So Over You

by Kate Meader

  “I think we need boundaries. Sex-free boundaries.”

  “If you wish me to discuss my many, many problems, it is better we do it after sex,” he said gravely. “When I am at my most vulnerable.”

  She laughed. “My office door is always open for a chat with my players.” Sliding toward the exit required she rub herself against him. So she might have lingered longer than necessary, but he had started this. “And my door will stay open when you visit so you don’t get any ideas.”

  “I already have ideas, Bella. They are in my head and spreading to other, more interesting parts of my body.”

  Every time he called her Bella, her resistance reached for the white flag. Stay strong.

  “Keep those ideas, and your body, to yourself, Russian.” She opened the door, slipped outside before anyone saw her—and ran right into Dante coming from the galley. He appeared to be much more annoyed than a GM who’d just broken a three-game losing streak should be. Was it possible he’d seen Vadim coming in after her? That’s all she needed.

  She gently pulled the door shut behind her, praying that Dante didn’t need to use the facilities. “Okay there, Dante?”

  “What? Oh, yeah.” He walked by her, back to his seat, his mind clearly elsewhere. Phew. It seemed everyone was in a mood tonight.

  Swish, swish.

  Vadim raced to the end of the rink, took the shot in the empty net, and raced back. Then he did it nine more times. He glanced over at Isobel, who lifted her eyes from her iPad.

  “Two seconds faster than yesterday.”

  His knee was better. The urge to favor his other leg was gone, but the urge to win was as strong as ever. Other urges, too.

  Three days since New York, and they were never alone. Even during these sessions, there was usually someone in the stands. Another trainer. Another coach. Yesterday, Dante sat through the entire hour, his thumbs working his phone feverishly. As soon as regular team practice started, he left, which meant he was taking a special interest in Vadim’s progress.

  In five minutes, the rest of the team would be on the ice. Removing his helmet, Vadim skated over to Isobel, who was making notations in his iPad chart like a doctor.

  “I was worried game play might take it out of you,” she said, not looking up, “but it’s made you hungry. There’s no question about you being back on the roster full-time.”

  As she continued to talk about gait speeds and skating motions, he assessed whether there was tension between them because he had shut her down when pressed on the subject of his mother.

  His relationship with that woman was not Isobel’s concern. True, she had her own parental issues, but she’d had their support through her formative years. Vadim’s father, on the other hand, had not been the warmest of individuals, and had become even frostier after his wife left him.

  Left them.

  Weeks would go by without Vadim seeing Sergei Petrov. Instead, he left Alexei as his proxy, ordering him to pick up a young Vadim from hockey practice, attend his first competitive games, even teach him chess. Alexei, the faithful retainer, had always been there.

  Vadim’d had plenty of time to come to terms with Victoria’s heartless decision, and he certainly did not need Isobel to play at therapist. Lost in a gloom, he realized that he’d missed much of what she was saying.

  “. . . these sessions should stop.”

  His neck snapped back. “Repeat, Isobel.”

  “If you’re playing games and attending regular team practice, then we have to be careful about overdoing it. The gym conditioning has to continue, so something else has to give. It should be this.”

  Nyet. Something about Isobel’s tutelage brought out the best in him, and he wanted that to continue—in all the areas. Between the inability to touch her when others were around and the temptation of her beautiful ass at every turn, the last three days had been hell.

  He weighed these competing needs.

  “Fine.”

  Her green eyes widened. “Fine?”

  “You will not be my coach anymore. That is fine.”

  A flicker of discomfort crossed her face. He hated to cause it, but his next words would dull any hurt. “If you’re not my coach, then we can continue with what we have started. Properly.”

  “Oh, we can, can we?”

  “Da, Bella. I have tasted you, drunk you down, yet my thirst has not been quenched. Any scruples you have about us will be wiped away now that this conflict of interest is a thing of the past.” He looked at his watch. “As of three minutes ago, we should be in bed.”

  She laughed, and his balls took the hit. “One night only, Russian. That’s what I said.”

  “Seven orgasms do not equal a one-shot deal. My throat is dry, and I think you’re still thirsty, too.”

  Her breathing had picked up, her eyes flared with want.

  He continued with his campaign to break her shallow resistance. No woman could withstand the Czar of Pleasure. “You’re under my skin, Bella. I wake each morning, my cock hard and seeking your wet heat. The lessons will continue off the ice.”

  “I’m a team owner, Vad—”

  His eyebrow reminded her of her sister’s relationship with a player.

  She countered by going in an unexpected direction. “Might be time to call Kelly off the bench.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he would love to hear he was your second choice.”

  She thumped him on the shoulder, a pointless exercise due to his pads. “You and I aren’t about choices! It’s just letting off steam because we rub each other the wrong way.”

  “Yes, Coach. Whatever you say, Coach.”

  She looked flustered and beautiful. Time to press home his advantage. “We’ll start with nights in my bed and work to dinners. This is happening, Bella.”

  Not wanting to hear any further rebuttals, he skated away. Other team members were starting to come out on the ice, so it was a good time to cut the conversation short. He was confident he could steer her to his way of thinking. Her stubbornness was no match for that of a born-and-raised Russian.

  Thirty minutes into morning skate and confidence was flowing through him like a torrent. Many reasons could be given: his goal-scoring performance in the last game, maybe, or the renewed strength in his body. But really, he attributed it to his mood. He had always been a player affected by the goings-on in his personal life. With sound mind came sound body and play. With Isobel came an improved Vadim—in every way.

  In previous practices, he’d been aware of his knee, and somehow that hesitation had spread like a contagion to the team. They were too careful around him, too conscious of his injury. This affected their own play, and while practice was not supposed to be overly rough, it was at least supposed to test a player’s limits.

  Since New York and his excellent turn on the ice, the crew had enveloped him in the fold. Coming into a new team injured was never a good way to start. There was no time to establish a rapport; you were always treated as “other” until you could contribute fully. Now he was one of them.

  Yes, he was feeling invincible, his body close to its peak, his woman back in his bed. His. That was how he had felt about her then, and though he could deny it to her—or at least not scare her off so soon—he saw little point in lying to himself. Isobel had been his from the moment he had seen her on the ice eight years ago, her wild hair streaming from her helmet as she dispossessed a male player twice her size.

  “Who is that?” he said in awe to the man beside him.

  “My daughter,” the man replied. “She’s going to change the world.”

  Little did Vadim know that the world she would change was his.

  An unexpected noise drew his attention, the sound a loud echo in the practice arena. Was that a bark? In the stands, Isobel had reappeared, now with a girl carrying a dog that looked just like his sister’s yapping beast, the little dog with big shits. He skated closer, unsure that he should believe his eyes and ears.

  “Mia, why are you here?” />
  Passing the dog off to Isobel in a leather bag, his sister stood when he reached rinkside and threw her arms around him. “I had a weekend off, so I thought I’d visit. See you play tomorrow.” She clutched him tightly as if it had been months rather than mere days since he’d seen her.

  He set her back and searched her face. Pale as ice, her lips dry and chapped. Outside in the March cold for too long, perhaps, but he remembered this cast to her pretty features when he had first met her at the hospital.

  Isobel stood behind her with the stupid dog. “Vad, I don’t think she’s well. She lost her wallet and needed someone to pay the taxi. I think she might have the flu.”

  Mia waved that off with typical Petrovian drama. “It’s just a little cold . . .”

  At which point his sister—dramatically—fainted.

  SEVENTEEN

  “I’m fine,” Mia said around a phlegmy cough. “It’s just a cold.”

  Vadim stood at the end of the bed in the ER, glaring alternately at his sister and the doctor, who looked no older than twelve. Isobel felt a little intrusive staying in the room, but Dante had insisted she mark their left-winger the moment he heard Vadim’s sister was sick.

  If he catches anything and can’t play, I’m holding you personally responsible, Chase.

  As separating Vadim from his sister was impossible, her only choice was to hover close and ensure that he didn’t get within contamination distance.

  “She should see an oncologist,” Vadim said to the ER doc. “She had a bone marrow transplant fifteen months ago. Perhaps she is having a relapse.”

  “The blood work came back fine, Mr. Petrov, and I’ve spoken to her doctor at NYU.” Doogie Howser pushed his glasses back up his nose. “This is a virulent case of the flu. We’re seeing a lot of it.”

  “See, bro?” Mia sat up, though she swayed like a windblown reed. “I just need to lie down for a bit.” She shivered, looking around with something like dread in her eyes. “But not here, Vad. I can’t stay here.”

  Never taking his eyes off her, Vadim spoke words clearly intended for the doctor. “She can leave?”

  “Sure. Bed rest for a few days. Plenty of fluids. Tender loving care.” He looked at his buzzing phone. “Our usual prescription for the flu.” He left to attend to the truly sick.

  “Vad, I’ll see you outside in a minute.” Mia steadied herself with a splayed palm on the bed. “I just need to get my stuff together.”

  Vadim didn’t move an eyelash.

  “Bro! Leave!”

  “I will turn my back while you dress. Isobel will tell me if you have fainted again.”

  “Vadim Petrov, stop being a dill-hole! I should have drained all your freakin’ marrow when I had the chance.” Mia looked to Isobel for help.

  Isobel pushed at Vadim, which was roughly equivalent to negotiating with a giant statue. “I’ll stay to make sure she doesn’t fall over. Go take care of her paperwork.”

  With one last mutinous look at his sister, Vadim stalked out. Isobel picked up Mia’s clothes and handed them to her.

  “Where’s Gordie Howe?” the girl asked.

  “Igor—I mean, Alexei has him.”

  She looked relieved. “Good. Alexei loves Gordie Howe. That man is such a softie. Could you—?” She turned her back and gestured at the bow of her johnny. Isobel stepped in and undid it, then helped her with her underwear and clothes.

  Something Mia had said thrummed through her. “Vadim was your bone marrow donor?”

  “Uh, yeah.” A furtive glance to the door, and she went on. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone. We’re trying to keep our connection on the down low so I won’t feel the pressure of being Vadim’s sister. People will have a lot of questions, especially . . .” Her voice petered out.

  “Especially as that’s how you and Vadim first connected? Because you needed the transplant?”

  She nodded, tears welling. “Mom was worried my father would try to get custody of me, so she kept me a secret from him. About a month after he died, we found out about the leukemia, so she had to fess up. I mean, she would have gotten in touch with Vadim anyway, but it moved up the timetable.” A tear finally fell, and she wiped it away with a watery smile. “Vadim was amazing. He didn’t even hesitate, but he won’t talk to her. He can’t forgive her.”

  Who’d blame him? His mother had left him as a child and only reached out when she needed his genetic material for the child she kept. That had to have hurt him deeply. Neither could this situation be easy on this poor girl torn between two people she loved.

  “The Vadim I know is a pretty forgiving person.” After all, he hadn’t held on to a grudge about how Clifford had treated him in the wake of their doomed teenage hookup. Or, he hadn’t held on to it for long. She patted Mia on the shoulder. “Now let’s get going before he Hulks out on the discharge nurse.”

  “Nyet.”

  Isobel moved a foot over the threshold, though she didn’t hold out much hope of it making a difference. Alexei had braced his body so it filled the space between the doorjamb and the open door he refused to let her through.

  “Listen, Alexei.” She considered smiling, then decided it would be wasted on this guy. He’d hated her eight years ago, his face always in a permanent scowl at her for leading Vadim astray. Nothing had changed. “I’m here to see the patient.”

  “Flu,” Alexei grunted. “In bed.” He pushed the door toward her.

  She splayed a hand against it. Try me, Igor. “I brought soup.”

  “We have soup.” He looked like a bulldog who had eaten a lemon and enjoyed it. So maybe he was a borscht-producing master and soup was his stock in trade, but she had an ace in her back pocket.

  “It’s in a bread bowl, Alexei. They put the soup”—she held up the bag containing the majestic offering—“in a bowl made of bread. Comprendez?”

  He didn’t look like he comprendez’ed.

  She tried again, slower this time. “The bowl is made of bread.”

  From a distance, Vadim said something in Russian, and Alexei answered with a string of guttural hacks that put her in mind of cats being murdered.

  “Vadim, I have soup!” Isobel called out, just in case it wasn’t clear who was at the door or that soup was in the mix.

  A resigned Alexei held the door back. As she stepped inside, her eyes were immediately drawn up.

  So much light, like it had somehow been bottled and was being pumped into the foyer. Set back off the main road in Winnetka, from the front, this rented lakeside mansion looked like a typical playground for the rich and famous, about as palatial as you could get in the Midwest. Moving farther in, she realized that the front was a model of deception, as the foyer led to a great room styled like a Mediterranean villa. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the wave-torn lake, which lashed against the ice-fringed edges of the property. In the summer, it would be epic. In March, it merely looked spectacular.

  Adding to the spectacular, at the center of the tableau was the man himself, looking like a louche Regency duke. He lay sprawled on a massive L-shaped sofa, his legs covered by an afghan, his chest exposed and gleaming. Gordie Howe lay curled up beside him, auditioning for the part of “villain’s pet” in the latest James Bond.

  “You brought me soup?” Vadim asked.

  “Hell no. That was just my toll.” She turned to a looming Alexei and placed the package in his hands. “This is for Mia. I’m guessing it’s about time for her to eat.”

  Isobel had offered to let Mia stay with her until she was healthy enough to travel back to New York. No way in hell did they want one or more of their players coming down with something that kept them from making money for the franchise. But Vadim wouldn’t hear of it. So here she was, ostensibly on Dante’s orders, ensuring that their star left-winger wouldn’t catch the flu.

  “Where is she?”

  “In one of the guest rooms,” Vadim said. “I will wake her.”

  Isobel raised a hand. “Nope. You are not getting sick, Russ
ian. I’ll do it, if necessary, but we have to keep you out of harm’s way.”

  Alexei cast a glance at Vadim, who muttered something in Russian. It was enough to send him off to another part of the estate. She couldn’t imagine the impenetrable Alexei ever getting sick, so this worked out nicely.

  Isobel slipped off her parka, sat down several feet from tattooed temptation, and crossed one booted foot over her thigh.

  Vadim’s brow furrowed. “The soup is in a bread bowl?”

  “Sure is. They scoop out the bread and fill it with soup.”

  “What about the bread that’s scooped out?”

  “They wrap it and put it on the side for dipping.”

  Vadim didn’t want to look impressed, she could tell, but no one in his right mind could fail to acknowledge the genius of the bread bowl. His wistful look toward wherever Alexei had retreated was confirmation enough.

  “Any sign of fever?” Moving closer—purely in the guise of visiting nurse, mind you—she placed a palm on his forehead. He felt fine, but looked H-O-T.

  Taking her hand, he rubbed it along his chest, then his abs, heading south. “Just down here.”

  “That’s not why I’m visiting. I’m on a mercy mission.”

  He curled a hand around her neck and drew her close. “Then have mercy, Bella.” His kiss was as hot as he looked, and she was weak. So weak. Probably coming down with the flu.

  Drawing back, she kept her eyes at chest level. “You really ought to cover up. This can’t be helping.”

  “Can’t be helping whom?” He had her bang to rights there.

  “You’re pretty funny for a Russian, Vad. You weren’t like this before.”

  “I am half American. It took a while for my sense of humor to develop.” Seeming to realize what he’d said, he frowned and tugged on the edge of the afghan. He looked a little lost, and Isobel’s heart softened.

  Sensing an opening, she took her shot. “Does your mother know about Mia?”

  His expression hardened. “Alexei called her, so I expect she will show up soon. She may have even planned it. Sent her sick daughter here.”