So Over You

by Kate Meader

  “How’re you feeling today, Vadim?” Ted asked.

  Furious. “A little stiff. It is often this way in the morning.”

  Ted nodded as Vadim assumed the position: track bottoms pulled down to shorts, and on his back on the table. This gave Vadim a chance to assess Kelly, who was still working on St. James’s shoulder.

  Vadim aimed for cool objectivity as he glanced sidelong at the man. Open and easygoing, Kelly possessed an all-American guilelessness that immediately aroused Vadim’s suspicion, not because he doubted Kelly’s motives for asking out Isobel, but because Vadim understood them all too well.

  He was what one would call “a good guy.”

  This disgusted Vadim. Isobel would be bored to tears with this man in her bed. He probably would ask for permission to kiss her, to touch her, to go down on her. Theirs would be a relationship filled with “you first; no, you; no, you.” So much respect for each other that there would be no allowances made for the demands of true lust.

  This was the man she wished to allow access to her body? He would not know what to do with her.

  Just as you did not know all those years ago.

  The door opened and a dark ponytailed head curved around it. Isobel’s green eyes alighted on Vadim and dismissed him before moving on to Kelly and staying put.

  Vadim’s blood raged at the notion that Kelly Townsend was more deserving of Isobel’s attention.

  “I’ll come back,” she said to Kelly, as if picking up in the middle of a conversation.

  Kelly stepped away from the trainer’s table just as Bren St. James sat up, the rubdown finished. “We’re done here. What can I do you for?”

  Isobel smiled with a lot more warmth than this worm deserved. “It’s not important. It’s just . . .” She hesitated and swung her gaze to Vadim, who made no secret of the fact that he was listening. He held that green-eyed gaze with challenge.

  Her brows formed a V in plain annoyance. “Later.”

  Kelly nodded, apparently pleased with that. Later. When they would discuss important things. Like dates. Or orgasms.

  Ted asked Vadim about the adductor muscle that had been bothering him, and the distraction meant that Vadim missed Isobel’s exit. Had she shared a longing look with Kelly before she left? Were they now communicating without words?

  Vadim was not enjoying this. Not at all.

  But maybe Isobel had nothing to do with the cloud hanging over him. He preferred to attribute his mood to the phone call he had received an hour ago from Mia. She wanted to meet up with him at the next away game in New York, which meant the pressure was on once again. Would his body be ready for play? Would his mind be ready for Victoria Wallace?

  Yes, that was the reason for his irritation. Not Isobel Chase.

  Mr. Siberia was a total joy this morning.

  Of course, that conclusion would assume that degrees of joy were possible with the Cat’s Meow from Moscow. (Violet’s latest nickname, even though Vadim wasn’t from Moscow and the rhyme sucked.) Isobel put Vadim’s chilly demeanor this morning at a 9.5 on a scale of one to ten—“seriously pissed off, speech impossible”—but the scale didn’t even go below an eight, which was “annoyed with a chance of Russian swearing.”

  Ever since he’d unloaded that glare when she popped her head into the trainers’ room, he’d been acting as if someone had cut out the crotches in his designer suits. Now they were running sprint drills from the center line to the blue zone. At first he seemed to be working through it, but with each rep, he’d up the growl quotient at her as he skated by.

  Kind of sexy, but that was neither here nor there.

  Isobel didn’t have time for sexy, growly, bad-tempered Russians playing havoc with her hormones, not when she might be headed out on a dinner date with a mere mortal who was just her speed. She hadn’t had a chance to touch base with Kelly, but she’d gone home last night after their chat feeling more hopeful than she had in a while.

  Kelly Townsend might be the one.

  Nice and harmless, a guy she could talk to. What better basis on which to build a relationship? Lust as the foundation might work for other people, but not for her. The proof was muttering to himself on every skate-by.

  “Want to talk about it, Russian?”

  He stopped, spat a curse at the ice, and then continued with the drills.

  Fair enough. She wasn’t here to be his sounding board. Lord knew she understood what he was going through, but everyone had to deal with injuries in their own way and on their own timetable. Isobel would focus on Vadim’s skating and leave whatever was happening between the ears to the team’s shrink.

  After ten more minutes of semidecent skating and Olympic-quality cantankerousness, she called a halt and took a seat on the bench rinkside. As she entered notes into her iPad, she became aware that he had skated over, cleared the rink barrier, and now stood before her. In skates, he loomed close to six feet seven, everything about him supersized.

  She peered up. Damn, he was pretty, even when grumpy. “How does the knee feel?”

  “Good. Best it’s felt in a while.”

  Surprised at his even tone, she studied him more closely now, looking beyond the superficial perfection. She’d assumed his temper tantrum was related to his uncooperative body.

  “That’s great. But if you’re pretending it’s better to get me to sign off on you quicker . . .”

  He sat on the bench beside her, pressing his muscular thigh against hers, its heat a bulwark against the chilly rink. There was plenty of room on the bench. He didn’t need to sit so close or flaunt such a balls-out pose. She could have pulled away, but manspreading was just one of the many crosses women had to bear, and she refused to let him think this bothered her. Because it didn’t. It was just a thigh. A pillar-thick, incredibly massive, heat-conducting thigh.

  “Believe it or not, Isobel, I’m a team player. If I wasn’t ready, I would say so.”

  Sure you would. “You looked good out there today. You didn’t tire like the first time we did this.”

  He stared at her, into her. There’d been a lot of that intimidating staring back in the day, and she was quite immune thankyouverymuch—oh, who was she kidding? Vadim Petrov in thermonuclear glare mode was enough to make her melt.

  Lust. Not a good foundation.

  His lips were moving, but she missed what came out of them, or rather her muddled brain couldn’t quite compute what came out. She rewound the last two seconds. She could have sworn—“What did you say?”

  “Are you dating Kelly?”

  He must have spotted her in the Empty Net and jumped to the right conclusion. “And this is your business because?”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “You don’t think—you don’t think—” Sputtering, she knew she sounded like a loon, but how was she supposed to respond?

  Turned out she didn’t have to, because Mr. Nosy Parkov was still spouting unsolicited opinions. “Your position is precarious.”

  “What position is that?”

  “As a team owner who is female and trying to obtain a job on the coaching staff.”

  Right, that position. “What have you heard?” Was someone else gossiping about what they’d seen in the bar? Kelly shouldn’t have kissed her cheek. Damn.

  “The fact you might be using him to gain favor with the coaching staff was remarked upon.” He shrugged as if this was nonsense, but he felt it his solemn duty to keep her informed.

  Now she was the one growling. She thought back to who else was sitting with Vadim last night. Callaghan, Burnett, Jorgenson, and . . . Shay.

  “Did Shay remark upon it?”

  “He did, and while no one agreed with him explicitly, the seed was sown.”

  Her cheeks burned. To have her motives categorized so malevolently was both embarrassing and disheartening.

  “So how’s the seed, Vadim? Has it sprouted yet? Has it grown into a tree in here?” She poked at his chest, angry with herself, with him, and w
ith the high school gossips who wanted to rip down something before it had even started.

  He grasped her hand and placed it flat against his chest. Oh my. His heart pounded, violent, vehement kicks under her fingertips. Those drills must have taken more out of him than he’d let on.

  “I make up my own mind. If you think that a relationship with Kelly is more important than this gossip, then ignore it. They are only words. But . . .” He trailed off.

  She felt her body angle closer. “But?”

  He was still holding her hand, burning his heat and know-it-all assholery into every receptive little cell. “Will he satisfy you, Isobel?” His darkening gaze wavered between her lips and her eyes. “Will he understand what makes your pulse race, your blood surge, your body crave more?”

  Pulse. Blood. Body. Crave. More.

  His lips hovered an inch from her mouth, and beneath her hand still wrapped in his warm, sandpaper-rough one, she felt all that Russian passion. Th-thunk. Th-thunk. She felt it downloading into her blood, rewiring her neurons, rebooting her dormant libido. Her body didn’t just crave—it demanded. Gratification. Satisfaction. To be filled and used. Her breasts swelled. Hot, slippery dampness pooled between her thighs. She squeezed her core to get some much-needed relief.

  It only made the craving worse.

  Or maybe it made the craving better.

  His eyes were dark discs of night, the blue impossible to discern, and she knew two things.

  He’s going to kiss me

  and

  I’m going to let him.

  Wait, he was not kissing. He was speaking. She thought she might have said “What?” but it came out as “Whuu-aaa?”

  “So, is it more important?”

  “Is—is what more important?”

  He hoisted an eyebrow. “A relationship with Kelly. Is it more important than gossip?”

  Screech. Kelly. That’s who they were talking about while she imagined this big, broody Russian fulfilling the fantasies her vibrator couldn’t. She drew back, blinking away the lust fog she’d become lost in.

  Did she want people thinking she’d earned a coaching spot because she was dating the head trainer? Begging him over pillow talk to put a good word in for her? It wasn’t as if Kelly had any true power here; the decision would be down to Coach Calhoun and GM Moretti. The test was how she worked with Petrov. There were no shortcuts.

  She peered at Vadim, who waited patiently. Or she would have thought that if he hadn’t squeezed her hand a smidge. Was that her imagination?

  “I don’t know.”

  “There is your answer.” He released her and picked up the stick he had leaned against the bench. Then he stood and headed toward the exit to the tunnel, leaving her a growly, confused, horny mess.

  SEVEN

  Isobel looked out over the crowd of eager faces in her U-12s group, each masked behind a visor. The Hockey for Everyone foundation was a charity that focused on inspiring interest in the sport in disadvantaged youth. Hockey wasn’t cheap, between the club dues, the gear, and the money to fund trips to play other teams. Getting kids involved at a young age without shifting a considerable burden to their parents was what this was all about. Isobel gave her time to the foundation as a consultant and came in and coached once a week at the hockey club in Bridgeport on Chicago’s South Side.

  It sure was nice to hang with pupils who cared for her opinion.

  Once baseball season started, she’d likely lose them to warmer weather, but giving them a chance to do something that fostered physical exercise, teamwork, and competitive spirit was worth any amount of her time.

  “Today we’re going to work on penalty shots. Miguel, you good with starting in goal?”

  The bright-eyed twelve-year-old skated a couple of feet forward. With the extra padding of goalie gear, he was practically swimming in it, but he’d stood out when she first started with the group. Small for his age, he’d picked up skating like a natural and knew all about net coverage from every angle.

  “Yes, Coach Chase.”

  She liked the sound of that. “Now head on over to the goal. Marcus?” She sought one of her other goalies, a kid who had hated the idea of being a goaltender when he started. When she’d explained that the goalie was the most important player, he came around. “Marcus, after ten shots on goal, you’ll switch out with Miguel. The rest of you will line up and hit the puck after I drop it on the line.”

  “Even the defenders?” This question came from Jessica, one of three girls in the club. Isobel was hopeful they could recruit more, but for now Jess, Natasha, and Gabriella were representing the girls.

  “Yep, even the defenders. You never know when you’ll have a shot, so you need to practice as well.”

  Isobel skated to the line while the kids formed a line a few feet back. Once Miguel was set up in goal, she dropped the first puck and skated out of the way. Natasha glided up and gave it a tap. Too weak, and Miguel had no problem deflecting it. During the first round of fifteen shots—the number of kids in class today—Isobel watched, noting each player’s attempt and how it might improve. On the second round, she offered observations. Harder. Aim for the five-hole. Try a feint.

  By the time twenty minutes of penalty drills were over, each of them had scored at least twice. It did her heart good to see the joy on their faces as that puck slid below the tender’s body.

  “Okay, that was great, guys. Everyone help with picking up the pucks and then go hit the locker rooms.”

  As Isobel gathered pucks, Gabby skated over with Natasha. They nudged each other, clearly building up to say something.

  “What’s up, ladies?”

  “We were wondering . . .” Natasha started, and looked to Gabby for help.

  “Do you know Vadim Petrov?” Gabby blushed, and then launched into giggles, which set Natasha off into her own gigglefest.

  “Yeah, I do. In fact, I’m giving him a few lessons right now.”

  “You’re his coach?” Gabby’s eyes widened in admiration, and Isobel felt a little warm bathing in it. “Is he as cute close up as he is in the underwear commercials?”

  More cute. A hundred times more cute. Not only that, but every time I’m with him, I revert to your age. Since when did twelve-year-olds have crushes on dangerous, unsuitable men like Vadim Petrov?

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, guys, but a lot of that is airbrushing. In fact, he’s got wrinkles. Pimples, too.”

  The girls’ faces crumpled in disappointment. Get used to it, ladies. Men will do nothing but. A couple of the boys hovered nearby, listening in, and now Jordan, one of her centers, skated closer.

  “So he’s okay with a woman coach?” There was a touch of challenge in it.

  “Well, Jordan, he’s okay with a coach. I don’t think the fact I’m a woman has anything to do with it.”

  “Do you think he might be able to visit?” Gabby asked, her eyes bright with visions of hot, albeit wrinkled and pimpled, Russians. “It’d be great to have a real hockey player showing us some stuff.”

  Chopped liver right here, apparently.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Now off you go, your parents will be waiting.”

  The kids skated off, bubbling with excitement that a “real” player might make an appearance. Le sigh. She sat on the bench, trying not to resent Vadim or Moretti or her injury, thinking about what the hell she was doing with her life. A few minutes passed and a new group of kids came on the ice, the thirteen- to fourteen-year-olds in the bantam class. She looked up as a big set of thighs entered her field of vision.

  “Hey, Isobel.”

  “Hey, Jax. How’s it going?”

  “Not bad.” The older kids’ coach, Jackson Callaghan, brother of Rebels right-winger Ford, once had a promising career laid out before him. A car crash over ten years ago ended his dream, but in the last few months he’d taken over as the head coach for the junior club. “How’s my dickhead of a brother doing?”

  “Pretty good. Holding the first line
together.”

  Jax gave a subtle chin nod to the bench beside her. She displayed her palm, and he took a seat.

  “So, other than running a pro hockey team and teaching Petrov how not to be a Russian asshole, what are you up to these days?”

  She laughed. She didn’t know Jax all that well, but she liked his blunt approach.

  “Just assessing all my options. Jobs. Men. Sandwiches.”

  “Oh yeah? Got some good stuff in the works?”

  “Chicken and cheddar from Potbelly’s. Then I’m thinking college coaching or back to the minors.”

  He nodded, then jerked upright and shouted out to a couple of boys on the far side of the rink. “No checking during warm-up!” The troublemakers parted and headed back into innocuous figure eights.

  Jax sat again. “How’s the fund-raiser coming along?”

  In a few weeks, they would host a glitzy gala to funnel more money into the Hockey for Everyone coffers. They chatted a little about it, but Isobel’s mind was still stuck on her various career dilemmas. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “If you had a chance to play pro, even if it was just one night, would you take it?”

  “Without hesitation.”

  “Even if it meant you risked reinjury or worse?”

  “I’d skate toward that faster than my kids inhale Gino’s deep-dish.” He cocked his head. “You got another shot, Isobel?”

  “Maybe.”

  He stood and did a quick pirouette on his skates to face her. “What did Gretzky say? You miss a hundred percent of the shots you never take.”

  Yep, that’s what he’d said. The Great One could always be relied upon to steer a girl true.

  Vadim held the phone up to his ear, determined to listen closely and read between the lines.

  “Hello,” a sleepy, sexy voice said. A little Gallic irritation in it, too.