So Over You

by Kate Meader

  “No problem, Isobel.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. Such a gentleman. This care is what she’d been missing. Kelly was the one. She was certain of it.

  But first she would call Coach Lindhoff and tell him she wanted one more shot.

  With a quick look over her shoulder to ensure that she was alone, Isobel stepped under the steaming spray. A couple of years ago, Harper had somehow persuaded the old man to build a women’s bathroom to accommodate female reporters and the possibility the organization might one day hire female training staff or PTs. But that consideration didn’t extend to bathing facilities for humans with breasts.

  Which was why Isobel was taking a shower in the players’ locker room.

  She fisted the tile, leaning in to take the weight off her legs and, consequently, her hip, which had been acting up.

  That’s what happens when you push too hard, Chase.

  But she had no choice. Watching Vadim skate was no substitute for a hard session on the ice. All this time on her iPad planning other people’s careers had left her soft. So she might have gone overboard tonight, because her hip was screaming at her like an old woman whose canasta partner was screwing up.

  She found it much easier to skate drills and push beyond her limits when there was no one around. Lenny, the head of security, was cool with opening up the practice rink for her—cupcakes from Benison’s were the key. This afternoon, Coach Lindhoff had been thrilled to hear from her and had invited her to train with the team ahead of Worlds. She’d declined, citing Rebels’ obligations, but in reality, the true reason for her reluctance to take Lindhoff up on his offer was not quite so noble.

  You’re a pussy, Iz.

  There you are, Dad! She’d wondered where her father had gone. Probably ducked out for a pastrami sub in Hell’s cafeteria. Since his death, he’d been popping into her brain for occasional visits, usually to tell her she wasn’t working hard enough or injuries were for the weak or coaching was the domain of those who had nothing left to prove.

  Tonight she’d put some extra mustard on every glide, bitching at her muscles to work hard and knowing they’d be bitching at her right back later. Like now. But that was okay. Her father expected nothing less. Leave everything on the ice, even during a practice. No distractions, especially boys. Champions don’t have personal lives.

  What he meant was female champions don’t have personal lives, because her father had certainly put the person in his own personal life. Where the person was Cliff Chase, the center of the universe.

  He had worried about her going to Harvard, so far from home. So open to temptation. After finding her in bed with Vadim, he’d removed the Russian from her orbit. Better not to run the risk that hormonal Isobel would choose her heart over hockey. Every night at college, he’d called, ostensibly to see how she was, but really to ensure that she wasn’t out at some bar, making unsuitable friends, meeting horny boys, risking everything he had worked for. Practice, games, study. These were all that mattered.

  Isobel wasn’t the only one whose dreams were destroyed when she took that blade to the skull thirty-seven minutes into her first professional hockey game.

  Her last professional hockey game.

  Each of the sisters had received a letter from their father at the reading of the will—a last note from beyond the grave. She didn’t know the contents of her sisters’ notes, but she had her own letter memorized by heart.

  Dear Isobel,

  From the moment I saw you in your mother’s arms, I knew you would be the one to carry on my legacy. You’ve made me so happy already, and while your injury might have set you back, I know this isn’t the end. Sharing the team with your sisters might not seem like a way back to glory, but your competitive spirit will lift the Rebels up—and you with it. Don’t give up, my winningest girl.

  Love, Dad

  Sure, Cliff. No pressure.

  On the subject of pressure, the hot water felt so good. Chase Manor’s five bathrooms had decent showers, but nothing beat the pulsing power massaging her skin and bones and marrow right this minute. Determined to stay until she pruned or the water ran cold, she jumped when the lights went out.

  Had someone thrown the master switch? Lenny knew she was here, so that seemed unlikely.

  In pitch darkness, she blinked and tried to adjust to the midnight blackness. Crap, this was all she needed. She stepped out, fumbling for the towel on the hook, and immediately knew:

  She wasn’t alone.

  Her heart thumped rabbit kicks. A shuffling sound answered it, sending her ninja reflexes into hyperdrive. With no hesitation, she shoved the heel of her hand forward and up, screamed something that should have sounded like “Fuck you!” but instead came out as “Fooooo!” and was immensely gratified to register a connection with the asshole who was trying to creep up on her in the dark.

  Vadim doubled over like a sack of beets, clutching his throat. Vainly, he tried to speak before she kicked the living shit out of him and finished the job. His eyes watered. His throat throbbed. If that’s what she could do with a single heel chop, he shuddered to think how close he had come to having his genetic line end tonight.

  “Iso—Iso . . .” The word would not form.

  “Vadim? Oh my God, Vadim!” She fell to her knees beside him, her hand searching and curving around the back of his neck. “I had no idea that was you. I just sensed danger and self-preservation kicked in.”

  He held up the hand of forgiveness, not that she could see it in the dark. What had he been thinking? That he had heard the pitter-patter of water and wanted to give whoever was here a heads-up so they wouldn’t react like Isobel had just reacted. Then the lights went out and . . .

  As suddenly as it had happened, the lights came on again.

  “Must have been a power outage,” Isobel said.

  He turned over so he was in a sitting position. Somehow that made it easier to swallow and his eyes weren’t so watery. He was glad of this, because the sight before him should not be blurred in any way.

  A naked Isobel.

  Unfortunately, her position hunkered before him meant he did not have as good a view as he would have liked. The valley of her breasts was inviting, the soft mounds almost begging him to plump them up with his hands, but her knees hid what he knew to be beautifully pink nipples. Unless they had changed. Perhaps they were darker now, would harden perfectly, even taste different, when he swirled them with his tongue and sucked them into his greedy mouth.

  How could he be turned on right now?

  “Just take deep breaths,” she said, her hand rubbing his neck softly. Oddly, it reminded him of his mother and how she would soothe him when he lost a game. His father had rarely attended, but his mother had never missed him playing, right up until the day before she left.

  This was not where his brain should be going.

  “You’ll be fine in a couple of minutes, Vadim.”

  Spoken from the depths of experience. How many men had she disabled in this manner?

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he croaked out.

  “Well, you did.”

  “You’ve done that before?”

  “A woman living alone has to be forearmed, even in Canada where the muggers are polite. Do you think you’re okay to stand now?”

  He shook his head at such a ridiculous question. He was absolutely fine. He went to stand, but she placed a hand on his arm.

  “I should grab a towel first.”

  “I do not need a towel.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “For me, durák.”

  Did she just call him an idiot in his native language?

  “Yep. I just did,” she said, reading his mind. “Now turn your head. No peeking.”

  Out of respect, he did as he was told, wishing he had eyes in the back of his head.

  “Okay, you can get up now. If you’re able.” She tightened the towel around her breasts, tucking it in to secure it.

  He stood, shaking off her helpful hands. Emba
rrassment had evicted shock.

  “I was coming to warn you.” His voice sounded rusty.

  “Warn me? About Russian behemoths skulking around the shower room?”

  “Yes,” he said, not understanding behemoths but assuming it was an insult. Most everything from this woman’s mouth was. “It is a particular problem in this professional hockey player locker room.”

  Guilt flashed across her features. “I’m sorry. I should have known it was someone connected with the organization. Someone who wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “No, you reacted correctly. It’s better to punch first, beg forgiveness later.”

  She grabbed another towel and wrapped it around her head. “What are you doing here, Vadim?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. In fact, I’m fairly certain I have more reason to be here than you.”

  “It’s after eleven at night, and we’re both here. Anyone would think that’s pretty fishy.”

  He rubbed his chin, feeling Machiavellian. “Yes, they would.”

  Evidently annoyed with his evasiveness, she skirted him, a twitch to her hips, while he took a long, hard look at how her ass moved with the terry fabric. An ass he had already acknowledged to be sublime, but really it was her legs he had always enjoyed the most. Long, tanned, and toned. Legs that had carried her to glory. He would enjoy nothing more than seeing them wrapped around his hips.

  This line of thinking was ridiculous, considering the warning bells he had rung in her ear about dating Kelly. But he did not wish to date her. He merely wished to fuck his sexy coach.

  That’s when something struck him. Too busy losing himself in the glorious thought of burying himself between Isobel’s thighs, he had failed to see that the twitch in her hips was not readily attributed to a sexy swivel, but . . . for the love of God, she was hurting.

  “Isobel, why are you walking that way?”

  She stopped and threw a glance over her shoulder. “What way?”

  “Like you have been injured.”

  “It’s nothing.” She continued to the outer locker room.

  He followed and found her standing with hands on hips staring at his gym bag and the skates lying beside it.

  Her lips thinned. “You’re here to skate?”

  “I need to get back to my full speed.” With the team on the road for a few away games, now was the perfect time to improve his strength and skills absent prying eyes.

  “You shouldn’t be skating without supervision. You’ll push yourself too hard. Kelly won’t be happy when he finds out.”

  “Kelly? Why are you so concerned with what Kelly thinks?”

  She squinted at him. “We’re a team here. We’re all concerned as a team when one of our assets is engaging in behavior that could curtail his recovery.”

  Yes, an asset. That’s all he was to her. He let that go for now, as any further inquiry would make him more furious. “You are trying to change the subject. I asked why you’re walking like a wizened old grandmother.”

  “Just a long day. But thanks for the lovely comparison.”

  He knew she’d had a hip injury in her quest to return to professional-level play. He didn’t need to have gone through that himself to understand how devastating it must have been for her. Isobel had always been a fierce competitor. To lose what defines you must be tough, and he resolved to be gentler with her.

  “Bella, I—”

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

  “Okay, Is-o-bel.” He said it low and rough so she understood that it did not matter which name he used, his intentions when saying it were the same. “Can I not be concerned when I see you hurting? If anyone understands that, it’s me.”

  She looked like she wanted to disagree, but the words wouldn’t come, likely because she knew he was right. Only athletes understood other athletes.

  “I was out on the rink, putting in my time,” she said quietly. “And I know you’re going to wonder why a coach would do that.”

  “You want to be able to keep up during our practices. You’re worried I will surpass you and think you have nothing left to teach me.”

  “Not exactly. I need to feel I’m at this top level, even if I can’t compete on that stage anymore.” She looked away in the direction of the rink.

  The only stage that mattered.

  There was more to this, but he didn’t press. “We understand each other, Isobel. But skating to the point of pain will not help. When we meet for practice tomorrow, what use will you be to me?”

  Her lips curved. “I could say the same about you. No skating without me or another coach present, Vadim. I—we can’t risk you overdoing it, not when you’re so close to making the roster.”

  “I am?”

  “Of course you are. We’re so close”—as she spoke he moved in, gratified at the slight bulge in her graceful neck when she swallowed—“to making the play-offs, but we need that extra push. You’re what we need.”

  But was he what she needed?

  “No skating tonight, Russian. Come in thirty minutes early tomorrow, and we’ll get to work.”

  “Da.”

  “Now, I need to get dressed, so if you don’t mind . . .”

  “I will wait outside.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  That was the other thing that niggled at him. She was here solo. Naked. Wet. Anything could have happened to her, including seduction by a hard-as-a-puck Russian.

  “I will walk you to your car. It is not safe for you to be here alone.”

  That made her smile. “Ask your Adam’s apple how safe I am.”

  “Yes, you are tough, Isobel, the toughest woman in all of Chicago. I will still be waiting outside.”

  Five minutes later, she emerged, carrying her coat and a gym bag, her hair still damp and down around her shoulders. A slight curl was starting in it, a kink he remembered wrapping around his fist as he had plunged inside her.

  They walked to her car, the silence barely masking the whirligig of thoughts in his brain. The five-minute wait had given him time to think. To brood. To plan.

  She stopped at her car, unlocked the trunk, and loaded her bag inside. Her green eyes held his, those tilting eyelashes fluttering wide.

  “So, see you tomorrow?”

  He needed to know. It was a thrumming imperative, and he could no longer go without an answer.

  “Isobel, when we were together, did I make you come?”

  TEN

  Isobel froze, not quite sure she’d heard that right. Perhaps it was a problem with Russian-English translation. In Vadim’s pretty head, maybe “come” meant “enrage you” or “drive you bonkers.” Or perhaps he was still reeling from being throat-chopped by his female coach and former teen crush.

  Because he couldn’t possibly be asking that.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Must I repeat it?”

  “Uh, yes. You must.”

  “I have reason to believe that you may not have”—he paused, and that hesitation gave her hope that he’d realized his error and was self-correcting—“completed the sex act.”

  The sex act? “You mean, did I come with you?”

  He looked exasperated. “Is that not what I said?”

  “Yes, but is that what you meant?” Her cheeks were heating, but not quite enough to counteract the March wind chill. “Vadim, it’s cold and late and—”

  He leaned around, his body covering her with that mountain of pure-carved muscle, and opened the door of her Camry. “Get in.” Then, leaving his gym bag on the icy ground, he walked around to the passenger side, opened that door, and climbed in. He pushed the seat back, but he was so tall that his legs remained bent.

  Brain in disarray, heart struggling to catch up to her muddled thoughts, she got in, started the engine, and turned up the heat.

  “This might take a while,” she muttered, hyperaware of his hulking presence in her car and still reeling from his question, the one she was hoping he’d just forget. She glan
ced over to find Vadim rocking his usual sexy-serious self.

  Good grief, she was going to have to discuss this.

  “Now.” She turned to him, a touch of schoolmarm in her tone, ready to make allowances for English being his second language, or maybe it was his fourth or fifth. Vaguely, she recalled he spoke French, Spanish, and German. “What makes you think I didn’t, uh, do what you said I didn’t do?” Other than the fact it was true and any guy who wasn’t completely focused on his own pleasure would be able to figure it out. “Have you been thinking about it? Or maybe you knew all along?”

  “So it is true.” He looked crestfallen, or as crestfallen as a stoic Russian could get.

  “Well, yes, why would you ask if you didn’t think it was a possibility? Where is this coming from, Vadim?”

  He grunted something in Russian. Hell and damn, she was going to have to massage the poor guy’s fragile ego. “Listen, I hear that happens a lot when it’s a first time.”

  “It does not happen to the women I’m with,” he said with just the right amount of imperiousness. And we’re off.

  “Are you saying I’m the problem?”

  “Have you had this issue with other men?”

  “That’s none of your damn business!”

  “Are you a lesbian?” Unfazed by the scowl that ridiculousness deserved, he continued to probe. “Do you fantasize about women?”

  “Do you fantasize about yourself?”

  That amused him. “I am at the center of all my fantasies, yes.”

  Of course he was. The man was sex on skates. “Vadim, what the hell has inspired this word vomit? Did you have a little ‘problem’ with one of your club bimbos, and it’s brought on a bout of dick gazing?”

  “I may have overheard you discussing your first time with your sister.”

  Her heart fell through the floor of her car. “You were eavesdropping on my private conversation?”

  “It was loud enough to inform the entire arena!” Said as if he was the wounded party. “Was this just standard locker room talk? Were you merely venting because you were annoyed with me after our practice?”

  “You think I’d make that up?”