Alexei (Chicago Blaze 5)

“You got lucky,” he says, his dark eyes loaded with judgment. “Broken wrist, dislocated hip, swelling on your brain and lots of cuts and bruises. But it should all heal.”

I look down at my right wrist, set in a cast, and decide it’s probably not the best time for a joke about being unable to jerk off.

“Did someone call Anton?” I ask, my voice gravelly. “And my coach?”

Dr. Harvey nods. “Your coach has been coming by to check on you, and your parents have been here, too. They went to their hotel to get some sleep.”

“The Carrs? Martin and Laura?”

“Yes. They said they’re your parents. They are family, right?”

“Yeah. Adoptive parents.”

“How are you feeling?”

I manage a single grunt of unamused laughter. “Like I got run over by a truck.”

“Soreness?”

“Not really, I’m just foggy.”

“Good. We’ve got you on a slow drip IV pain medication.”

“How long until I can play again?”

The doctor looks away. “I don’t know. It’s hard to say for sure.”

“But you said everything’s gonna heal, right? I’ll be able to play after this?”

He sighs heavily. “You need to focus on getting better for now. And when you’re up to it, the police want to talk to you.”

“Shit,” I mutter.

“I’ll let them explain things—”

I cut him off. “No, just tell me. What happened?”

“From what I understand, you veered off the side of the road, driving around 70 miles per hour, and drove about a quarter of a mile through a farmer’s field…before you ran into his barn.”

“That explains the cows,” I mutter.

“Sorry, what?”

I want to answer him, but it’s taking all my energy just to keep my eyelids open.

“Get some rest,” he says, standing up. “Bottom line is that you’ll be here for a few more days, and if all goes well you’ll be released into physical therapy.”

Not only can’t I answer him, I can’t even keep my eyes open anymore. Sleep takes over.* * *This time it’s easier to wake up. I blink as my eyes adjust to the light in the room. Then I wince at the sound of a loud, annoying female voice.

“You are a moron,” she says from the screen of the TV mounted in the top corner of my hospital room.

I sit up, trying to figure out where the damn remote is.

“Good, you’re awake,” a man says from a chair in the corner of my room. “I thought Judge Judy might do the trick.”

He stands up and walks over to my bed. I take in the nicely combed hair and fancy suit, trying to figure out who he is.

“Are you a cop?” I ask, my voice still raspy.

He arches his brows, looking amused. “No. I’m Olivier Durand.”

I scrunch my face in confusion. “The Chicago Blaze owner?”

“That’s right.”

“Am I still sleeping right now?”

Durand laughs and pulls a chair up to my bedside. “No, why?”

“I just…can’t figure out why my brother’s not here but his team owner is.”

“Anton’s fairly well pissed at you, Alexei.”

I scoff. “So he sent you to see me instead?”

“No.” Durand’s expression turns serious. “The Comets released you when they found out about the accident.”

My heart starts pounding at a rapid pace, like a machine gun in my chest. “Released?”

“Yes.”

“I’m their first line center. No fucking way they’d—”

Durand pulls a cell phone out of his pocket, passing it to me. “You’re welcome to call Tim if you want to confirm it.”

When he mentions the Comets owner by name, shit gets real. Durand has no reason to lie to me about this. I wave off his offer, willing my heart to stop hammering so hard.

“You can report to their minor league team after your rehab is complete,” Durand says.

I give him a look of absolute horror. I can’t believe I’ve been dropped by my team—it’s unheard of to just release a first line player this way.

“I’ll pay for the damages,” I say, still in disbelief. “The barn I hit, and anything else. I’m not trying to get away with anything. Is that what they think?”

“It’s not about the barn.” Durand’s tone is smooth, unbothered.

“Did I do something else? The doctor told me I hit a barn.”

Durand sighs softly. “You did, and your blood alcohol test came back at three times the legal limit.”

“Shit.”

“Are you surprised?” Durand cocks a brow.

I hesitate before saying, “I don’t know.”

“You shouldn’t be. Witnesses said you pounded enough vodka at that bar to knock out a horse.”

“Who’s fucking business is it how much I drink but mine?” I snap.

He shrugs. “No one’s, as long as you don’t mind giving up your driver’s license and playing for the Huntsville Hustlers.”

“Christ.” I look away, disgusted.

Durand clears his throat. “Look, I have to catch a flight back to Chicago soon, so I’ll be brief. I’m here because of your brother. He’s a good man I consider a friend, and he’s also my top player and team captain. So his state of mind is important to me.”