So Over You

by Kate Meader

Darken his name with Isobel.

  I don’t care if your father is Joseph Fucking Stalin, I will end you if you come near her again, Petrov. She’s going to make history, but not if she has to play second fiddle to your career.

  Of course he’d had help. Between Clifford Chase and Sergei Petrov, Vadim’s own father, any chance he’d had with Isobel was destroyed.

  The KHL was not such a bad training ground. The money was terrible compared to the NHL, but Vadim didn’t need money. And Lord knew his father was pleased to have him close to home again, away from the potentially bad influence of Victoria Wallace, not that he’d heard from her. His own mother, only one time zone away in New York, and she made no effort to connect with the son she left behind when he was ten years old.

  It was in the past—both his mother and Isobel. Five years ago, he had started his pro career in North America, his exile at an end. His life so far had been based in Canada, and while his forays into the States for away games placed temptation in his way, only once had he given in to his urge to see the Girl with the Blazing Skates.

  It had ended disastrously.

  He turned to Alexei, who was now shoveling what looked like a half dozen scrambled eggs onto a plate. Fucker. Now he placed his plate on the table and sat, knife and fork at the ready, a precursor to more “advice.”

  “You will let her control your destiny again. This is not the Petrov way.”

  Vadim pushed back his plate, annoyed because Alexei was right. Petrov men determined their own fates, and they certainly did not allow a woman to own them—on or off the ice.

  “I will handle Isobel Chase,” Vadim said with more assurance than he felt. “Now eat your eggs, you old fool.”

  “Again.”

  With one foot crossed over the other, Vadim rounded one of the face-off circles at the end of the rink, then continued in a figure eight around the other one. With each completed circuit, his anger bubbled beneath his usually calm surface. Finally he’d had enough, so he braked in a cloud of ice shavings.

  “Again.” Completely devoid of emotion, Isobel repeated the instruction.

  He went again.

  Boiled again.

  Stopped again.

  “A—”

  “—gain?”

  She blew out a breath. “I didn’t tell you to stop, so that’s all you’re going to hear from me until I do tell you to stop.”

  “I know how to skate crossovers, Isobel. I’ve been skating since I was three years old.”

  She placed her iPad down on the bench and glided over to him. For a tall woman, she displayed remarkable grace and fluidity, but then those qualities had been the first things he’d noticed about her. Isobel Chase had remarkable talent, was a natural-born skater. Back then, he had tried to give her tips, only to discover that she needed nothing of the sort from him.

  No, her needs had been more primal.

  “How’s your knee?”

  Sore. “Fine.”

  “Then why aren’t you bending it more? You can never have enough knee bend. Every part of your skating motion depends on getting lower.”

  She waved him off, so he backed up a few strides. Starting on her right foot, she circled the ice, staying close to the painted line, her knees bent perfectly as she brought her body low.

  He could watch her all day.

  “I do not have your center of gravity. I won’t be getting that low.”

  “You used to bend your knee more.”

  She skated back over to the bench, and he was rather annoyed to find his gaze fixed on her ass in the snug confines of her tracksuit pants. Perfectly heart shaped, it made his fingers twitch in his gloves, so he was relieved when she retrieved the iPad and skated back. A couple of taps, and she pulled up a video from last season taken before the injury that had torn up his knee meniscus.

  “See how low you’re getting there?”

  He leaned in to view the screen, the proximity allowing him to inhale her scent. Peppermint. Hibiscus. Bella.

  Memories flooded his senses, making his mouth water and his cock hard. Please, Vadim, I need you. So bad. Only you.

  Now the skate was on the other foot, because he needed her to get approved for play again. And here she was with her ridiculous instructions to bend his knee and “get lower.” As if he could not figure that out for himself. He was a professional!

  “Your skating stride is so much smoother here. Now you’re overcompensating by leaning on your noninjured side.”

  “My knee is fine.”

  She made a sound—was that a growl? His cock certainly thought so.

  “This isn’t going to work if you lie to me. I don’t want you to overdo it and risk reinjury.”

  “You worry about this little job you have been assigned. I will worry about my health.”

  She clutched the iPad to her chest. Her considerable rack, if he was being honest, and he was always honest with himself. She had not been so well endowed years ago. At that time, she was barely a woman, tall and strong, but with no curves to speak of. Now she had an ass he wanted to take a bite out of and breasts he wanted to suck deep and long.

  Intolerable.

  “This little job is the difference between you playing and not. Dancing with the Stars, Vaddy baby. It’s where all the washed-up pros end up.”

  Annoyed at his reaction to her, he skated away, throwing out over his shoulder, “I will be playing, Isobel. You will have no say in that. I spoke with Moretti—it is clear why you have this job.”

  Her brow crimped. Naturally, it was adorable. “Please. Enlighten me.”

  “He is new and no doubt under pressure to bow to the owners. You can write your own ticket.”

  “If that’s the case, I’d just appoint myself as head coach and be done with it.”

  “You are also conscious of what the fans and media think, so you are starting small. Really, you could have called or texted, Isobel. Buying my contract seems like a lot of work to bring me back into your world.”

  “You weren’t my first choice. But luckily your poor play this season meant Quebec was happy to offload you.”

  He ignored the brief stab. The last six months had been difficult. Isobel understood this, yet they could not resist these little cuts.

  “I think you wanted to be closer to me. Just like before, right, Bella?”

  A blush crept up her cheeks on hearing his endearment for her.

  He would test her. Make her angry and emotional. Make her cry. Because angry, emotional crying was not the stuff of coaches. If she was serious about a career in the NHL, she would hear worse.

  She would get him game fit. He would get her battle ready.

  He continued to needle. “Yes, I think that must be it. It seems that the female owners of the Rebels would like to abuse their position and use the players for their personal pleasure. Your sister and Remy DuPre—that is interesting.”

  “Is it?”

  “Harper may have duped a Rebel player into her bed, but please don’t imagine you and I will be renewing our acquaintance in a similar manner.”

  That got her attention, at last. Her creamy skin blazed, her crimson mouth twitched, and even from a distance he could see those melted-shamrock eyes darken. She looked like she wanted to scream at him. Burst into tears. Slap his face.

  Yes, Bella. Let us see if you can handle the barbs of every player, coach, and fan who will dismiss you. Let us see if you can handle me.

  Fury powering her stride, she skated over, skidding to a halt mere inches from his face. As before, she was magnificent.

  “You’ve found me out, Petrov.”

  “I have?”

  “It’s all an elaborate ruse. We bought your contract even though you really haven’t been performing well this season. Let’s face it, you’ve sucked donkey balls, Vadikins. But I convinced my sisters that I alone could bring you back to top condition. Make you a valuable asset to the team. I also made sure I’d be the only one working with you . . .” She leaned up on the ti
ps of her blades, a balancing act that required great skill and remarkable ankle strength. Close enough that he could have slipped his tongue between her lips and tasted hers.

  Her breath was a hot puff of temptation. “So we would have all this alone time.”

  With that fiery gaze, she held his own.

  Unerring.

  Unflinching.

  Until her mouth creased, and she broke into a laugh. He remembered that laugh. Just as before, it hit him right in the balls.

  She used the edge of the iPad to poke him in the chest. “You thought I’d go to all this trouble to try to get into your hockey shorts, Petrov? I’m a team owner—I can have any of these Rebels boys with the snap of my fingers!” She chuckled, clearly enjoying herself. “Despite what that supersized ego of yours thinks, the only performance I want from you is on the ice. Maybe if you spent less time carousing—”

  “Carousing?”

  “Yes, it’s nicer than calling you a club-hopping, vodka-sodden manwhore. Less of that and more effort on your day job, please. And don’t worry yourself that I’m interested in ‘renewing our acquaintance.’ I’ve had better lays with the Ukrainian delegation at the last Games.”

  He had to say he enjoyed this sharp-tongued, quick-witted version of Isobel. But not enough to admit it to her.

  “There is nothing you can teach me.”

  “So sure, Russian.”

  “I am positive.”

  “We’ll see.” She skated back to the edge of the rink. “Again.”

  Damn that fuckwomble Russian!

  Isobel kicked at a wastebasket in her tiny office—more like a converted closet in the Rebels’ practice facility—and tried to take satisfaction in its contents spreading all over the floor. Kit Kat wrappers mostly. Her weakness. Better her weakness be a delicious chocolate snack than Vadim “Asshatski” Petrov.

  Of course she’d encountered sexism in Montreal. But sexism in the minors was small potatoes compared to a major pro hockey team. Or maybe it was just Vadim’s clear lack of faith in her.

  No different from anyone else’s.

  Moretti was likely looking to off-load her so she wouldn’t push for more. Harper had probably put him up to it. Just give her something—anything—so she’ll feel useful.

  She kicked at the wastebasket again even though she couldn’t repeat the satisfying wrapper dump ’n’ spread. It hit the door of her closet-office with a resounding clank.

  The door sprang open with Violet on the other side. She took in the scene before her. “Petrov?”

  “How’d you guess?” Isobel had filled Violet in on her new assignment but left out the salient fact that they knew each other—intimately—from back in the day. “He’s not buying the shit I’m shoveling.”

  Vi waved it off. “Forget Petrov. Let’s talk about your nonsex life. I’ve found this guy who I think is perfect for you.”

  “That’s what you said about the guitar player. And the firefighter.” How could Isobel not find a firefighter hot? Likely because he wasn’t a sexy calendar-gracing one like those Dempsey guys who were briefly famous a couple of years ago. No, this firefighter looked like he spent more time on desk duty with his hand permanently lodged in a box of Krispy Kremes. “You also promised I’d feel sparks with the Board of Trade guy.” But nothing. No chemistry. Not like—

  Forget it. There might have been chemistry, but chemistry didn’t guarantee shit.

  “Starting today, I’m on a man embargo. I need to focus on work.” She pulled up Vadim’s gait analysis on her iPad. She needed to get through to him.

  “Maybe you should take a page from the book of Harper. Do a player.”

  “Yeah, because that’s the way to get the respect of my peers.”

  Violet shrugged. “Women have been using their feminine wiles to persuade the dumber sex to their way of thinking for centuries. Maybe the Russian needs more carrot and less stick.”

  “Been there and nyet.”

  Oops.

  Violet’s face dropped. “Been. There?” She waved to the rink as if that was where Vadim was right now. “There there?”

  Isobel covered her face with her hands and peeked out through the cage of her fingers. “Not a word to Harper, ’kay?”

  Violet made a lips zipped motion and waved for Isobel to continue.

  “Years ago, he spent a few weeks training with the Rebels while he decided which team he should sign with. It was the summer before I went to college, and Dad had me train with them, too. He wanted to make sure I was tougher than beef jerky before I went to Harvard and—”

  Her sister spiraled a finger of move it along.

  “I—I might have had a crush on Vadim. Like a full-scale infatuation. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but I was a bit more forward in those days. More confident. Basically, I threw myself at him.”

  Isobel had the world at her feet then. Hockey superstardom was beckoning, and she’d applied her blooming self-assurance to the all-important task of virginity divestiture.

  Violet looked more sympathetic than surprised. “Nothing wrong with knowing what you want and going after it. And if anyone’s worth fluffing the boobage and hiking the skirt for, it’s a tasty piece like Petrov.”

  “That’s what I thought. Of course I might have neglected to tell him I was virgo intacta. I was sort of desperate to get it out of the way before college and I wasn’t looking for hearts and flowers, just—”

  “Boom, boom, I’m a big girl now?”

  “Yep. God, he was so hot, Vi.” And somehow he’d become hotter, because the universe was a grade A bitch. “He was already getting so much attention from the press, the NHL, women, and he’d fix me with that Ruski stare and I was a goner. My dad loved him, too. The son he never had, and then—”

  “You mean . . .” Violet’s mouth dropped open. “The V-card punching, two-pump chump who ruined your life was Ivan the Doable?”

  “I should never have said that.” Her memory flashed back to one of the semiregular Awkward Sister Bonding sessions instituted by Harper when they started managing the team together. Alcohol might have been imbibed. Confidences might have been shared. “I was being overdramatic because you’d played far too much Stevie Nicks, plied me with several boxes of Girl Scouts Thin Mints, and poured two bottles of Pinot down my gullet. He didn’t ruin my life. I built it up into this life-changing thing, and you know how you assume it’ll be awesome because there’s all this chemistry?”

  Vi nodded her recognition.

  “Well, nothing.”

  “Nothing? What are we talking about? A supreme case of vodka dick?”

  “No, his equipment worked just fine. I expected fireworks, but it was uneventful. He was gone in sixty seconds and I was all, ‘Is that it?’ ”

  Shock enlivened Violet’s features. “The Russian was a . . . cock-a-doodle-dud?”

  “Right. Bad in bed. Terrible, actually.” She covered her mouth, unable to believe what had emerged from it. Vadim Petrov, renowned ladies’ man, NHL stud, the Czar of Pleasure, had no idea how to make a woman orgasm.

  “It was over before I could say, ‘Maybe if you rubbed it that way.’ ” So I pretended the earth moved and figured the next time would be better. He just needed a little instruction, ya know? But then Dad caught us immediately after and went ballistic. He actually chased a naked Vadim out of the house with a hockey stick.”

  Violet doubled over. “You’re kidding! The poor guy.”

  Yeah, the poor guy. And that was only the beginning of the crapstorm their father had rained down on him.

  “So your first time sucked. Everyone’s first time sucks. Believe me, no teenage kid has a clue what he’s doing.” Violet appeared determined to defend the czar. “He must have improved, because he can’t seriously be getting that much tail and not know how to satisfy a woman.”

  “If your motto is one-and-done, then how would you ever know how terrible you are? He’s probably left a trail of frustrated women from Moscow to Quebec.
”

  How liberating to talk about it. For years, she’d blamed her inexperience, but she’d had sex since. Nothing to write home about, but orgasms had ensued—man-made orgasms that left both parties with the conclusion that yes, sexual congress as it’s defined has occurred here.

  “A crying shame.” Violet shut the door and sat in the chair opposite with her feet up on the desk, which she knew Isobel did not condone. “A guy like that not knowing how to use the tools the gods gave him.”

  “What it tells me is that you can’t judge a book and all that. There might be great chemistry, but it doesn’t always work that way. Vadim and I were incompatible in the bedroom. I mean, he probably knocks the socks off everyone else, but when it comes to the ‘tab A into slot B’ business, we don’t gel. To be honest, I don’t care about that anymore. Sex is overrated.”

  Her sister scoffed.

  “I know you want to save me from a life of miserable solitude, but believe me when I tell you, I’m quite happy riding this life solo. Not everyone needs to be paired off.” The words sounded hollow to her ears.

  “Everyone needs sex.”

  “No, they don’t. That’s just what glossy magazines and crappy rom-coms have duped you into believing.”

  “I’m thinking that psychologists and sex therapists might have a word to say about it.”

  Witch doctors, the lot of ’em. “I have a fat vibrator, access to online porn, and a filthy imagination. Tell me how a real-life boy can improve on that.”

  Violet shook her head in pity. “That infatuation you felt all those years ago for Petrov. Don’t you remember how your heart fluttered and your skin flushed and lightness overtook every cell in your body?”

  “Nope. I don’t.” What came later had squeezed it out of instant recall. Now all she remembered was embarrassment and worst of all, guilt. It was easier to pretend her reservations about Petrov related to the sex dramedy, but there was more.

  Three years. All because you put me in your crosshairs, Isobel.

  After he was chased from her house, he had texted, asking how she was. If he had hurt her. She told him she was fine, then she never heard from him again. A month later, she read that he’d signed a contract with the Kontinental Hockey League in Russia. But she knew Vadim had wanted to play in the NHL. It was all he’d ever talked about, and now he was the KHL’s new star.