The Czar: A Standalone Hockey Billionaire Novel

by Selena Laurence

  “It wasn’t just sex,” she says, looking up at me from beneath her dark lashes.

  “I know, baby.” I smile, and she gives me a watery one in return. “And I know you have to do this, and I can’t get in the way.” Then I pull her into my embrace, and I stroke her hair while she breathes me in deep, her stiff shoulders slowly melting into my chest, lighting up the dark corners of my heart, reminding me that if I’m open to it, there are other things out there for me beyond hockey.

  “So,” I say as I set her back and look her in the eyes. “What do you say about being friends? Maybe grab dinner once in a while when you absolutely have to eat something?”

  She grins up at me. “Really? We could do that?”

  “Of course! I have…well, I have no women friends, but I’d be proud to call you my first.”

  She laughs, and I hit the button to send the elevator skyward again.

  “And I’d be proud to call you a friend too,” she tells me as the car reaches our floor.

  “Then it’s a deal, friend.” I make a big production out of shaking her hand formally.

  We step out of the elevator and I walk to my door as she walks to hers.

  “So, will I see you around then?” she asks.

  “Of course. I’m right here, just yell if you need anything,”

  “Maybe you could start taking Ambrose again some? I mean, if you wanted.”

  “I’d love to. I’ll get him tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Mick.”

  “Sure thing, Solnishka.”

  We say good night and lock ourselves in our respective apartments. I know I did the right thing, but all night long I toss and turn, haunted by a recurring nightmare, where I find a beautiful jewel, one that will give me everything I could ever want in life, but then I lose it. And even though I know I’m going to lose it I still do it—over and over, until I finally wake up in the morning and know that it’s truly gone for good.

  24

  Solana

  I’ve been virtually living at the Petrovich offices for the last week. Getting this campaign ready for Mr. Petrovich on the timeline he gave me is nearly impossible, but I can’t fail, so I’m giving up whatever it takes to get it done. And the lost sleep I don’t mind, I have the rest of my life to make it up. The food isn’t a big deal because like most people, I have an extra five or ten to keep me healthy while I live off of bottled water and pretzels for a few weeks.

  But I also had to give up Mick, and while I hate to admit it, that part’s been hard.

  Even though he’s helping me take care of Ambrose, I almost never see him. He leaves me cute notes sometimes when he drops Ambrose off, and one time he even left a piece of cake for me. Baba had sent it for me when he went to have dinner with her.

  But I’ve only seen him in person a couple of times. We’ve ridden the elevator together and had a cup of coffee in the lobby when I was coming home late and he was waiting for his friend Deke to pick him up. He was dressed to go out, a tailored shirt and slacks, his hair slicked back with gel. He smelled like the woods, and it was all I could do not to sniff him and rub up against him. All night afterwards I lay in bed and listened to see if I could hear him come home, and if he had anyone with him.

  I know it’s only a matter of time until I do see him with someone. He’s Mick Petrovich, he might not have girlfriends, but he has women—lots of them. The mere thought makes me ill. And it’s stupid, because what we had was so brief, a fleeting moment in our lives, but I feel like he left something behind. Something that’s so far inside of me I can’t figure out how to remove it. I’d like to give it back, and I wonder if he’s noticed it’s missing. But so far all I’m able to discern is that it’s there, and it rubs and stings and sometimes, like when I think about him with other women, it aches.

  It doesn’t help that I’m surrounded by reminders of him all day every day. The photos and newspaper articles and records of all his sports achievements that permeate our offices make me feel like an alcoholic in a liquor store. There is danger everywhere.

  The good thing is I haven’t heard anything else about Mick coming to work for the company. The office Mr. Petrovich was remodeling is finished, and it sits empty, lights out, door closed.

  I’ve just retrieved a mock up of a print ad I left in the executive conference room earlier in the day when I hear Mr. Petrovich call my name. I backtrack and peek around the edge of his doorway.

  “Solana,” he says with a big smile. “Come in.”

  I walk into the room and sit at the chair facing his desk.

  “You’re here too late,” he tells me. And as much as I like Mr. Petrovich I want to smack him on the forehead for not realizing he’s the whole reason I have to be here so late. Doesn’t he have any idea how long it takes to put together a campaign like he’s asked for?

  “I want to make sure we get the print ads for the New York and Los Angeles Times just right,” I tell him, pasting on a smile.

  He nods. “And how is that going?”

  “Good, we should be able to send the graphics to the papers in the morning for approvals.”

  He leans back in his chair and examines me for a moment.

  “You’re a very good employee, Solana.”

  “Thank you.” I’m not sure what else to say to him, and honestly, I’m wishing he would let me go so I can get back to the work he pays me for.

  “There are going to be some changes in the marketing section,” he says, watching me carefully.

  I swallow and try to smile. He wouldn’t fire me after he just told me I was a good employee, right?

  “I had hoped my son, Mikhail, would come to work as the vice president of public relations. He would have overseen the marketing and advertising sections as well. Unfortunately, he isn’t ready to do that quite yet.”

  My heart leaps into my throat and for a moment I think I can’t breathe, but then my head wraps around the fact that he said Mick isn’t coming to work, and I exhale.

  “Oh,” I squeak. “I’m so sorry.”

  He smiles wanly and waves a hand as if dismissing the whole topic. “It’s okay, for now. But what I want to talk to you about is that I still want someone to take on that executive position. I think the best person for the job is Dave. Do you agree?”

  “Oh, sir, I don’t really think I’m…”

  He shakes his head. “No, you are a good person to ask. I want to know what people who work for the man think of him. That matters as much or more than what I think.”

  The smell of old leather and wood polish works its way into my head and I realize that this right here, this moment, is what I’ve been waiting for. The kind of moment where I’m included in the organization, trusted, valued, more than just an employee—a member of the corporate family. I can’t help but smile.

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “And I think Dave would be the perfect person for the vice president position. He’s fair and likeable, but also expects nothing but the best from us.”

  “Good,” Mr. Petrovich says. “That, however, creates an open position in the marketing section.”

  I nod, thinking Adrienne is going to piss her pants she’ll be so excited about the promotion.

  “I’m not interested in promoting the next person in the line,” Mr. Petrovich says, and my gaze jerks to his.

  He smiles warmly. “Ms. Nielson is…committed to the company, but she doesn’t have the drive or vision I want for the head of marketing.”

  I nod. Waiting.

  “It’s unorthodox to promote a brand new employee into management, but Dave has assured me that he will be very hands on as a supervisor in order to train up a junior staff member. Which all leads me to ask if you would be interested in taking over Dave’s position when he transitions next month?”

  Have you ever had a moment that is so surreal you think you must be dreaming?

  I open my mouth to say something but nothing happens. No voice. No words. Mr. Petrovich is watching me, waiting for me to show some si
gn of coherent thought. You know, the type of thought that gets you a promotion to management when you’ve only been working somewhere for a couple of months.

  “Breathe, my dear,” he finally says, chuckling softly. “You won’t be of any use in management if you pass out here in my office.”

  I swallow and blink at him, then finally manage, “You want me to run the marketing division?”

  “I do. And I realize it’s an unorthodox choice. And that it will mean you have a slew of disgruntled staff to contend with. But while I care about giving promotions where they’re due and about the overall satisfaction of the staff, I also recognize we are entering an era for this company where marketing and advertising are rapidly evolving. The media we use, the methods of delivery, and the content of our message needs to change in order to keep up with the times. We can’t simply sit back and rely on tried and true, we must always push harder, move forward.”

  I nod enthusiastically, because this—right here—is why I’ve always loved this company. And it’s obvious this part of Petrovich corporate culture comes directly from the CEO himself. He’s the one with the infallible instincts regarding image and evolution.

  “I want someone who has that fresh approach and new energy to run the marketing division. You’re the right one, and I hope the other staff will realize that after they’ve had a chance to think about it.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Mr.—Alexei. I’m so flattered, and I can’t lie, I’m really excited too.”

  He laughs, and I grin at him.

  “Good. We’ll make the announcement on Friday. But in the meantime, you, Dave and I need to spend some time discussing how the transition will happen and which projects need the most attention. I want you to keep the lead on the Olympics campaign, but from now on, you won’t be lead on any one project, but overseeing them all.”

  “Yes, sir.” I stand and he does as well. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”

  “I have every confidence in you, Solana,” he answers warmly before pressing my hand in his.

  As I’m walking out the door, he stops me. “Your name is Spanish?” he asks.

  I turn to look at him. “Yes. My mother is from Spain.”

  “Ah,” he answers, nodding. “In Russian it would be Solnishka. A lovely name,” he adds.

  I swallow the lump that rises in my throat and smile weakly. “Thank you.” Then I turn and walk out, reminding myself I just got everything I’ve ever wanted in life. I have no reason to feel as if I’ve also lost something irreplaceable.

  The next few days at work fly by in a jumble of meetings about my new position, putting finishing touches on the Olympics campaign, and trying to dodge Adrienne’s constant barrage of grunt work.

  It’s well after nine when I finally make it home on Thursday night, and I can hardly put one foot in front of the other when I reach the door to the apartment. I’m jiggling the key around, frustrated the lock’s not cooperating, when the door suddenly gives in my hand and swings open.

  There stands Mick, looking somewhat haggard, in a t-shirt with smudges of blood on it, smelling like the foulest thing I’ve ever encountered. I step back, bowled over by the odor.

  “Where have you been?” he nearly growls. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

  “What?” I say, holding my hand over my nose.

  He doesn’t answer, just reaches out, grabs my elbow, and drags me inside, closing the door behind us.

  “I think he’s improving, but he still has a fever, and Vanya’s still not back with the antibiotics.”

  Again, all I can respond with is, “What?”

  He turns to look at me. “Haven’t you listened to my messages or read my texts?” he asks, frustration apparent.

  “No. I haven’t even seen my phone all day. I’ve been in meetings the entire time.” I pull my briefcase off my shoulder. “I think it’s in the bag here, somewhere…” I unzip it and begin to dig around one of the inside pockets.

  “Solnishka,” Mick stops me with a hand on my arm. “Ambrose is sick. I’ve been taking care of him all day.”

  “Ohmigod!” I cry out, looking around frantically for the cat. I’ve actually grown to sort of like Satan. He even rubs against my legs occasionally, and sleeps at the bottom of the bed with me at night.

  Mick guides me to the sofa where he’s set up Ambrose’s bed, covering it in towels that extend beyond the bed itself and onto the sofa.

  I sit down next to it and look at Ambrose who is lying there with his tongue out, panting softly, his head lolling off the edge of the cat bed.

  Then I see the shaved place on his leg, and a big oozing sore.

  “How did this happen?” I cry, stroking the fur around it.

  “There’s no way to know for sure, but he got some sort of a cut or puncture, and then it turned into an abscess. When I came over today at lunch to get him he didn’t come to me, so I finally found him under the bed. It was all swollen up and he was obviously not feeling well. But I couldn’t get ahold of you to find out where his vet is.”

  I stroke Ambrose on the head. “Oh God, I’m the worst cat sitter in the history of cat sitters. I didn’t even notice this morning. How could I have missed how sick he was?”

  “The vet I called said that these infections can come on fast, and cats are really prone to them.”

  “So you took him to someone?”

  “No, I was afraid to do that without knowing what his owner would want, but I called a vet advice line that one of the emergency animal hospitals runs. They told me his symptoms were classic, so I did what they said, clipped the fur around the swelling, put warm compresses on it, and hoped that it would open up and drain.”

  He gestures to his t-shirt, which I realize is the source of the horrendous odor. “It did. As I was holding him.”

  “So that’s…”

  “Puss. A lot of it.”

  I swallow down the gag. “It reeks,” I say, looking at him sympathetically.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” he answers dryly.

  I watch poor Ambrose again, noticing that he’s lying on a plastic cold pack. “What’s this for?” I point to it.

  “He has a fever.”

  “Do we need to be worried?”

  “Probably not, as long as the wound keeps draining like it has been. But the vet line also prescribed antibiotics, and I sent Vanya to pick them up for me.”

  I shake my head, amazed that Mick Petrovich spent an entire day taking care of my professor’s cat. My responsibility, that in all fairness, I’ve been shirking like crazy as I work seventy hours a week.

  “I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you,” I tell him. “If anything had happened to Ambrose my professor would have been devastated. She loves this cat so much.”

  “Well, now that you’re here—” He stands up and my heart races in panic. I don’t know how to take care of the cat. Mick’s the one who’s good at this stuff. He’s nurturing or something. I think he gets it from his Baba. “I’d like to go next door and shower and change. It’s almost time for his next round of warm compresses.”

  “Uh, how do I do that?”

  He winks at me. “Don’t worry, Solnishka, I won’t make you do it. Ambrose and I have it down to a science now. If I can have ten minutes to get the stench off, I’ll come back and take care of it.”

  Relief is like a cool refreshing wave that washes over me. “Oh, thank God,” I admit. “I didn’t have the first clue how I was going to manage that.”

  He chuckles as if he knew that already, then scratches Ambrose on the head and tells him he’ll be back soon.

  After he leaves, I coo to Ambrose, telling him how sorry I am that he doesn’t feel well. He stares up at me with his gold cat eyes and I swear I can see the accusations in them—I’m a crappy babysitter, it’s true.

  But when I talk about Mick, there’s nothing but feline hero worship in his face. “Yeah,” I tell him as I flop back against the sofa cushions, “he’s pretty amazing,
isn’t he?”

  25

  Mick

  It takes me closer to a half hour to shower and get back to Solana’s, in part because I find myself in a bit of a state after seeing her in her work clothes. I told her I understood why we can’t see each other anymore, and I meant it when I offered to be her friend, but damn, it’s been hard. Every time I go to get Ambrose or bring him back, I have to go into that apartment that reminds me of her, smells like her, has her things in it.

  Then I opened that door tonight after wondering for hours if she was all right, and there she stood, in a formfitting black skirt, not too short for the office, but short enough that it made me remember every smooth inch of those gorgeous thighs. The pristine white blouse she’d paired it with and her hair up in a messy bun of some sort completed the school teacher/librarian look, and woke my poor beleaguered cock up instantly.

  I swear, even poor oozing, smelly Ambrose didn’t kill the hard-on. So now I’m in the shower, shaft in hand, leaning my head against the tiles and remembering how plump her tits looked peeking out of the v-neck of that blouse. I caught a glimpse of cleavage, and damn, I know what those beautiful mounds of ivory flesh look like bare. Their rosy tips, and swollen nipples. I can almost taste them in my mouth now, like red cherries that you roll on your tongue before you bite into them and the juice squirts out, sweet but sour, rich, decadent.

  My dick swells and I stroke faster, my breath coming in pants as I picture running my hands down her curves, from breasts to hips. Then I’m slipping my fingers into her center, rubbing the slick arousal I find there. I stop stroking myself and grab some body wash, coating my palm with it before I take myself in hand again.

  Now I’m sliding inside her, and she’s so fucking tight and hot, and wet, her sweet body fitting around mine like a custom-made glove.

  “Jesus,” I gasp, as my balls draw up, tighter than a couple of springs ready to release.