by Kate Meader
He eyed her speculatively. “It is good to have an assistant, one who will not gossip to the tabloids about my personal life. The last one I had simpered and made googly eyes at me all the time. And I do pay him well.”
Her blue eyes watched, searing him once more. “You seem upset.”
A stupid statement. His arched eyebrow let her know this.
“More so than just your usual annoyance with my presence,” she teased. How wonderful that she could joke about it. What progress they had made!
He shrugged. “Isobel has set out on her mission of self-destruction today.”
She mouthed ah. Back to stirring the tea. “Perhaps you should support her. Not everything has to be so black and white, does it?”
People in the wrong always said that. Vadim knew exactly who was right here.
Before he could argue his point, Victoria coughed hard, her hand reaching for the counter in support.
In a flash, he cupped her arms. “You are ill?”
“Just a sore throat. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You have the flu.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. Another day or two, and Mia will be well enough to travel.”
At which time Victoria would be worse. This was his life now, the family reunion that refused to end.
“Off to bed with your tea. I’ll take our invalid her breakfast.”
“Vadim, there’s no need. I have to walk Gordie Howe and—”
“I will walk the little dog with big shits. Do not argue with me. Why must all the women in my life argue with me?”
She smiled, a wobbly curve of her lips that appeared to come apart around the edges. The image she projected as he peered down at her was so frail, so vulnerable, almost deserving of his pity. Of his affection.
Only then did he realize that he was touching her for the first time in seventeen years. He dropped his hands.
Her expression clouded over. “I don’t want you to get sick.”
As if that was the reason he had recoiled.
“Go to bed. I will take care of everything.”
TWENTY-TWO
Isobel had spent a good chunk of her life in locker rooms, but she’d never been so grateful to sniff the stink of this one at the Team USA training compound in Plymouth, Massachusetts.
This is it. My last shot.
Only Vadim knew she was here. She didn’t want to tickle anyone’s hopes, or in Harper’s case, judgment. Better to focus on her dream without worrying others would take a dump on it. Even so, when she checked her phone one more time, her heart plummeted at the blank screen. No good-luck messages.
Fine. Let him pout.
“Chase!” Stefan Lindhoff, head coach for Team USA, crashed into the locker room and pulled Isobel into his arms for a bear hug. “Thought you might chicken out.”
Isobel pulled back and punched him in the shoulder. White haired at the age of forty-three, he’d enjoyed an on-again, off-again career in the NHL before he’d found his true calling: yelling at people to haul ass down the rink.
“Screw you, Coach, I’m here to skate. And, uh, screw you.”
He laughed his head off. “You always had a cheeky mouth on ya. Ready to get out there?” He was already walking toward the rink, expecting her to follow him. “So you’ll probably recognize a few of the players from Sochi, and there’s no shortage of talent from the college ranks,” he threw out over his shoulder. “This year the pool is pretty deep.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been warned. Look, Coach . . .” She stopped, and he faced her. “I appreciate that you’ve given me a chance here. I know I haven’t played competitively for a while, but I haven’t stopped training. I haven’t stopped believing I could get back here.”
He nodded. “We have your medical records, and the team doctor’s already looked at them. I didn’t know it was so bad, Iz.”
Damn, she was going to lose this chance before she’d even made it to the face-off circle. “It’s just medical opinion. I know what I can do. I know what my body is capable of. Put that waiver in front of me and I’ll sign. This won’t come back to you.”
He gusted out a weary breath. “Let’s see if you can still skate, Chase. Then we’ll figure out how to tie up the legalities in a big red bow.”
Out on the rink, about ten women, all suited up, were skating figure eights on the ice. One of them broke away and raced toward her.
“Chase!” Jen tackled her and held her tight. At this rate, she was more likely to die from overhugging than from a hard check against the boards. “Girl, it’s awesome to see you. How’s the noggin?” She knocked gently on Isobel’s forehead.
“Still attached, Grady. Thanks for the push.”
“Yeah, well, you might not be saying that after I put you through your paces.” She winked. “Coach’s orders, of course. No mercy.”
“All right, ladies, let’s get this show on the road,” Coach said. A couple of assistants skated over, along with a few of the players. Isobel nodded in recognition at each of them, having played with some and kept tabs on the rest as they made their mark in the NCAA and beyond.
“Three full periods.” Consulting a clipboard, Coach started divvying them up into two teams. “I’ll call the shift changes for both. First line is Grady on left, Chase in center, and Jensen on right.”
First line, back in the mix.
This was worth any risk.
Vadim answered the door, gloriously shirtless, as usual. Late in March, but the man cared nothing for the Chicago winter. The world was a better place for it.
His surprise at seeing her was obvious. “Isobel?”
“I got your text.”
“I didn’t—” He shook his head ruefully. “Mia must have sent it.”
His message to her an hour ago had made her smile and given her hope that he might be willing to make peace. On reflection, she now realized that the text wasn’t really Vadim-speak.
Flupocalypse is upon us. Send supplies.
His gaze fell to the shopping bags. “What have you brought?”
“Soup,” Isobel said with a grin to hide her disappointment that the text hadn’t come from him.
His eyes lit up. “In the bread bowl?”
“Of course.”
“You may enter.” Smiling, he took the bags from her.
Mia lay sprawled on the sofa in the big room, gazing out the window at the waves crashing against the icy beach. Gordie Howe was curled up beside her and the large TV showed the Friends crew splashing about in their nineties glory.
“Isobel!” The effort of greeting sent Mia into another coughing fit. “I’m getting better.”
“Sure sounds like it. Where’s your mom?”
“In bed sick. Alexei, too.” She giggled, which turned into more coughing. “Not together, of course.”
As if. Alexei had always struck her as sexless, humorless, and with little to redeem him beyond his loyalty to Vadim and his spaghetti carbonara. But apparently even hard-ass bulldogs could be felled by the flu. Faith in the universe? Restored.
“Back in a sec,” Isobel said, and headed into the kitchen.
Vadim was removing the soup from the bags. He looked so earnest, his big hands wrapped around the small take-out containers as he placed them carefully on the kitchen counter.
He raised his chin. “How did it go?”
She’d flown in late last night, caught a few Zs, and headed over when she got not-Vadim’s text. She knew he didn’t agree with her choice, but she assumed that the fact he was talking to her meant conciliation was on the table.
“Good. I won’t hear back until next week, but Lindhoff said he liked what he saw.”
As had Isobel. Her body had come alive on the ice, her competitive juices flowing with every defenseman rushing to take her down. This was what she should be doing. Not coaching reluctant male players who resented every piece of advice she gave them.
Vadim continued unpacking the soup, though he kept his steel-eyed gaz
e on her.
“And they’re okay with your medical history?”
“Lindhoff thinks it’ll be fine.” She moved in and rubbed his hard bicep. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Then we will not fight,” he said cryptically.
That was surprisingly easy. “Three of the players are down with the flu.” They had a game tonight, so Dante and Calhoun were understandably concerned about the other players’ health. “Coach might want to play you on the right to take Callaghan’s place and start with Shay on the left. You okay with that?”
He folded his thick-as-oak-branches, gloriously inked arms over that blockbuster chest.
“I’ve played much of my career on the right wing and I am more versatile than Shay. This will not be a problem.”
“I was referring more to the beef you have with him.”
His handsome face scowled. “As long as he passes when I’m open, we will work fine together.”
“Isobel!” Mia called out. “I’m bored, and Vadim doesn’t know how to entertain me.”
“I gave you bone marrow, you ungrateful brat,” he shot back. “Entertainment was not part of the deal. Neither was little dog with big shits.”
“Don’t call Gordie Howe that. He’s very sensitive.”
Isobel laughed. “She sounds better.”
“She’s on the mend. Go sit with her and talk about hockey, but stay several feet away from her germs.” He kissed her forehead, and predictably, she melted into him. “I wish you to stay strong so I can fuck you without conscience after I win tonight.”
“Your. Ego.”
“It is large, yes.” He pulled her flush, giving her a preview of his ego. “I will need a moment to calm it down to less epic proportions. This time shall be spent preparing lunch.” He turned her and pushed her back toward the living room. Sounded like she was forgiven, or Vadim had decided his sexual needs were more important than his disapproval.
Fair enough. They were more important to her as well.
Isobel plopped down on the sofa beside Gordie Howe. “How’s it going, sickie? Bet you’re anxious to get back to New York and on the ice.”
“Ice, yes. New York, meh.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell him, but I like hanging with Vad. He’s an absolute hoot, and half the time he doesn’t even realize it! He promised he’d let me play a few minutes of practice with the Rebels when I’m better. Oh, and he also told me you used to practice together years ago. That’s how you met.”
Isobel smiled at how quickly Mia jumped from topic to topic. “Yeah, seems like forever. Another lifetime.”
“My eyes!” Phoebe screamed from the TV.
“Oh, I like this one.” It was the episode where everybody finds out about Monica and Chandler.
“I’m usually too busy for TV, so I’ve never seen this show,” Mia said. “I didn’t expect to like it, but it’s hitting the spot.” She rubbed her dog’s head indulgently. “Gordie Howe likes it, too. He makes happy yelpy sounds whenever Joey opens his mouth.”
Too busy for TV—didn’t that sound familiar. That’s how Isobel’s life had gone, on instructions from her father. No time for anything that wasn’t about getting to the top of her game. Only when she was injured was she able to relax. She hoped Mia wasn’t overdoing it.
The girl’s phone rang and, frowning, she declined the call.
Curiosity piqued, Isobel asked, “Who’s that? A boy?”
“No way.” She bit her lip. “Boys just get in the way, don’t they?”
That’s what she’d thought. But there was no doubt that she’d missed out on . . . fun. “Mia, if you want to have a boyfriend, you should go for that. Especially if he’s hot.”
The girl glanced at her phone. “That was an agent.”
“Wow, already?” Isobel had signed on with her dad’s agent, not that she was ever talented enough to get any significant endorsements, just that one Wheaties commercial after winning silver at the Games. The world had changed in the last few years.
“Yeah, he wants to sign me now. Says he has lots of ideas to take me to the big time.”
“What does your mom say?”
“I’m not telling her. She’d freak out.”
“Then you should talk to Vadim. To be honest, I think there’s going to be plenty of time for that—agents, sponsorships, deals. Right now you should be focused on getting better, getting good grades, and getting into the college of your choice. It’s going to be hard enough once you’re NCAA. You need to make time for yourself, and if you’re worried about endorsements and making money now, it’ll be a distraction.”
Mia considered this. “Do you ever wish you did it differently?”
“What?”
“Any of it.”
Isobel inhaled deeply. “I would have watched more episodes of Friends.”
Another buzz sounded, and they both looked at Mia’s phone again, but it was the other one on the ottoman. Vadim’s, Isobel guessed.
Mia picked it up. “Whoa! Sexting alert.”
Isobel couldn’t help leaning in for a closer look. A text message from someone called Marceline said: Bonjour, Vadim, I am in town next week. Call me. Then, in case the verbal encouragement wasn’t enough, a photo of two very perky breasts with a red heart tattoo on the left one sweetened the offer.
“The Czar of Pleasure strikes again,” Mia whispered with a giggle.
Isobel snatched the phone from her, bile-tinged jealousy climbing her throat. “That’s private. You shouldn’t look.”
Rein it in, dummy. Isobel had no claim on Vadim. If anything, it was better to know that she was just one of several options for him.
“We have soup,” a deep voice intoned behind her.
She dropped the phone like it was a hot coal, then peeked up to find Vadim coming toward them with a tray carrying three soup bread bowls. Like everything else, domestication looked superhot on him.
“Oh, that’s not supposed to be for me,” Isobel murmured. “It’s for your mom and Alexei.”
Vadim put the tray down on the ottoman/coffee table. “There is enough. You will have lunch with us, then Mia will take a nap.” He winked at Isobel. “I must nap, too, to prepare for tonight’s game.”
Heat flushed Isobel’s cheeks. She was fully aware of what a nap with Vadim invariably led to and, with that text message still doing a number on her sanity, she realized that her feelings for the Russian were skirting the edges of falling into a deep pile of shit.
While Vadim made sure Mia had numerous cushions supporting her, Isobel grabbed a bread bowl filled with potato and leek soup, her favorite. The bready container quickly got soggy, so it was best to eat it fast. Pig at the trough was not her most attractive look, but what did she care? Vadim had a French-speaking, buxom playmate—with a heart tattoo on her boob, no less!—coming for a visit.
Once Vadim had Mia settled in with her soup, he picked up his own.
“This is excellent,” he said after the first mouthful. “Better than Alexei’s borscht.”
“Ugh, borscht. The worst,” Mia said with great passion.
“It is the soup of your people,” Vadim said. “You must be respectful.”
Isobel tried to say with a straight face, “Yes, Mia, respect the soup of your people,” which set Mia off laughing, and then Isobel couldn’t help joining in.
Vadim shook his head at their silliness, but Isobel could tell he enjoyed being teased.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, Vadikins,” Isobel said. “What’s with the shirtless thing? Not a fan of the above-waist articles of clothing?” Or just keeping it simple for the quick sext and pic you might need to shoot off to that French-speaking hussy?
Mia giggled. “It’s freezing out, and he insists on walking around like he’s on a modeling shoot.” She touched a finger to his shoulder. “What’s this tattoo for?”
“It is a jaguar, signifying strength and grace. It also eats schoolgirls who do not finish their soup.”
“What
about this one?”
“Matryoshka.” At Mia’s querying frown, he explained. “A babushka. Russian nesting doll. Your cultural education has greatly suffered, I see.”
Isobel added, “It signifies many layers.”
“Not for me,” Vadim said. “What you see is what you get.”
So not true. Mia continued asking for the meaning of the tattoos, and Vadim explained when he had gotten each one and why. Isobel enjoyed how easy he was with his sister, their undeniable love for each other making them glow.
“What about this?” Mia asked around a yawn. Isobel tilted her head, wondering which one she meant. Ah, one of her favorites: the skates bursting into flames.
“It represents speed on the ice. Devushka s goryshimi konkami.”
Mia squinted. “What does that mean?”
“You, young lady, should learn your mother tongue.” He took the remains of her bread bowl from her and placed it on the tray. “Now you must sleep. And I must check on the others.”
“I can do that,” Isobel said. Dante was still being an annoying pain in her ass about Vadim’s proximity to the plague, or the “Petrov contagion” as he’d dubbed it, especially since he’d caught it himself.
“You will wait here, Isobel. We must discuss strategy.” He lifted Mia into his arms.
“I can walk, you know, bro.”
“I know, pchyolka.”
Isobel cleared up the tray and put the plates into the dishwasher. When she returned, Vadim was back in the living room, sitting on the sofa.
“They are all asleep. I’ll wake Alexei and Victoria in a while to feed them.” He patted the seat cushion. “You will stay and nap with me.”
Oh, God, what was she doing here? It seemed she was incapable of resisting that blue-eyed stare, those chiseled cheekbones, and that to-die-for tatted body.
She was addicted to Vadim Petrov.
That one night in New York should have been enough to sate her hunger, and if not that, the orgasm against the window a few days later. Napping together was a dreadful idea.
Yet, like a sex-starved zombie, she went to him and settled in while he covered them with a faux fur blanket. There was no missing the part of his anatomy that was opposed to the idea of a power snooze.
