I open the back seat passenger door. The car is sitting at an angle, and the door won’t stay open unless I’m holding it. I grab the fabric of the car seat, the floormat—anything I can get my hands on to hoist myself up. Nothing works.

  Shit. I have to get into that car. I can feel the heat from the fire, which is dangerously close to the unconscious woman. I get my hand on a piece of metal beneath the driver’s seat, and I try to pull myself up on it, but it’s not big enough.

  Thoughts race through my mind. There’s no time. I can’t let this woman burn to death just because I can’t figure out how to get in this car. There has to be a way.

  “I got you,” a deep voice says behind me.

  I turn to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with a bald head and a determined expression. He bends down, slides his head between my legs so I’m sitting on his shoulders and stands up, raising me high enough that I can slide all the way into the back seat.

  It’s hot. I cough as smoke fills my lungs, getting in my eyes and making it hard to see.

  “I’ve got a knife,” the man calls out, passing it up to me. “Careful, it’s a hunting knife. It’s sharp.”

  He backs up several steps, probably because this car could blow up at any moment. My heart pounds as I grab the knife handle from him.

  Since I can’t see through the smoke, I rely on my hands. I run them down the back of the driver’s seat until I get to the point where
the seat belt should be. I find it, but everything is so goddamn hot.

  Coughing harder now, I set to work cutting through the seat belt. The flames are so close to her that this feels like an impossible task. It’s not just my will to save her, but my will not to die in this fire myself, that drives me to saw through the seat belt at her waist.

  Tossing the knife into the burning passenger seat, I move my hand up her arm until I find her shoulder. The heat and smoke are almost too much. I’m not leaving without her, though.

  I get my hands through her armpits and I take two giant handfuls of her shirt. I’m about to start pulling when I see that my own shirtsleeve has caught fire.

  “Come on, man!” the guy who hoisted me into the car calls out. “I’m right here! You can do this!”

  Squeezing my eyes closed, I pull. The woman moves a couple inches. She’s stuck.

  A sound escapes my throat—half frustration, half terror. I regroup and pull again, her body rising off the seat but not coming back. It feels like I have almost all of her weight, but her lower right leg, or maybe her foot, is stuck.

  I don’t have time to think about it. There’s a risk I’ll hurt her if I keep pulling, but the alternative would be worse.

  With a deep breath of smoky air that makes me lightheaded, I slide my hands down to the waistband of her pants and pull there instead. I pull until my shoulders ache with exertion, and suddenly, her body is free.

  Scrambling, I grab her beneath the armpits again and pull. My head is swimming and my throat feels raw. Is that burning skin I smell?

  The door I entered the car through is being held open by someone. Not knowing how much time I have left, I hurriedly slide the woman to the opening and push. I have to hope the guy who helped me into the car is there to catch her.

  “I got her,” a voice says.

  There are frantic yells. I focus on staying conscious long enough to try sliding myself out of the car, waiting for the impact of the pavement.

  It never comes, though.

  Chapter Two

  Daphne

  Everything feels heavy. It’s not just my eyelids—which feel like they’re made of lead—but my mouth, arms and head. Something’s not right.

  If this is a dream, it’s a really shitty one. I can’t move, everything is dark, and the only sound is my Grandma Jo ranting.

  “Where’s your little hussy, Aidan? Is she sleeping after last night’s shift at the gentleman’s club?”

  The dream just went from bad to worse. Why would my subconscious summon my ex?

  “Grandma Jo, this isn’t the time or place for that,” my sister Julia says. “Daphne is resting.”

  “She wouldn’t want her good for nothing ex-boyfriend here,” Grandma Jo says stiffly. “He is not part of this family, and he never will be.”

  “I’ve apologized a thousand times, and I’ll keep apologizing as long as it takes,” Aiden says.

  “Rubbish. You can shove those apologies right up your—”

  “Hey, my meeting ran late. How is she?” My father’s voice cuts off Grandma Jo’s insult.

  “ASS.” Grandma Jo finishes, not one to be upstaged. “Right up your lying, cheating, good for nothing ass!”

  I try to form a smile, but my lips just won’t move.

  “Mother, this is not the time for that,” my dad says sharply.

  “How did he even get in here?” Grandma Jo says. “He’s not family.”

  “Sandy and I put him on the family list. He’s Daphne’s fiancé.”

  And that’s enough to make my eyes finally open. Aiden has been my ex- fiancé for a little more than four months now, but both he and my parents refuse to accept it.

  “Daphne!” Julia cries from beside me. “You’re awake. Thank God.”

  Tears shine in my older sister’s eyes as it sets in—I’m in a hospital.

  “Do you know who I am?” Julia asks.

  I try to answer, but my throat is so dry and raw that nothing comes out.

  “Okay, um…stick your tongue out if you know who I am,” she says.

  I poke the tip of my tongue out through my lips and cheers erupt around the room.

  “You were in a car accident, honey,” my dad says, approaching the side of my bed. “And you’re okay. Just healing a little bit in the hospital before you can go home.”

  I try to sit up, but everything hurts and I still have that loopy, heavy sensation.

  “Let’s call the nurse and let her know you’re awake,” Julia says, pushing a button near my bed.

  A few seconds later, new voices enter the room.

  “Daphne,” a woman in nurse’s scrubs says, smiling. “It’s good to see you awake.” She turns to the woman next to her. “Let someone in PR know Senator Barrington’s daughter is awake.”

  “Is my granddaughter okay?” Grandma Jo demands. “Is there brain damage?”

  “We still have more tests to run,” the nurse says.

  “She stuck her tongue out when I asked her to,” Julia says.

  “Well, that’s a good sign.”

  “She’s awake?” My mother’s voice enters the room, and I bristle. “Oh, darling, thank goodness you’re okay.”

  “I should let my Coms people know she’s awake,” my dad says. “They’ll want to send out a release.”

  “Already?” Grandma Jo scoffs. “We still don’t know if she’s going to be a vegetable.”

  The nurse shoots me a wide-eyed look of commiseration from beside the bed before saying, “Okay, everyone out for a little bit. We need to give the doctors some room to come in and evaluate Daphne.”

  “But surely not us?” My mother gives the nurse a disdainful look. “We’re her parents.”

  “I’m her fiancé,” Aiden says. “I want to stay.”

  “You are not!” Grandma Jo pounds her cane on the ground for emphasis. “You’re a lying sack of horse manure.”

  “Everyone not named Daphne Barrington needs to leave this room,” the nurse says. “Right. Now. I’ll update you in the waiting room when we know more.”

  “Who’s your supervisor?” my mom demands. “Do you realize you’re evicting a US Senator from his own daughter’s hospital room?”

  “You can find my supervisor at the nurse’s station,” the nurse says. “Her name’s Charlotte. And yes, I do.”

  “It’s fine,” my eternally diplomatic father says, looking at me. “We’ll be in the waiting room, Daphne.”

  Julia leans down and kisses my forehead, saying, “I love you.”

  The nurse waits for them to clear the room. As soon as Julia closes the door behind her, she lets out a breath and comes to stand next to my bed.

  “I’m Terry, your nurse here. You’re at Mercy Medical Center, and you’ve been here for a little over twenty-four hours.”

  Swallowing is an effort, making me cringe. But I have questions, and I need my voice to ask them.

  “Here,” Terry says, helping me move into a sitting position. She holds a cup of water with a bendy straw next to my mouth and tells me to sip slowly.

  The cold water soothes and burns at the same time. I take several swallows.

  “Thanks,” I say, my voice raspy.

  “Do you remember my name?” she asks me.

  “Terry.”

  She smiles. “Good. I know you have lots of questions, but your throat is still irritated from smoke inhalation, so I’m going to tell you what happened before you ask any questions, and hopefully we can save you from talking too much.”

  I nod, grateful.

  “You were driving on the interstate, and the driver of a large van was driving in the other lane. He had a seizure and lost control of his vehicle. He crossed into your lane and struck the front driver’s side of your car.”

  I furrow my brow, trying to remember. There’s nothing, though. I remember getting into my car to drive to a meeting at a regional food bank, but that’s all. There’s nothing after that.

  “It’s okay if you don’t remember,�
�� Terry says. “That’s not unusual.”

  She pulls a clipboard from its holder on the wall and glances at it before continuing.

  “I’m going to take your vitals as I talk,” she says. “You were unconscious and your car caught fire. A man pulled you from the car and saved your life.”

  “Someone saved me?” I ask slowly as I try to get the rest of my question out. “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know, but there are videos of it all over the place. It went viral on Twitter.”

  Viral on Twitter? Saved from a burning car? I’m too shocked to think past that.

  Two doctors come in and introduce themselves, but I can’t remember their names.

  “You were extremely lucky,” one of them says. “Other than a few bumps and bruises, you only have a small second degree burn on your arm and a broken ankle.”

  I look to the far end of the bed and see that my left foot is wrapped up.

  I have a broken ankle. I was pulled from my burning car. I still can’t believe this is real.

  Suddenly, I long for my crazy family to come back in. At least they would distract me. My sister Julia is my best friend; she’s the one I want most.

  “Is everyone else okay?” I ask the doctors, my voice a little stronger now. “The driver of the van? The man who saved me?”

  “Unfortunately, we’re not allowed to be specific, but they’re both going to be okay,” one of the doctors says.

  I nod and ask, “How long will I be here?”

  “At least a couple more days. We want to keep an eye on you, and our PR people are working with your father’s PR people to figure out how to get you from here to your parents’ house. There are a lot of reporters and photographers waiting for you.”