Olivier: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

by Brenda Rothert

  She’s giving me an expectant look, like she’s hoping I’ll ask her for something—anything—else. I size her up in a matter of two seconds. Heavily made up, smelling like a perfume factory, eyes big, lips slightly pursed while also turned up in a seductive smile. Yeah, this woman who doesn’t even look old enough to be a college graduate is hoping to serve me a lot more than drinks. It happens all the time, but it never used to aggravate me as much as it does right now.

  “No thanks,” I say, taking a sip of my drink.

  She nods, looking a little disappointed, but then she brightens back up in an instant. “Let me know if you think of anything I can do for you. Anything at all.”

  She holds my gaze and bites her lip before turning and walking out of the suite. Jill gives me an incredulous look.

  “What was that? Did someone recruit her from a street corner?”

  I shrug. “She’s just trying to do a good job. I think she’s new.”

  Jill balks. “She’s trying to make you her sugar daddy. Blatantly.”

  This is why I like Jill. In work situations, she doesn’t hold back when it’s just the two of us. She’s never afraid to tell me what she really thinks, even when she knows I won’t like it.

  “How many billions do I need to get that kind of attention?” Brian jokes, laughing.

  Jill gives him an icy glare.

  “It was a joke, babe,” he says, putting his hands up. “You know you’re the most beautiful woman in the world to me.”

  Jill is still fuming, though. “If she worked for me, we’d be having a talk right now.”

  “Based on what?” I ask. “She didn’t say anything inappropriate.”

  “The innuendo was there, and all three of us know it. I know you get it all the time, Olivier, but it’s infuriating for me as a woman to see other women sexualize themselves in the workplace.”

  I nod, because she’s not wrong. “I get what you’re saying.”

  “Other men aren’t as noble as you,” she says. “They take advantage.”

  Jill’s strong opinion on this reminds me so much of something Daphne would say that I feel a physical pang of longing for her. And Jill referring to her as my girlfriend earlier gave me a similar feeling.

  Now that Twitter users have collectively decided we’re a couple, the attention has actually died down. They seem to be satisfied that we rode off into the sunset together, as they were all lobbying for.

  It’s far from the truth, though. Even though I made my intentions clear during our lunch date, Daphne left things up in the air. She asked for time to think about things, which I thought would be a day or two, but it’s been a week and she hasn’t said anything about making a decision.

  Is it really that much to think about? I can tell she has feelings for me. The fact that she’s genuinely thinking about whether we should move forward excites and aggravates me at the same time.

  She’s the opposite of the women who throw themselves at me. Daphne’s making me work for it, and even then, she’s sure as hell not a sure thing.

  Maybe it’s time to write another check to Safe Harbor. Of all the charities Daphne cares about, surely none are as close to her heart as the one she works for. She doesn’t want to be wooed with jewelry or exotic trips—supporting the causes she cares about is the key to making Daphne weak in the knees.

  I promised myself I wouldn’t use my money to score points with her, but I’m not sure I can help myself. I want her to know that what matters to her matters to me, too. And with her decision about us still unmade, I need to try everything I can to win her over.

  Daphne’s too damn stubborn for her own good. If she would just let go of her doubts and give in to the way it feels for us to be together, she’d be here beside me right now.

  I glance at the empty chair and exhale hard, rubbing my forehead.

  The arena darkens, and the roar of the crowd dulls. The synchronized light, music and video show begins, images of the players and coaches projected onto the ice.

  Jill leans over and says, “This is fantastic, Olivier. I see why you like your Chicago office better.”

  I chuckle, because she’s right. It’s a drag to go back to New York anymore. Chicago is home to me and Giselle, and that’s partly because the Blaze players and staff are like family.

  Fans cheer wildly for their team, especially Jonah West, our goalie, and Anton Petrov, our team captain and first line center. Those two have always been the most popular.

  Seeing the team together on the ice, raising their sticks in greeting to the fans, fills me with a sense of pride.

  I may not be out there playing the game, but I’m still invested in every win and loss. There are many perks to being wealthy, but nothing compares to owning the Blaze.

  Once the puck drops, I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I’m careful to never let a camera catch me looking at my phone when I’m in my box during a game. I think that would be disrespectful to the players out there playing their hearts out.

  But Daphne is on my mind. I text her from the hallway outside my box.

  Me: How was your nephew’s party?

  Daphne: It was nice. He loves caramel so his cake had a layer of caramel filling and it was amazing. And he loved his gifts. He promised to make me lots of pictures with the art supplies I got him.

  Me: Glad you had a good time.

  I hesitate before sending the next text, because while it’s true, it makes me feel like a pathetic bastard. But fuck it. I’m going out of my mind.

  Me: I miss you.

  Daphne: Me too. Maybe we can have lunch this week?

  I want to ask her if we can have a three-hour lunch at my place, with about fifteen minutes dedicated to eating and the rest spent in bed, but I hold back.

  Me: Yeah, I’d like that.

  Daphne: Also, next Saturday I’m volunteering at a soup kitchen from 10 in the morning till around 2. Want to come with me?

  Me: Hmm. I’d like to, but will you be able to handle it?

  Daphne: What do you mean?

  Me: Last time you saw me being charitable, you got all hot and bothered. Can I expect the same this time?

  Daphne: I won’t lie…probably.

  Me: I’M IN.

  Daphne: The soup kitchen appreciates your kind, albeit horny, gesture.

  Me: I would have done it anyway. This will just make it more fun. Should I bring them a check, too?

  Daphne: That’s your call, but they are strapped for supplies right now, so I know it would make a big difference for them.

  Me: Done. You need more volunteers? I could ask some of my players to come, too.

  Daphne: They always need people to pack the boxes people can pick up, but they’re so low on supplies that I’m not sure how much packing there is right now. I can ask, though.

  Me: I’ll have my assistant coordinate with them. We’ll get supplies delivered and have people there to help pack on Saturday morning. But the guys have a game that night, so they won’t be able to stay until 2.

  Daphne: Anything at all would be amazing. Thank you.

  Me: Glad to do it. And what day is good for lunch?

  Daphne: Tuesday?

  Me: Sure, I’ll text you about lunch and you text me the name of the soup kitchen.

  Daphne: Okay.

  Me: Have to get back to the game. Talk soon.

  Daphne: Okay, see you soon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Daphne

  “Look at this!” Marla Cook cries, leading me back to the warehouse area of Annie’s Kitchen, the soup kitchen where I’m volunteering. “Every shelf is full! We didn’t even have enough room for all of it. The rest is in my garage right now.”

  “Wow.”

  I scan the shelves, which are now loaded with boxes and cans of nonperishable food. I’ve never seen this much food at Annie’s in the year I’ve been volunteering here. Olivier really came through.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Daphne.” Marla takes both of my hands in
hers, tears shining in her eyes. “This is going to make a big difference for a lot of people.”

  “It wasn’t me. Thank Olivier Durand.”

  She nods. “I plan to. But he said you told him we needed some help. And if you hadn’t, this never would have happened.”

  “I wish I could take credit, but when I told him, it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t trying to get him to give anything, he just…offered.”

  “Girl, where can I find me a hot billionaire who will rescue me from my burning car and donate lots of money to good causes?”

  I smile. “We’re not officially together or anything.”

  She scoffs. “Well, unofficially, that man has it bad for you. And you deserve it. Good things happen to good people. I always say that.”

  “It is pretty amazing that he managed all of this so quickly,” I murmur.

  “Well, he had help. You know he owns Madeleine, right?”

  I lower my brows in confusion. “No, what’s that?”

  “The shelter for women and children on the South Side. It has that restaurant attached to it, Madeleine. I think the shelter is called The Madeleine Durand Home, after his mother.”

  A light comes on. How could I have forgotten the name of that shelter, and made the connection to him? And why hasn’t he ever mentioned it?

  “I didn’t know that, actually,” I admit to Marla.

  “They train homeless people for food service work there. The restaurant does pretty well, I think, but I’ve heard there’s still a deficit because of the shelter, and Durand covers all of that.”

  A few people walk into the storage room, all of them oohing and ahhing over the fully stocked shelves.

  “Is this for real?” a man asks, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen so much food at once.”

  I smile and take part in the conversation, but inside, I’m reeling over Marla’s revelation about Olivier. The first time we met, he could have told me he was the benefactor for Madeleine, and it would have impressed me. So why didn’t he?

  The storage room gets louder as a new group of people comes in. It’s a bunch of men, several women and a few kids.

  “Hi, I’m Anton Petrov,” one of the men says to Marla. “We’re all together, from the Blaze. Here to help with whatever we can for the next couple of hours.”

  “Oh!” Marla’s face lights up. “Welcome, all of you. We’re so grateful you’re here. There are boxes to pack, chickens to cook, potatoes to peel and pie crusts to make.”

  I look around at the faces in the Blaze group, not recognizing anyone but still feeling a connection to them through Olivier. The men are all tall and built, and they seem to have a strong bond, joking with each other and smiling.

  “Hey there,” a deep voice says in my ear as an arm slides around my waist.

  My heart rate kicks up as I turn, taking in the light, woodsy scent of Olivier’s cologne, which is becoming familiar to me in a very good way. I half expect him to kiss me, feeling a twinge of disappointment when he doesn’t. But he keeps his arm around my waist as Marla gives everyone directions on box packing.

  “How are you at peeling potatoes?” I ask Olivier, turning to look up at him.

  “Expert level.”

  I lower my brows, skeptical. “How many potatoes have you peeled?”

  “You mean ever?”

  “Yes.”

  “I peeled a lot of them as a kid. Probably more than you did.”

  He has a point. I give him a sheepish look. “Probably.”

  “Mr. Durand!”

  Marla is rushing toward us, her arms outstretched.

  “Olivier, please,” he says just before she crashes into him with a hug, squeezing him and rocking back and forth as she talks.

  “You’re an angel,” she says. “I can’t tell you how much your generosity means to all of us. And you smell real good, too.”

  She pulls away and gives me an appreciative look. “I suppose the two of you want to work at a station together?”

  “Whatever you need us to do,” I say.

  “Want to cook and bone chickens? It’s not the most glamorous job, but it needs to be done.”

  “Sure, we’ll do that,” Olivier says.

  We’re walking toward the kitchen when a tall man with dark hair and a dark beard stops Olivier, saying, “Hey, boss,” and extending his hand for a handshake.

  “Knox, how’s it going?”

  “Not bad. Did you catch the game last night?”

  “I never miss a chance to see you guys hand Nashville their asses.” Olivier gestures at me. “Knox, this is Daphne Barrington. Daph, this is Knox Deveraux, one of the Blaze players.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Knox says, shaking my hand and then looking over his shoulder. “My wife Reese is here somewhere. Probably in the kitchen.”

  “We’re heading in there to cook chicken. We’ll find her,” Olivier says.

  “Okay, see you tonight,” Knox says with a wave.

  “You want to come to a hockey game tonight?” Olivier asks me as we walk to the kitchen.

  “I’m babysitting my nephews.”

  “That’s right. You told me that at lunch the other day, I just forgot.”

  Marla opens the door to a walk-in refrigerator. “We’re serving chicken potpie for dinner tonight. There are about a hundred forty chickens over here that need cooked and boned.”

  Olivier leans over and whispers in my ear. “You didn’t tell me this would be so dirty.”

  “I taped instructions to the cabinet beside the stove,” Marla says. “And you can use one of the wheeled carts to move the chickens into the cooking area of the kitchen. Disinfect all surfaces after. There’s cleaner by the sink in the kitchen. Any questions, just find me.”

  “Got it,” I say, nodding.

  Marla leaves us alone in the walk-in and Olivier leans down and gives me a quick, soft kiss.

  “You ever done this before?” he asks.

  “Cooking and boning chickens? I can’t say I have.”

  “I helped my mom in the kitchen, but never with this part. I guess we’ll both learn something new today.”

  We start loading chickens onto a cart, and I feel Olivier’s gaze on me as we work. Like always, it makes me warm all over. I’m wishing he’d push me up against a wall and fuck my brains out right now, even though I know we can’t actually do that.

  At least, not here and not now.

  I finish wiping down the last counter and drop my towel into the dirty laundry bin, peeking around the corner to see what Olivier is up to. It looks like he’s still talking to Marla and Reese, who are telling him about their budgets and needs.

  He glances up and meets my gaze, a smile tugging on his lips as he excuses himself.

  “Sorry I didn’t get to help you finish cleaning up,” he says as he approaches me.

  “It’s okay. You did most of the chicken grossness, so let’s call it even.”

  It turns out that pulling meat from the bones of a chicken is a hot, sometimes slimy job. I was much slower at it than Olivier. For as much as I’ve thought of him as a member of the elite, he’s actually a hard worker, and he’s efficient.

  “I may smell like chicken for the next decade or so,” he says, smelling his hands. “I’ve washed my hands several times since we finished, but it’s still there.”

  “We contributed chicken to more than three hundred potpies, though.”

  “We did.”

  There’s a tightness in my stomach as he steps closer to me, putting his hands on my hips. I put an arm around his neck and run my fingers up into his hair, setting my other palm on his chest. I may not know what I want overall, but I know what I want in this moment.

  “I have a couple hours until I have to get ready to go babysit,” I whisper.

  “Yeah?”

  “I need a shower, but my shower is really big. It’s actually a bit lonely, too.”

  I feel him hardening against my lower belly, and suddenly the twenty to thirty minutes
it’ll take to get back to my apartment feels like forever.

  “Let’s go,” Olivier says, taking my hand and leading the way.

  I grab my bag and we say a quick goodbye to everyone we know who’s still at the soup kitchen. Ben is waiting in front of Annie’s Kitchen in a dark SUV, and Olivier and I sneak into the back before he even sees us.

  “We’re going to Daphne’s apartment,” Olivier says, taking my hand in his again.

  Though we make small talk on the drive there, I know Olivier’s mind is thinking of what’s about to happen, just like I am. As soon as we reach my apartment building, we dash up the stairs and I unlock the door. We hurriedly push inside and I drop my bag on the ground, reaching for Olivier as he slams the door closed and turns the lock.

  “I want you so fucking bad,” he says in a low tone. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  He takes my face in his hands and kisses me, his mouth hot and demanding. We pull at each other’s clothes, leaving a trail of shirts, socks, and twisted up pants as we slowly make our way to the bathroom.

  “Tell me you brought condoms this time,” I say as Olivier picks me up and sets me on the bathroom counter, tugging my panties off as I lift my hips.

  “I did.” He nips at my earlobe and then kisses his way down to my shoulder, taking my bra off and dropping it on the floor.

  “These,” he says, cupping my breasts with just enough pressure to make me moan. “I’ve been thinking about these every waking minute, Daph.”

  He leans down and takes a nipple between his lips, sucking, nipping and swirling the tip of his tongue around until I’m panting with desire. Then he moves to the other one, his hand sliding up my thigh and between my legs as he does.

  He lets out a long groan and I know he feels how wet I am for him. I want to take a long, hot shower with him, build the tension between us, but I don’t have the patience.

  “Now,” I say, tugging on his hair. “Fuck me now.”

  He huffs out a husky laugh and runs back into the living room where his pants are to get a condom. I glance down and see that I’m not in the most flattering position sitting on the counter, my tummy rolls showing, but judging by his erection when he walks back in the room, sliding a condom on, Olivier doesn’t mind.