Anton (Chicago Blaze 1) - Page 3

My brother was born with a natural talent for the game of hockey. When our parents sent us to Detroit at age five to live and train with a top youth ice hockey coach, Martin Carr, Alexei took to it right away. He was skating circles around me within the first week. The stick seemed like a natural extension of his arm, doing exactly what he wanted right when he wanted.

Training was mandatory six mornings a week, Monday through Saturday. And every Sunday morning, while my brother slept in and watched cartoons, I trained anyway. I had to bust my ass to master every skill, practicing harder and harnessing my frustration over falling short to Alexei.

The tide turned in high school, when my dedication in the weight room helped me become faster than my brother. We competed like never before over the first line center position on our team, him constantly bitching to me about actually having to train for once. The position went back and forth between us all four years, our coach thrilled at the good fortune of never having to ask us to work our asses off.

Hard work is in our blood. It’s the Russian in us. Our childhood there wasn’t easy, but it toughened us both up.

“Why settle for less than your best?” I ask Alexei.

It’s a familiar refrain. I’ve never been able to hide my frustration over my brother’s lackadaisical attitude. He drinks like he has a hollow leg and eats like a death row inmate every day.

“Fuck off, Anton,” he says. “You won. Enjoy it and quit bitching at me like a mother hen. And again,” he points at his chest, “leading the league in goals scored.”

I point at myself. “Highest paid.”

My twin turns his finger and points it at me. “Biggest asshole.”

“Biggest dick, too.” I look down at my crotch and grin. “Literally.”

He snorts. “Yeah, but is it doing you much good, Father Anton?”

I shake my head at his use of my teammates’ nickname for me. Not sure why they’re all so fixated on my sex life. Or lack thereof.

“I’m in a dry spell,” I admit.

“By choice. You can get ass anytime you want.”

“So why does it matter whether I want to?”

Alexei shrugs and lifts his empty glass, signaling to the server for another beer. “Why wouldn’t a man want to get laid? You having trouble getting it up?”

“Hell no.” I glare at him.

“Well then…?”

“Back off.”

I look from side to side, tense about our conversation being overheard. I get plenty of shit from my teammates over not being with a woman in so long; I sure as hell don’t need other people hearing about it.

Alexei looks amused as he speaks to me in a low tone. “This is the most private table in the place, Annie.”

“Don’t call me that, shithead. I’ll beat your ass.”

He puts up his hands, conceding. “Fine. Sorry. And look, it’s not the sex itself I’m wondering about. It’s the why. Knox told me you haven’t been with anyone in more than a year. What’s going on with you?”

I make a mental note to tell that second line center to fuck off. “Knox needs to shut his trap.”

“Are you with someone?” Alexei’s amusement seems to grow. “Look, I know I talk a lot of shit about commitment, but man, you are tailor made for it. If you’re in a relationship, you don’t need to hide it from me.”

“Christ, you’re a narcissist. Not everything is about you.”

“Well then…? This conversation is starting to feel like asking a woman where she wants to get dinner. Will you just answer the fucking question?”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

My brother scoffs with annoyance. “That doesn’t work with me, prick. We tell each other everything. I even told you about that rash I got on my junk after I went scuba diving.”

“Yeah, and I’m so glad you did.” I roll my eyes.

“Just spill it, asshole.”

I get a brief respite when the server brings a fresh beer for Alexei and fills up my water. But as soon as he leaves, Alexei’s expectant expression returns.

“Look, I don’t want you telling Knox or—”

He turns serious. “I’d never tell anyone. You know that.”

I nod. I do know that. And while my brother and I keep in close contact by phone and text, this dinner is a rare chance for us to catch up on stuff that matters in person. The staff at Robertson’s always saves us this back corner table, where no one approaches for autographs or eavesdrops on our conversations.

“There’s someone I’m interested in,” I admit.

Alexei brightens. “Good. What’s the issue, then? It’s not like you’re shy.”

“It’s complicated.” I take my time eating a bite of chicken, trying to figure out how to placate him without actually saying too much.

“Don’t give me that bullshit. Spell it out. What’s complicated about it? Is she underage? In prison? Actually a man?”

Tags: Brenda Rothert Chicago Blaze Romance
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