by Kate Meader
Don’t be a pussy, Izzy.
Should she tell them about the tryout? After Vadim’s overreaction—ooh, the man was impossible—sharing didn’t seem like such a good idea. They’d only fret.
She picked up the remote. “Enough chitchat. Let’s get lost in the glories of Swayze and the merengue.”
“You won!” Mia’s congratulations devolved into raspy coughs that sounded like a seal with a three-pack-a-day smoking habit. Lifting her head off her mother’s lap, she tried to sit up on the sofa in his living room.
“Do not get up.” Vadim knelt beside her and felt her forehead with his palm. “She is still hot.”
“Her temp went down one degree,” Victoria said. “I’ve been trying to get her to go to bed, but she insisted on waiting up for you.”
“Vad, you rocked it on the ice,” his sister sputtered. “Though you could have gone all the way with that second goal instead of laying it up for DuPre.” She coughed again. “Too generous.”
“There are plenty of goals to spread around. And these decisions made in the moment should not be second-guessed by armchair forwards, especially when they result in wins.”
She made a face, and in that moment she looked just like their father. Anger barreled through his veins at the woman who had denied the man the chance to meet his daughter.
Mia was too ill to notice his change of mood, but Victoria’s mouth thinned in discomfort. “Do you think Isobel might come to visit?” Mia asked.
“We shall see. For now, you must get your rest. Off to bed, pchyolka.”
“What does that mean?”
“Bee,” Victoria said, her eyes flashing. Always with the searching looks. “Little bee.”
Standing, he curved his arms under Mia’s body and lifted her close. “Because you are always buzzing around. On the ice, especially.” She was fast, possibly faster than Isobel had been in her prime. Not quite as strong yet, but she would get there.
Her forehead fell to his shoulder. “I’m glad people know.”
He carried her toward the guest room where she was staying, and though he suspected what she meant, he asked anyway. “Know what?”
“That we’re related. As soon as I found out, I wanted to tell the world. I was so proud to be your sister. But then when we met first, I was sick and I didn’t make a good impression.”
His heart ached in memory of her weakened state that first time he’d met her in the hospital in New York sixteen months ago. He had fought so many emotions that day: anger, regret, hate, all at Victoria. But as soon as he saw how ill Mia was, this beautiful girl who couldn’t help the decisions of her parents, he vowed to do everything in his power to cure her.
“You made a terrible first impression, sestrichka. But it’s understandably difficult to shine with the great Vadim Petrov in the room.”
Her soft giggle fluttered against his neck. At the door to her room, Victoria went ahead to turn down the bedcovers. He laid his sister down, and she curled up on her side while he placed the comforter over her.
“You saved my life, bro.”
“The flu is making you delirious.”
“I haven’t thanked you enough.”
He remained grave. “You have come to visit and brought your germs. This is gift enough.”
She groaned and he laughed, then dropped a kiss on her forehead to let her know he was teasing. “Go to sleep, and we’ll dissect my game choices tomorrow.”
“Night, Vad.”
“Good night, Mia.”
He left the room, his body itchy in a way it often was after a game. Adrenaline still rippled through him, but he’d left the arena quickly so he could tend to Mia—and avoid Isobel. Now that he’d seen his sister and ensured that she was safe, he wanted to blow off some steam. Fuck or fight.
As sinking his tension inside Isobel would not be possible until she came to her senses, he would have to satisfy his need with a fight.
Victoria emerged from the room, followed by the dog, and closed the door behind her. In silence they walked to the living room with the pup trotting quickly on his tiny legs to keep up.
“She’s getting better,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, her relief evident. “As soon as she can travel, I’ll take her home.”
“You would not leave her behind?”
Her face reddened, the jab having the desired effect. Pettiness pinched his chest. Why should he feel this way, caught in this no-man’s-land of suffering? All wrong. He refused to pander to her need to explain herself, because as soon as he asked, it would be a slippery road to accepting she’d had a good reason.
Bad mothers always have good reasons.
She sat on the sofa while he sat in the armchair farthest away. “How’s your knee?”
Neutral ground. This he could discuss. “Better.”
“Isobel seems to be good for you.”
“She is an excellent coach.”
“Only a coach?”
He scowled. “I am not discussing this with you.”
“Too old to take my advice?”
“Too old to take your bullshit.”
She smiled, and it sliced deeper than when she had looked wounded by his earlier jibe. “That’s fair,” she said. “I’m not exactly the best qualified when it comes to love.”
“No one said anything about love.” How typical. All women, even terrible mothers, apparently couldn’t help making assumptions. He had smiled at Isobel and showed concern that she was trying to kill herself; it must be love!
The silence expanded between them, and just when it felt like something would snap he felt a nudge at his leg. Gordie Howe. The silly dog likely sensed the tension and was seeking comfort. Needing something to occupy his hands and thoughts, Vadim picked up the ridiculous creature and settled it in his lap.
“He likes you,” Victoria said.
“He knows where his next meal is coming from.” Absently, he stroked the dog’s shiny coat and was strangely gratified to feel him relax. If only his own comfort could be bought so easily.
“You were always good with animals,” Victoria said softly. “Cats, dogs, even hamsters. Remember when you lost that horrible ball of vermin, and we had to turn the house upside down looking for it?”
“That horrible ball of vermin was Boris, my closest friend. He liked to sleep in warm, dark places.”
“Yes, and he liked to leave turd-shaped gifts. I threw out so many shoes.”
Good old Boris. Vadim found himself smiling against his will. He reached for the hardness inside him, but it was becoming more difficult to find.
Apparently encouraged, she spoke again, her voice now more animated. “What was the name of your dog again? The big, black mutt?”
“Fyodor.” He hadn’t thought of him in years. He might have been a mongrel, but he’d held himself like a king.
“Fyodor! He followed you everywhere.”
She was laughing now, confident she had found a way to break him down. He could feel himself slipping as memories inundated him from all sides in colorful, jagged pieces. One soared above the others: the swings in Maritime Victory Park in St. Petersburg.
Push higher, Mama.
That’s as high as it goes, pchyolka.
More, Mama. Don’t stop.
“Whatever happened to Fyodor?”
“Papa ran him over, backing up out of the garage.” Fyodor had liked to sleep under the car, though it made no sense, as it was warmer in the house. Poor mutt, another dumb animal who had sought comfort and paid the price.
“Oh,” she said quietly, the wind ripped from her sails. And yet again, that guilty pang checked his heart. She had liked Fyodor, always ready with a treat for him under the dinner table.
He could feel the storm rising again, the war dueling in his chest. She had no right to dredge up these memories or make him sorry for her. She had no rights at all.
“Let’s get something straight,” he said. “You’re here because of Mia, no other reason. So you c
an quit with the journeys down memory lane. We won’t be reminiscing about the good old days, so stop trying so hard. Just stop.”
He got up, placing Gordie Howe on the floor. The dog looked up at him expectantly, then switched his attention to the other person in the room, assessing his options. So fickle.
“Understood,” Victoria said, and instead of the hurt he expected to hear in her tone, something else rang clear. Something that sounded a little like victory.
Chyort! This woman thought she had gained some advantage over him, and while the power shift was subtle, he felt it as he left the room. He felt it in the gaze she transferred to her phone instead of to his departing back.
Gordie Howe, the traitor, remained with Victoria. Apparently the dumb pup knew who had eked out a win in this round.
TWENTY-ONE
“Gather around, guys. Time to meet our special guests.”
Isobel watched as the faces of her juniors lit up when their guests came onto the ice. Seeing Ford Callaghan, Cade Burnett, and the mighty Vadim Petrov himself up close was a thrill for them. Normally, seeing the Russian would be a thrill for her, too. But they had left things in an odd place. At least it hadn’t affected his play. In the week since, they’d won two games at home and were about to head out to Vancouver tomorrow.
“Hey, Coach,” Burnett said to Isobel, and then to the group. “Got ourselves any future pros here?”
Half of the kids shot their hands up, and the rest looked like they wished they’d thought of it.
Isobel smiled. “Guys, you probably recognize these troublemakers, but I’ll introduce them all the same. The one with the funny accent is Cade ‘Alamo’ Burnett, the bulwark on the Rebels’ defense line.”
“Aw, you’re makin’ me blush.” He winked at Natasha, causing her to color furiously.
“And you’ve met this guy before,” Isobel said, gesturing to Ford. “The guy who looks like a marauding Viking is Coach Callaghan’s brother, Ford ‘Killer’ Callaghan. Currently the leading goal scorer in the Western Conference.”
Ford saluted them with the butt of his stick. “Team.”
“And last but not least, meet Rebels’ left-winger Vadim Petrov, no nickname necessary.”
“Except Czar of Pleas—”
“Ladies,” Isobel cut off Gabby, who was pumping out enough teenage hormones to knock Vadim over. Unfortunately the Russian was looking particularly hot today, not a wrinkle or pimple in sight. “Let’s remember these are our guests.”
The girls giggled like girls their age are wont to do. Vadim raised an eyebrow at Isobel, then held her gaze unerringly. She had no idea what to do with it, so she merely reddened to the point that she and Natasha were a matching set.
Moving on. “I thought maybe we’d play a couple of periods. How about we start with Captain Callaghan and Captain Petrov?” She looked at the Rebels players. “Okay?”
“Hell—I mean, heck yeah,” Ford said. “Might be my one shot at wearing a captain’s band.”
Vadim graced them with speech at last. “Perhaps we shall start with girls versus boys.”
The girls perked up, and Gabby spoke for the group. “But there’s only three of us girls.”
“There’s also your coach. Last time I checked, she is a girl.” Vadim assessed them. “What positions do you play?”
“Forward, center, and defender.”
“Marcus, you good with being goaltender for Captain Petrov’s team?” Isobel asked.
“Yes, Marcus, I need you on Team Petrov.”
Marcus gazed in wonder at Vadim, like he’d been chosen first by the most popular kid in school. All he could do was nod dumbly.
“Hey now, Ruski,” Callaghan said. “Pretty sure you’re trying to bamboozle me by picking the quickest players. Not to worry, we boys will take care of business. I need four good men and a goalie.”
With the teams set, the remaining players sat rinkside, where Cade would officiate. “But no swearing, Alamo, ’kay?” Isobel cautioned.
“Rebels’ honor, Coach Chase,” he drawled with a dirty grin.
They set the period to five minutes so the other kids would get a chance to play. As well as officiating, Cade kept up a running commentary throughout that had the kids on the bench in stitches.
“The Czar with the puck now and he passes to—what’s her name—Gabby?—I’m never gonna remember that. Let’s just call her Skittles. So Skittles rushes the zone, only to run into trouble with a dispossession by Tall Dude. Not bad on the stick-handling, TD. And now they’re on the break with Killer comin’ up the side for support. Quick pass and . . . and back to TD and . . . foiled by Team Petrov’s tender! The Crease Monster rules!”
Vadim and Ford were obviously operating at about 30 percent, given the youth of their teammates. Not once did they try to score themselves, always making sure to pass back to one of the younger players. After five minutes, the teams switched out with their classmates, Cade went in for Petrov, and Jackson Callaghan offered to referee the next period.
Which is how Isobel found herself sitting on the bench with Vadim.
“Hi,” she said softly.
“Hello.”
“How’s Mia?”
“Improving.”
Another pause. “Thanks for doing this. I thought maybe you weren’t talking to me.”
He kept his eyes on the rink, where Cade was still announcing the game, even while playing.
“Freckles with the puck . . . and now he sees an opening . . . but Alamo slaps it away . . .”
“I thought maybe I wasn’t talking to you, either.” Vadim turned slightly, eyes blazing. “I have not come around, Isobel. But then you don’t need me to, do you? You are your father’s daughter. The game will always come first.”
He had a point, but she also knew this: if she wanted to succeed, she couldn’t live in anyone’s shadow. Not her father’s. Not Harper’s. And certainly not Vadim Petrov’s.
“When is your tryout?” Each word sounded like it practically choked him.
“Saturday.” She nudged his shoulder. “Wish me luck.”
“The Girl with the Blazing Skates doesn’t need luck.” He stood and twisted to face her. “She needs her head examined.” And then he stormed out onto the ice.
On Saturday morning, Vadim walked into the kitchen, found Victoria cutting up fruit at the counter, and turned to walk out again.
“Vadim.”
He stopped, every muscle in his body straining with tension. Stay? Go? Punch the fridge door?
“I was about to take Mia some breakfast, then the kitchen is all yours. I have to walk Gordie Howe.”
On hearing his name, the stupid ball of fluff rubbed against Vadim’s legs and gave a little yip.
“I can walk him.”
She waved off his offer. “You played well last night. Mia was so excited to see you score that winning goal.”
Throwing all his emotion into the game in Vancouver seemed to be the best—the only—thing to do. His home no longer belonged to him. He felt oddly unmoored from his own life. And then there was Isobel, who wished to risk it all to get back this part of herself she claimed was missing. No helmet could protect her from the one bad check that could end her life. Infuriating woman!
Her tryout was today in Massachusetts, and guilt pinged him that he had not wished her well. But doing so would condone her choice. He refused to be a party to such madness.
He should call the coach and insist she be sent home. To him.
This was where she belonged, wrapped in his arms, taking naps on his sofa. Not wanting to be solo with his miserable thoughts, he edged back into the kitchen and approached the coffeemaker, only to have another scent invade his nostrils. Previously hidden from view by Victoria’s slim frame, a teapot sat on the counter, a canister of Russian Caravan beside it.
“You are making tea?”
His surprise teased her smile. “Of course. I drink it all the time. Your sister can’t start the day without it.”
&
nbsp; Mesmerized, he watched as she went through the time-honored ritual. She poured a splash of the zavarka, or tea concentrate, into a cup from a small teapot that looked vaguely familiar, then added hot water and a spoonful of jam.
His heart thrummed violently. It was how he used to take it as a child, following the lead of his mother.
“You don’t drink tea anymore?” she asked. “Alexei had to dig this teapot out of storage for me.”
“When I moved to Canada, I got into the habit of drinking coffee.” He couldn’t avert his eyes from the spoon as she stirred the jam into it. “I am surprised you would take this piece of Russian culture back with you to America.”
“I wanted to . . . stay connected to that part of my life in some way.” She coughed slightly. “You used to like your tea with raspberry jam. I asked Alexei to buy a jar just in case.”
Irked at her transparent efforts to curry favor, he snapped, “Why are you making Mia breakfast anyway? She’s well enough to get up.” Well enough to travel, too, yet he was in no hurry to shove them out the door. He liked having Mia around, even if she came with the baggage of Victoria.
His mother smiled serenely, and the remembrance of how she used to grace him with that sunshine was a sharp, stabbing ray of light.
“I like to spoil her,” she said. “Soon she’ll be at college, and I won’t have a chance.”
Already close to college age and he had just found her. Would his sister still want to know him once she had made a life for herself elsewhere? That made him think of Isobel again, who was in such a hurry to leave him for the next world. These women.
“Where is Alexei?”
“He went to the store.” She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.
“What? Speak.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t parted company with him.”
Vadim leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. “He has always been loyal to my father.”
“Yes, but your father isn’t around anymore, and you are perfectly capable of looking after yourself.”
