Olivier: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

by Brenda Rothert

  I wrinkle my forehead. “Why? I just work at a nonprofit.” But then it dawns. “Because of my father, right?”

  The doctor hesitates. “Yes, and also because of the man who rescued you.”

  “Why?”

  “Well…it was Olivier Durand.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  He smiles. “He’s a billionaire tech guy. Owns the Chicago Blaze.”

  “The owner of an NHL hockey team saved me?”

  “He did. You’ll see it in the videos, if you decide to watch them. He came flying down the shoulder of the road like a bat out of hell and didn’t hesitate to go into that car to get you.”

  My head drops back against the pillow behind my head. I don’t know what to say. It’s all so much to take in.

  “We’re going to let you rest,” the doctor says. “Is there anything we can get you?”

  “Um…water. Just water.”

  “I’ll make sure you’re stocked up,” Terry says. “Do you want your family in here, or should I tell them you want to rest?”

  “Rest.” She turns to go and I stop her. “Terry?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I don’t want Aiden in here. I don’t care what my parents say, he’s my ex, and…” I start to cough and reach for my cup of water.

  “That’s all you need to say,” she says. “He won’t be allowed in here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You just rest, Daphne. And push that call button if you need me.”

  “Can you ask my sister Julia to stay? I want to see her when I wake up.”

  “I sure will.”

  “Thank you.”

  She leaves the room and when I’m alone with my thoughts, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. A stranger risked his life to save me. I’m alive. I’m going to be okay.

  I still have so many questions, but for now, that’s enough.

  Chapter Three

  Three weeks later

  Olivier

  I shake my head as the Chicago Blaze Public Relations Manager, Dana Malone, updates me on today’s social media frenzy.

  “Olidaph was the top trending hashtag on Twitter yesterday.” There’s a note of satisfaction in her tone.

  “No.” I groan and bury my head in my hands. “We’re not happy about this, Dana. I feel like a celebrity being stalked by the paparazzi. I need this to end.”

  Dana shrugs. “I don’t know what more we can do, Mr. Durand. You and your daughter have laid as low as possible, and Daphne Barrington has, too. Honestly, I think the air of mystery is only adding to the fervor.”

  Since the accident, my offices in Chicago and New York have been hounded with phone calls day and night, not just from reporters but from average people who want to encourage me to become romantically involved with Daphne.

  A video taken by an onlooker at the accident scene went viral on Twitter about twenty-four hours later. After I spent three nights in the hospital for second-degree burns to my forearm and a lot of bumps and bruises, I had to sneak out of the hospital in an ambulance to avoid the crowd of reporters and photographers waiting for me.

  The man who helped me into Daphne Barrington’s car that day caught her when I pushed her out of the car and rushed her to safety. Two paramedics caught me and followed. Not even thirty seconds later, Daphne’s car exploded. It’s a sobering video; I was only able to watch it one time.

  The rest of the world, though, can’t seem to get enough. And they’ve apparently decided that since both Daphne and I are single, we should be a couple now.

  “I know you’re opposed to it, but I think you need to consider doing an interview,” Dana says. “Tell them you wish Miss Barrington well but have no interest in a romantic relationship. Once the question is answered, the attention will die down quickly.”

  I stand up from the chair behind my desk and walk over to the other side of my office, where my collection of prized hockey memorabilia is displayed.

  “Senator Barrington’s press conference wasn’t enough?” I ask Dana.

  “No. People don’t want to see him—they either want to see his daughter or you.”

  Groaning, I walk back over to my desk. I’m considering Dana’s idea of doing an interview when my assistant Hassan walks into my office, his cell phone in hand.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I just got a Google alert and I thought you’d want to know. Senator Barrington’s office just released a video statement from Daphne Barrington.”

  I sit down at my desk and slide my reading glasses on, then Google the video statement. Dana and Hassan come around to watch the video with me.

  A beautiful woman with blond wavy hair that falls just past her shoulders comes onto the screen. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with the word “Equality” on it.

  “Hi guys,” she says, smiling softly. “I’m Daphne Barrington. I just wanted to say thank you so much for all your prayers and well wishes after my accident. I know there’s been a lot of news coverage about it, and my father’s office is getting inundated with calls about me, so I decided to do this video to update everyone.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I’m doing okay. I have a broken ankle and I have to wear a special boot for now. There’s a burn on my arm that’s healing well. Other than that, I was extra tired for the first week after the accident, but I’m good now. I’ve been staying at my parents’ house not only so I can heal, but because there are people staked out at my apartment and at my place of work. I appreciate your interest in my story, truly, but I just want to get back to my everyday life. Olivier Durand is a hero—he’s my hero, absolutely—but I imagine he also wants to go back to everyday life. I’m sure he’s a very nice man, and I hope to thank him in person one day for what he did for me, but there’s no romantic involvement between us. That’s all I wanted to say, and…while I have your attention, please consider a donation to Safe Harbor, the homeless advocacy organization I work for. It’s tax-deductible. My dad’s video people are going to put the web address at the end of this video. Thank you.”

  As soon as the Safe Harbor web address pops onto the screen, it’s all I can do not to reach for my keyboard and restart the video so I can see Daphne’s face again.

  She’s stunning. It’s not just her beauty, but the sound of her voice, the way she speaks, and her obvious reluctance to be in the spotlight. I’d seen still photos of her that her father’s office released after the accident, but they must have been old pictures.

  I hardly gave the smiling young blond in those photos a second glance. But now, she has a different presence. A certainty.

  “How old is she?” I ask.

  “Thirty-one,” Dana answers.

  Older than in her photos, but still ten years younger than me. I close my computer screen, dismissing my attraction to her. I don’t even know Daphne Barrington. How could I possibly be drawn to her based on a one-minute video clip? She might not even be single.

  This Twitter thing must be getting to my head.

  There’s a knock on my office door, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Come in,” I call.

  Alex, the head of the security detail I had to hire after I got out of the hospital, walks into my office.

  “Mr. Durand, Sean says they got your daughter home safely.”

  “Thanks, Alex.”

  He nods, looking every bit the former Secret Service agent he is in his dark suit. “Let me know if you need anything else; I’ll be in our office.”

  I had to set up a temporary office space for the security team at the Carson Center, the arena where the Blaze play that also houses the team’s corporate offices, and also at my downtown Chicago apartment. They’ve turned a guest bedroom in my apartment into surveillance central.

  On cue, my sixteen-year-old daughter’s face pops up on my cell phone screen as it rings.

  “Hello, Giselle,” I say in answer. “How was your day?”

  “When can I drive my own car again?”

  “I don’t know yet; i
t’ll be up to the security team.”

  She groans dramatically. “This is ridiculous. I’m tired of being driven around in dark SUVs like I’m a celebrity or something.”

  “It’s for your safety,” I remind her.

  “Dad, no one cares about me. The reporters want to talk to you.”

  Dana and Hassan slip out of my office, probably because they’ve worked for me long enough to know these after school phone conversations with my teenage daughter often put me in a salty mood.

  “This won’t last forever,” I tell Giselle. “Now tell me how your day was.”

  “Just the usual bullshit.”

  “Language,” I admonish half-heartedly.

  “What? There’s literally no other word for it. I’m learning quadratic equations. How often do you use quadratic equations in your job?”

  “It’s about having a well-rounded education.”

  She sighs. “Whatever. What are we having for dinner?”

  “Whatever my beautiful daughter wants. I’ll be home by six. Do you want to go out?”

  “No.”

  I look up at the ceiling, wondering where my sweet, adoring child went. These days Giselle is surly at worst and ambivalent at best.

  “Well, what sounds good?” I ask her.

  “I’ll just get something here. I’m going to be doing homework in my room.”

  “As long as something isn’t Oreos and cheese.”

  “It’s food.”

  “Giselle.”

  “I have to go, Dad. Try not to run into any burning buildings on your way home.”

  “Bye, Giselle.”

  “Bye.”

  I click onto my schedule on my computer, glad to see I only have one more meeting today. Even people I meet with about the Blaze or my other business dealings ask me about the accident, my injuries, and whether I’ve seen Daphne since. I’m sure she gets the same inquiries, and she’s probably tired of hearing my name.

  The aftermath of the accident threw not only my life into a tailspin, but also my daughter’s. And things were already pretty rough for her. Her mother and I divorced when she was eight, but we’ve gotten along since and shared custody of her.

  Until last year, that is, when I dropped Giselle off at Renee’s after we’d spent a weekend together and Renee told Giselle she was dating someone new. Or rather, someones.

  Renee somehow hit it off with both a new guy and his wife. She’d been in a longtime relationship with a man I got along well with, but she broke it off with him to date the couple who are her also her neighbors. Giselle took it rough, because kids can be assholes and the teasing was merciless.

  Now she’s with me full-time, and I’m learning how to navigate not just raising a teenage girl, but raising a teenage girl with depression. Most of the time, it takes all the energy and patience I have left after a long day at the office.

  The attention from her mom being part of a throuple had died down, and then the accident happened. Giselle pretends the whole thing is just annoying to her, but I can see the feelings she’s hiding—that video was hard for her to see. Her dad came close to dying.

  Never did I imagine I was that close to death. My mind just didn’t go there in that moment. Someone needed help, and that was that. I never even saw Daphne that day.

  An IM from Hassan pops up on my computer screen.

  Hassan: Anton Petrov is here to see you. Send him in?

  Me: Yes, thanks.

  The captain and star player of the Blaze comes into my office a few seconds later.

  “Anton,” I say, standing up and smiling. “Good to see you.”

  “You’re looking better,” he says as he walks over to a chair in front of my desk. “How’s it going?”

  Nearly the entire team, and all the coaching staff, came to see me when I was in the hospital. That meant a lot to me. I try hard not to be a demanding, overbearing owner, but tough decisions often fall to me, and then I have to live with the consequences.

  “Pretty good, how about you?” I ask.

  “Can’t complain. I didn’t really want anything, just wanted to check in. I saw earlier that you’re still trending on Twitter.” He grins. “Hashtag Olidaph, right?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “Any plans to meet up with the woman you rescued?”

  “No.”

  “Anything Mia and I can do to help? You’re always welcome to crash at our place if the reporters get to be too much. Just don’t be surprised if we disappear suddenly and you find yourself babysitting our girls for the night.”

  “I’m good, but thanks.”

  He stands up. “I can’t stay, but I’m glad you’re doing okay.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that. I hope you guys will come over for dinner soon.”

  “Yeah, sounds good.”

  We say our goodbyes and the intercom on my phone beeps just as Anton’s walking out of my office.

  “Hi, Hassan,” I say in answer.

  “Your doctor’s office is on Line One with some test results. They wouldn’t talk to me; they said it has to be you.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Test results? I didn’t know there were any test results still pending. I furrow my brow as I push the Line One button.

  “This is Olivier Durand.”

  “Hi, Mr. Durand, please don’t hang up. This is Sabrina Connor. I’m with Chicago Now online magazine, and—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  I hang up, then press the button to silence my office phone. Fucking vultures. I can’t wait for something else to come along and steal the media spotlight. I’m entirely over it, and it sounds like Daphne is, too.

  Chapter Four

  Daphne

  A knock on my bedroom door interrupts my reading, and I sigh heavily as I put my book down and say, “What?”

  “Honestly, Daphne, you sound like a surly teenager,” my mother says as she comes into the room. “I know I taught you better manners than that.”

  She taught me very little, actually. How to host parties and frequently redecorate the rooms in your three homes aren’t exactly life skills toddlers need to learn. But still, I would have loved to help with those. She blew me and my sisters off, though, leaving us in the care of nannies.

  “I’m in the middle of a book,” I tell her.

  She glares at me, expression dramatic as always. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. What are you doing in bed? You said you’re completely recovered.”

  I glare back, because I am completely recovered, but my parents still won’t let me go back to my apartment in the city. It’s been nearly a month since the accident. My bruises and soreness have faded, and all that’s left now is the boot I have to wear when walking for the next couple weeks.

  Still, my parents say they’re worried for my safety because of the reporters and photographers trying to get even a glimpse of me.

  Give them a glimpse, I keep saying. Let them ask their questions and take their pictures and then they’ll leave me alone. But my parents are extra careful, especially given that my dad was shot at during a political rally a couple years ago. He wasn’t hit, thank God, but one of his aides was, and he didn’t survive.

  “I wouldn’t be in bed if I could get out of here and go to work,” I tell my mom. “All I can do is read, so I might as well be comfortable.”

  She picks up the book I was reading, which is about how to communicate with people who have PTSD. A substantial number of the homeless people I work with have it, formally diagnosed or not, especially veterans. I’ve been wanting to read this book and a few others for a while, but with the hours I work, I haven’t had time until now.

  “What in the world is this?” My mom wrinkles her nose as she looks at the book cover. “Why aren’t you reading that book by Kathie Lee I gave you?”

  “I’m not interested in it.”

  She huffs out the sigh I’ve become all too familiar with over the years—in which she thinks of herself
as a saint for enduring the life of a wealthy white woman with three equally privileged daughters.

  “Listen.” She tosses the book onto my bed and sits down on the duvet cover, back perfectly straight as always. “There’s someone downstairs for you.”

  “For me?”

  I light up inside at the thought that someone—anyone—from my actual life might be here to visit. I left the life of mansions and money behind thirteen years ago when I went to college, and I don’t enjoy even brief visits to my parents’ home that remind me how lavish their lifestyle is.

  Staying with them since I was released from the hospital has been awful. I know they mean well, but I’m dying to get back to my cramped 350 square foot studio apartment with a leaky toilet, no working stove and a view of an alley.

  “I called her, actually,” my mom says. “She’s a makeup artist. I also had my stylist send over a few outfits.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” I ask, brows lowered.

  “I want you to look your best for dinner tonight.” She flashes me a smile.

  I groan, knowing she’s got something up her perfectly tailored sleeve. It feels like I’m a teenager again, and she’s explaining to me why I have to be on my A-game for an event with one of my father’s big donors or political allies. Or why I have to be a good ambassador for Barrington Enterprises, the company now owned and controlled by Grandma Jo that’s been in our family since the 1800s.

  She doesn’t control me anymore, though. It took me a long time to establish boundaries with my family, and I’m not letting go of them.

  “I think a T-shirt and Hello Kitty pants is actually perfect for an evening in bed with my book,” I say, smiling back.

  “You aren’t having dinner in bed, Daphne. Honestly, stop acting like an invalid. You’ll come down to the dining room like a civilized person, just like you’ve done every night for the past week.”

  “I might,” I say, shrugging. “It depends on who you invited and whether I feel like seeing them. If you’re trying to get me and Aiden back together again, don’t.”

  She’s examining herself in the mirror hanging over the dresser in the guest room that used to be my bedroom, smoothing her salt and pepper bob.