The Czar: A Standalone Hockey Billionaire Novel

by Selena Laurence

  “I had Katerina bring him food and she says he is locked in his studio painting like a madman. I’ll never understand how he can spend days on end doing nothing but slapping paint on canvases. But I commissioned him to paint a new piece for the lobby. Big. Twelve feet high. It will hang near the photo of you on the Olympic podium, and then everyone will know exactly who Petrovich is when they enter the building.”

  My father is nothing if not enthusiastic about his sons. He doesn’t understand us, but he’s always proud of us.

  “I’ll call Dmitri and check up on him, make sure he’s remembering to sleep and eat. But we’re almost to my PT appointment, Dad, I’d better go.”

  We end the call and I sigh as I lean back against the leather seats. I’m tired of battling my father. And while I love him, the fact is that he’s never understood me, and isn’t too great at listening to me. He’s Russian, so of course he supported me when I played hockey, but the rest of the time he bulldozed through whatever wishes or hopes I might have had. He spent the majority of my childhood at work, building the corporation that he is determined Dmitri and I will take over, though neither one of us wants it. Him, because he loves his art and his freedom—me, because I know how our mother died.

  Dmitri is too young to remember the days when our mother was alive. What things were like when she was still functional, before the constant tastings and corporate cocktail parties, and free samples of booze took hold of her and ate away at her soul until she was nothing but a shell of a human being.

  But while Dmitri doesn’t remember, I do, and because of it, alcohol is the very last business I will ever work in. I have, in fact, refused to take money from my father at all since I entered the draft and went into the NHL my senior year in college. It all sits in a massive trust fund for me anyway.

  But without hockey, who am I, and what am I doing with the rest of my life? It’s a question that haunts me day in and day out, and one that spreads a blanket of darkness over my soul. Because the idea of spending the next forty some odd years sitting in an office in the Petrovich building crushes me. Absolutely and completely crushes me. I can’t imagine anything more soul sucking, mind numbing, and heart wrenching than a corporate life at Petrovich Vodka.

  Unfortunately, I don’t have another plan. And my time is running out.

  4

  Solana

  Marissa would be thrilled, because my new office is full of Mikhail Petrovich. His picture is in the lobby, his hockey jerseys are hanging on the walls, along with newspaper clippings and trophies. I was so nervous when I interviewed here that I didn’t notice the décor, but now as I’m shown around by my new boss I realize that the corporate offices are nothing but modern art and The Czar.

  “And here’s the ninth floor staff lounge,” Adrienne says.

  I smile. Focus, Solana.

  “This is nice,” I comment mildly as we move through the kitchen area and on to the hallway that leads back to my new cubicle outside of Adrienne’s hard-walled office.

  “Well, it’s nothing compared to the executive suites on the top floor, but it’s okay.” I knew I was right—gold bidets.

  I’ve gotten the impression this morning that Adrienne lusts after an executive position. She mentions the top floor of the building frequently and when we passed by one of the VPs in the lobby her eyes literally glowed when he said hello to her.

  “There’s a lot of stuff around about Mick Petrovich,” I say, finally letting my rogue thoughts work their way out of my mouth.

  Adrienne’s eyes go glassy almost instantly. “Oh, he’s such a role model to the employees here. Mr. Petrovich likes to keep all of Mick’s accomplishments front and center so the staff are reminded about the company’s values.”

  Okay, I’ll bite. “Maybe you should tell me those values again? So I can have them in mind when I start working on the new Olympics campaign.”

  Adrienne looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head. “They’re right there in the lobby. And you know if you’re going to work here you should probably memorize those pretty fast.”

  She continues on down the hall, her stiletto heels digging into the carpet at every step. I’m guessing that she doesn’t know what the company values are, so that’s a dead end. But, my mind is still fixating on the Czar, hot piece of eye candy that he is.

  “So, does Mick Petrovich spend much time here?” I ask next.

  We’ve reached my cubicle and she stops, turning to pin me with a look of disdain. “While he stops by occasionally, he doesn’t have time to visit with the junior staff.”

  Her voice indicates that she finds junior staff to be the lowest of life forms.

  “Those of us in the senior ranks sometimes get invited to luncheons and receptions that he attends.” She pauses and then leans forward as though she’s going to share the secrets of the universe with me. “There’s no faster way to get fired than to chase after Mr. Petrovich’s sons. There was a girl in accounting who saw Mr. Petrovich’s youngest son, Dmitri’s, address on some paperwork. I don’t know the whole story, but she got inside his apartment somehow and was waiting for him when he came home one night. Mr. Petrovich fired her and had her charged with stalking and violating the privacy laws. After that and a couple of instances where women staff came on to his sons here at the office, he put a rule in the personnel codes that there was no fraternizing with the family. Staff members are specifically forbidden from socializing with any of the Petrovich family except for required office functions. We don’t fangirl here.”

  Shit. I swallow uncomfortably and she casts me a disapproving glance before picking up the stack of files she left on my desk when we started our tour.

  “I have meetings to get to now. You should have everything you need. Don’t forget, lunch is only an hour and I’ll need you to take yours at a different time than mine. And please let me know if you’re going to be away from your desk more than ten minutes.”

  I nod and smile as she hustles off to God knows where. Then I collapse in my seat and lean my head against the high chair back.

  I’ve worked for seven years to get to where I am today—junior marketing executive at a major international corporation. It’s all I’ve thought about, wanted, focused on. I should be ecstatic, I should be invigorated, I should be getting to work so that I can prove they haven’t made a mistake hiring me.

  Instead, all I can do is look around at the Mick Petrovich paraphernalia on the walls. Across the walkway from my cubicle is a framed poster of Mick after he won the Stanley Cup for the first time. He’s got the cup in the air, his lips just touching the side as he kisses it. His hair is a tousled mess, and he has a day’s worth of stubble on his strong jaw. I can see part of his forearm and the tattoo that disappears beneath his sleeve. He’s sweaty and it’s a candid shot, but he looks so freaking sexy it’s heart stopping.

  Fired, I tell myself. If you’re lucky that’s the worst that would happen. Yeah, no hot guy is worth that.

  Ugh. I sigh as I click on the browser icon on my computer screen and open my personal email account. At the top is a message from my former advisor at Loyola, Professor Martin. She’s the one who got me this job. She’s been a consultant to Petrovich Vodka for several years, helping them formulate some of their most innovative market share strategies. I’m damn lucky she likes me and was willing to give me the glowing letter of recommendation that she did.

  RMartin@LoyolaBiz.edu

  Solana: I hope your first week on the job goes well. I’ve had a family crisis and need to go back home for several weeks or more to take care of my mother. I’m hoping you can housesit for me? I’m leaving tonight, but the keys are with the concierge at the new building and you know the drill. Ambrose will be thrilled to see you. Let me know you’ve gotten there and everything’s ok.

  Regina.

  Regina was my mentor all through my MBA and I’ve housesat for her several times, taking care of her cat, Ambrose, and her many plants. She recently moved to a super chi-chi buildin
g in the Gold Coast neighborhood. I haven’t been there yet, but I’m kind of excited to see it. I usually just stay at her place when I housesit, it’s a good way for Marissa and I to get a break from one another. We get along great, but our apartment is tiny.

  I make a mental note to text Marissa at lunch and tell her I’ll be housesitting, then I send a quick email back to Regina. Luxury and solitude here I come.

  By six o’clock I’ve outlasted Adrienne and a couple of other junior marketing staff, so I figure it’s safe to leave the office. It’s important to look like you’re working harder than everyone else, so I’ll be putting in a lot of hours whether I have enough work to warrant it or not. With a company as big as Petrovich I have an endless amount of historical research I can do to fill the time. They have ad campaigns and marketing statistics going back at least thirty years. The more of that I read, the better prepared I’ll be when I get a chance to manage accounts.

  I take the train home and grab several days’ worth of clothes and toiletries. I’m just about ready to leave when Marissa comes stumbling in the door loaded down with dresses in her arms. She’s an assistant to a designer and often has to bring samples home to make minor repairs to them—sewing on buttons and changing hem lengths, things like that.

  She kicks the door closed with her foot and falls forward over the arm of the sofa, collapsing on top of the stack of dresses.

  “Tough day?” I ask, chuckling. She kicks her wedge-heeled-clad feet and mumbles something into the sofa.

  I reach down and grab her hand, hoisting her into a sitting position, the dresses still in a messy pile half under her ass.

  “You’re going to wrinkle those.” I point at the dresses and she sighs and lifts her left hip so that I can pull them out. I take them and drape them over the hanging rack we keep in the corner for all of her work projects.

  “I swear to God,” she wails as her head rests on the back of the sofa, her eyes screwed shut. “If my boss doesn’t get on some sort of hormone therapy I’m going to shoot myself in the head.”

  I laugh. “Menopause is that bad, huh?”

  “Worse. Over the course of ten hours today she cried, promoted me once, demoted me twice and threw a candle at one of the delivery guys from the fabric manufacturer.”

  “Did you get a raise out of any of it?” I ask as I make my way to the kitchen, grab a stemless glass from the cabinet and open the valve for the boxed wine on the counter. Then I pull out a container of hummus from the fridge along with a box of crackers.

  She lifts her head as I put the glass of wine in her hand. “I’m not sure. She gave me a handful of money from the petty cash box at one point and told me I was a treasure that she needed to protect, but that was before she demoted me the first time, so I don’t know if I get to keep it.”

  She takes an extra big swig of the merlot and visibly relaxes, putting her feet up on the coffee table. “Bless you, prima,” she tells me, using the Spanish word for cousin. “Oh!” She sits forward, eyes popping open. “I can’t believe I forgot! It was your first day. How did it go? Did you love it? Was it everything you thought it would be?”

  I tell her about my day, which was relatively uneventful, and she listens dutifully.

  “So,” I say as I get to the end of the story, “really the only interesting things were the five hundred items of Mick Petrovich memorabilia that the entire place is decorated with.”

  “Really?” She gazes at me with big eyes. “So he’s everywhere?”

  “He sure seemed to be.”

  “So did you just sit around and stare at his pictures all day?” She takes a sip of wine, then dips her finger into the container of hummus. I make a mental note not to eat any of that later. Gross.

  “I’ll admit that he’s gorgeous, and really freaking sexy, but my boss told me there’s a big thing at the company about not ‘fangirling’—as she put it—over the Petrovich brothers. I guess there have been a couple of incidents where women who worked there crossed the line in a big way, so Mr. Petrovich put an end to that. It’s even written into the personnel rules: No chasing his sons.”

  Marissa scowls, disappointment written all over her features. “Takes all the fun out of everything,” she mutters.

  I chuckle. “But really,” I continue as I walk toward the door and lift my duffle over my shoulder. “I doubt I’ll run into him. I’m not sure he even comes into the office. He doesn’t have an official position there. And I wonder if it makes him sad to be there? It’s kind of like a memorial to who he used to be, you know?”

  Marissa nods. “That is sad,” she concurs. Then she grins and takes another long drink of her wine. “But you could always console him.”

  I could, I think. As much trouble as it might get me in, consoling the Czar wouldn’t be a bad job to have at all.

  5

  Mick

  Joanie Sambosa has her head between my legs when my best friend, Deke, comes barreling into my apartment.

  “Fuck!” he hollers as he turns his back on the sight of me getting a blowjob at three o’clock in the afternoon.

  “Dude, you need to lock your door,” he grumbles.

  “Why?” I answer as I lounge on my sofa. “You’ve got a key, and nothing’s ever kept you out.”

  Joanie releases my dick with a pop and grins, delicately wiping her lips. “Hey, Deke,” she says coquettishly.

  “Hey, Joanie,” he answers, back still turned to us. “How’s it going?”

  Joanie is one of the team puck bunnies. She’s always available to party with the guys, and with a few of us she has a friends with bennies arrangement. Although I guess I shouldn’t use the term us anymore. I’m not part of us now. I’m just a guy who knows the team.

  “I’m helping our poor injured boy feel a little better,” she coos. I pull my track pants back up, grimacing as I stuff my still-hard dick into place.

  “That’s nice of you,” Deke answers as if this is a tea party and we’re all standing in the garden discussing the weather.

  “You can turn around, dude. It’s not like you’ve never seen my junk before.”

  “Five years in a locker room together is more than enough exposure to your junk,” Deke answers, turning to give Joanie a tight smile.

  Since he’s obviously not going to leave, I tell Joanie I’ll catch up with her later and walk her to the door.

  “Call anytime, hot stuff,” she purrs, before laying a kiss with a lot of tongue on me.

  When I close the door and return to the living room, Deke is standing there, disapproval all over his big, furry face.

  “What?” I ask, arms out to my sides.

  “It’s fucking three pm, man. What are you doing?”

  I collapse on the sofa and lay my head back, eyes closed. “If you don’t know the answer to that I’m worried about what they taught you in sex ed all those years ago.”

  He sits down facing me. “Mick, for real. I get it, I really do, but you need to do something other than sleep and fuck.”

  I open one eye and look at him for a moment. “Why?”

  “Because you’re not even thirty years old. You’re not dying anytime soon, man. You’ve got all the time and money in the world, and maybe that’s part of the problem. If you needed to get the hell out of the apartment to earn a living it’d probably be better for you.” He sighs. I do as well. “But since you don’t have a financial reason, you’re going to have to motivate yourself some other way, because at this rate you’re going to end up just like her, and I know that’s the very last thing you want.”

  He’s right, it is the last thing I want. To end up like my mother. The woman who couldn’t manage to get past her own pain no matter how much we all loved her—needed her. But I think that’s something Deke doesn’t realize, something that makes me different from her. If someone needed me, I’d never let them down. Like my team. I lived to keep my promises to my team. And now that I’ve lost them? Somehow I’ve lost me as well.

  It’s nearly
eight pm by the time I leave my apartment for the first time today. I grab a t-shirt off the bedroom floor and put it on with my sweats. It’s easier to wear sweats because of the brace, but I don’t really care anyway, I have no reason to wear anything but sweats, so it all works out nicely. I run a hand through my hair and opt to put a ball cap on it, flipping the brim to the back of my head.

  I could have the Thai place down the block deliver my dinner, but I’m supposed to walk a certain amount every day so I follow the doctor’s orders. I know it won’t ever get me back on an NHL rink, but I think I’ll want to do a few things like walk and run, so I adhere to the regimen, hoping that eventually the plastic hip joint they’ve given me will act like a normal one.

  As I shove my wallet in my front pocket and dig for my keys to lock the door, I hear a huff of frustration from the hallway behind me. I turn to see a woman struggling to unlock my neighbor’s door. I know it’s not my neighbor, a Petrovich associate of some sort, because she’s short, brunette, and a good five years older than me, while this woman is blonde, tall, and has an ass on her that could star in my spank bank.

  My dick takes charge and I find myself hobbling the fifteen feet down the hall to stand near her. “You need some help?” I ask.

  She jumps, dropping the keys, and nearly stumbling over the duffle bag she has at her feet.

  Her hand goes to her chest as she looks at me with wide eyes that grow even wider in recognition. Yes, I really am him. I sigh. It can get old.

  “Uh…” She breathes out, then rallies, visibly gathering her wits and also a little spark in her eyes. It makes her even more striking than she already is.

  “I think I have it, thanks.”

  “Really? Because it looks like you can’t get in, and I happen to know for a fact that you don’t live here.” I point to my neighbor’s front door.

  “I’m housesitting for my professor,” she explains, then her eyes narrow. “What’s your excuse for loitering?”