by Kate Meader
After two more false starts, she finally spoke in a low voice, like she was summoning it from a deep, dark place. “Are you seriously telling me that you were going to play hockey again—real hockey with checks and knocks and all that shit—even after the doctors told you one bad hit or fall and it might be kaput, bye-bye, Isobel?”
Isobel squirmed in her seat. “Doctors always err on the side of caution. That’s their job. But my job is to skate. I know what I’m capable of, what my body can handle.”
Athletes are consummate liars.
Women in love often are, too.
“Oh really?” Exasperated, Violet waved at an empty chair at the table. “What does Harper think? How does she feel about you lacing up your skates so you can go off and—and—and—” She pointed to some far-off point. An imaginary ice rink of doom, Isobel supposed. “And die?”
There was a reason Isobel hadn’t told anyone but Vadim, and it wasn’t only because she didn’t want to jinx it.
“Stop being so dramatic. I haven’t told her and I’m not going to because it’s not happening now anyway. I’m done, no more pro hockey for me!”
Flustered, Isobel shot up, then sank to her chair again. She needed to explain it better. Violet had gone through her own rotten year with her breast cancer and had embraced her second chance with more zest than a bowl of lemons. Surely she would understand.
“You don’t know what it’s like to lose the thing that defines you, Vi. This has been everything to me since I was yea high. Dad would take me out and practically fling me across the rink. On the ice I danced. I was free. This is what I was supposed to do. It’s what Dad wanted, and now . . .” She knuckled her eyes. Some of her happiest memories were of Clifford teaching her to skate. “I’ve let him down. I’ve let the old bastard down.”
Her heart shriveled into a tiny lump, coal-like and blackened, incapable of sustaining life and love and happiness.
Violet was still scowling. She didn’t get it, because she had never cared for hockey. The only person who understood was the same person who snatched it away from her—for her own good. Turdweasel!
“First, Harper almost fucks her life up trying to impress a dead man, and now you’re doing the same,” Violet said. “Jesus H. Christ on a bike, Clifford was an asshole. He screwed around, left his baby mamas high and dry, and then thought he could twist you all up in knots from the grave with his legal shenanigans. And I bought into it. I said I’d hang with you for the season and not take the cut I had coming in the will until later, so your Rebels dreams wouldn’t die. But I didn’t sign on for this crap.”
Isobel opened her mouth to protest but shut it when Violet made a zip-it gesture with her hand. “And now you’re using this thing the Russian did for you because he loves you as an excuse to push him away. It’s like you desperately want to please old Cliffie-boy, yet you’re terrified that any guy you meet will be like him.”
That made no sense, except she guessed it did. “Well, you have to admit the Russian is out of my league.”
“Yes, he is! He has a brain and you don’t. The man doesn’t want you to die playing a stupid game with sticks and a ball—and yes, I know it’s called a puck but I’m making a point. He doesn’t want you to end your days getting your head bashed in. I can’t believe your selfishness. Sounds like Vadim is better off without you.”
This was outrageous. Isobel was the one suffering through a breakup and mourning the death of her career, and Violet was acting like this was a crime against her. Why the hell did she care how Isobel lived her life? If she ended up on a stretcher or in a coffin, it’d be no skin off Violet’s nose. They hardly knew each other.
Oh.
Shit.
“Violet, I—”
“Look, I’ve got stuff to do.” Violet jerked upright and put her mug of coffee in the sink beside Dante’s. She hadn’t even taken a sip. In profile, it looked like she was—oh, hell, she was crying.
Isobel stood again, even more discombobulated than she had been ten minutes ago when she walked in and saw Dante in her sister’s kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” Isobel whispered. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” I didn’t think I could.
“Doesn’t matter. After we lose this dumb game the day after tomorrow, it’ll all be over anyway. You can go skate yourself to death, and I won’t be around to see it.”
She stomped out of the room, leaving Isobel floundering.
Vadim stepped off the elevator in the high-rise building in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and looked left, then right. His mother stood at the doorway to the apartment where she lived with Mia, a crimp at the center of her forehead so deep it was visible from twenty feet out. He headed down the corridor to meet her.
“Mia’s not here,” she said quickly. “She’s at practice.”
He could fib and say that he had not known this, but the time for lies was over. Isobel had said he needed to see this from his mother’s point of view. His woman might despise him, but her advice about his family had always been sound.
“I knew Mia was out. I am here for you.”
Her blue eyes flew wide. Vadim had always assumed he had his father’s eyes, but he saw the ring of fire in hers now. Just like Vadim’s, a signifier of deep emotion. His father had never been an emotional man.
“Come in.” She wore a blue silk blouse and a well-cut black skirt. Not expensive, but smart and professional.
“You are just home from work?” he asked as he stepped into the foyer, though foyer was too generous. Mia had told him it was a small two-bedroom that, like all New York real estate, cost a fortune. He placed his overnight bag near the coat closet while Gordie Howe sniffed it, and then him. Ridiculous creature.
“About an hour ago. I was just about to open a bottle of wine. Would you like a glass?”
“I am not drinking alcohol this week. We have one more game, and I don’t want to jinx it.” They had lost their game in Denver, the one that would have been their cushion. Now there was only one shot left in Chicago against the Eastern Conference leaders, Philadelphia.
He should not be here. He should be home getting ready. But he could not be where she was, not without falling to his knees before her and apologizing. He refused to say he was sorry for saving her life!
“Tea?”
He nodded. She left the room, and he found his gaze avidly drinking in everything before she returned and made more of his curiosity than was warranted. Clearly this was a lived-in place, a weathered and well-loved home. Interesting art graced the walls, and photos covered every flat surface. Most of them were of Mia, or of mother and daughter.
His breath hitched.
Not all of them.
He picked up a gilt-edged frame with hands that would lose the Rebels the last game of the season if he let them tremble like this. Taken when he was nine years old, it showed him wearing hockey gear and carrying a trophy that was almost as big as he. His first big win.
Had she hidden it away all these years while she kept his identity a secret from Mia? Did she occasionally remove it from its storage place, unwrap its protective wrapper, and pore over it with a desperate longing?
He suspected she had. He suspected this separation had been as hard on her as it had been on him.
“Do you remember when you wanted to give up hockey?” He heard her voice behind him.
A stress laugh spilled from his mouth. “I was too small. And Papa said it would never work out for me. I was always getting checked and pounded. I loved hockey but I hated competitions.”
She smiled. “And I told you that if you couldn’t be the biggest, you would be the quickest. Buzz around the ice like a pchyolka.”
Little bee. That is what she called him. But after she left, he had an unexpected growth spurt, his muscles came in, and he no longer needed his quickness. His power came from brute strength. His speed never left, but he did not rely on it.
He forgot what had made him so suited for hockey in the first place. He forgot a lot of th
ings.
“I’ve made a mistake. Screwed up with Isobel. I thought what I did was for the best, but she doesn’t see it that way.” He noticed his mother’s wry arch of her eyebrow. “Yes, tell me, Mama, how we men know nothing about our women.”
“Oh!” Tears welled in her eyes. What had he done now?
Ah. Mama. He had called her Mama.
She sniffed and knuckled the corners of her eyes.
He cupped her shoulder. “Don’t cry. I won’t call you Mama again.”
That only made it worse, though it was hard to tell if she was laughing or crying.
She swiped at her cheeks. “I’m such a blubberer. Let me see to the tea, and then you can tell me about Isobel and how you messed up.”
An hour later, the front door opened and Mia called out, “Whose bag is this?” She stopped, mouth agape, on seeing Vadim on the sofa.
“Don’t be so surprised, sestrichka. I said I would visit.”
“But . . .” She looked at her mother, then back at Vadim, who was sitting with shoes off, legs stretched out on a footstool, and Gordie Howe in his lap. Yes, he had made himself quite at home while he explained what had happened with Isobel. His mother had listened, not judging. Isobel would need time to come around, she advised. He had threatened her independence, and now she was figuring out how to align this with her feelings for him. Vika had no doubt that Isobel was crazy about him—she knew it from the moment she saw their dinner table teasing of each other in Chicago.
Only a mother could be so sure that her son was loved despite all evidence to the contrary.
He stood and enveloped his sister in his arms, while Gordie Howe yapped around excitedly. “How was practice?”
“Uh, good. What are you doing here?”
“I cannot come to see my family?”
“Sure you can, bro.” She thumped him on the shoulder, her eyes soft and wet. “I just didn’t expect you. Are you staying the night? You can have my room!”
“That would not be very brotherly of me. I have made a reservation at a hotel nearby. I will come back for breakfast.” He turned to his mother. “If that is okay.”
“Of course it is.” Vika looked as teary-eyed as Mia—well, that would increase tenfold with his next move. He had forgotten all about it until now.
“I have something for you. Wait one moment.” He went to his overnight bag and pulled out a package.
“For me?” Mia said.
“No. This is for our mother.”
With shaking fingers, Victoria opened the boxed gift and flipped the cardboard lid. Peeling back the tissue paper, she yelped in surprise.
“Vadim, it’s beautiful!” She lifted it out of the box: a samovar used to make tea in the Russian tradition. Made of polished brass, this one was less ornamental than many, more functional. Watching her face transform with emotion was still too painful, so instead he fixed on her blurred reflection in the burnished metal.
He cleared his throat. “Do you already have one?”
“I do, but it isn’t as beautiful as this. It’s on its last legs, actually.” She stood and threw her arms around him, sinking into him, and he found himself holding on to her, as if that could replace every hug he’d missed for the last seventeen years.
It couldn’t, but hugs were contagious, were they not? He was happy to become infected.
“What time should I come over for breakfast?” It was Saturday, so he didn’t want to force them to rise too early, but his flight back to Chicago was at two.
“Eight. It’ll give me time to get to the bakery.”
“I’ll bring the baked goods. You provide the tea.”
Swiping at her eyes with one hand, Mia gripped his forearm with the other. “You could just stay here tonight. On the sofa.”
“Ah, but is that not where Alexei will be staying?”
His mother blushed. “Alexei? I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, don’t you?” He called out loudly in Russian, “You can come out now, you old fool!”
The durák put his head around a corner, his expression sheepish. “The walls are thin. You will wake the neighbors.”
Mia laughed, all amazement. “You mean he was here the entire time? Hiding?”
Vadim shook his head in pity. “I saw his shoes over by the armchair. Fools in love are not known for their common sense or the ability to cover their tracks.” To Alexei, he commanded, “Do me the service of treating my mother with respect and court her with pride in the open.”
The old bulldog scowled. “I do not need your permission.”
“No, you don’t, priyatel’.” Friend. He kissed his sister, then his mother, on the forehead. “Until breakfast. And, Alexei?”
He placed a hand on his old friend’s shoulder, the man who had attended every hockey game, given unsolicited opinions, and stepped into his father’s shoes for very little reward. “Please take this with the kindness it is intended. You are fired.”
And then he left his family awestruck.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Vadim sat on the bench, tying his skates. He put a double knot in one, then looped the end through and triple knotted it. It was unnecessary, but he had been doing it since his KHL days. Hockey players were a superstitious lot.
Dante appeared in the locker room and moved through quietly, speaking a few words to each player. Sometimes he gave a short speech, but before an important game—against a tough opponent, a longtime rival—he preferred to float, aware of the tensions and not wishing to add to them. Tonight was their last shot, the final game in the regular season. Lose now and be ready with the refrain of failed seasons everywhere: there’s always next year.
The big speech was left to Remy, whose gift for rousing the troops was incomparable.
“Well, mes amis, I could say it’s just like any other game but it’s not, n’est-ce pas?”
“Hell, no,” Burnett said, shaking his head.
“I know it’s been tough the last few years. This year has looked a whole lot better. But anyone who thinks we gave it a good shot and better luck next time had better rethink that position. Because this could still happen. We could still happen.”
Murmurs of assent greeted this statement.
Remy looked around, his gaze touching every player in the room. “Now, not to pile on the pressure, but this is my last season in the NHL.”
“No way, Jinx!”
“Fuck me, you’re kidding!”
“Lazy fuckin’ bastard.”
This last observation was from Bren St. James, who, by the looks of that crooked half smile, was not surprised at his friend’s announcement.
Remy let loose a big grin. “Win or lose, I’m retiring to cook, get fat, and make babies.”
Huge guffaws all around tempered the tension. It was no secret that the Cajun craved a family life on retirement and that his jambalaya was a thing of beauty.
“You’ve probably heard this rumor that I’m considered the unluckiest guy in the NHL. When I was traded to this piece-of-shit team, I thought it was just another sign I was cursed. But then a few things happened. We won a few games. We gathered some confidence under our skates. We started to play better. I—” He shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “Well, my life sure changed a whole lot.”
Remy was a man in love, with everything to play for. This, Vadim could appreciate, even if the object of his particular affections was unable to see his point of view. Fine. His anger would power his performance tonight, though this is what he had said for the last two games. Games they had lost.
Remy was still talking. “You all know I had a chance to leave a few months ago. I stayed. I’m here. And now we’re here on the cusp of something we haven’t seen for over fifteen years. A play-off spot. We can do it. We will do it. Bon chance, mes amis. Laissez-nous patiner.” Let’s skate.
They moved out, heading for the tunnel. Just outside the door, Vadim’s heart hammered triple time at the sight of a dark ponytail belonging to
a stubborn head bent toward one of the trainers.
Close together, Isobel and Kelly discussed something on her iPad. Always with her charts and assessments. She raised her eyes just as he walked by. He saw something soft in there, something he could work with. She did not hate him completely, and this knowledge was like a bird soaring in his chest.
“Whore,” he heard in a loud mutter behind him.
Vadim closed his eyes briefly. Shay, you have chosen the wrong night to test me.
He turned and fisted the asshole’s jersey, yielding a satisfying yelp of pain. Leon Shay was dressed, but he had not been playing well and would likely not make a shift tonight. Less ice time fueled doubts and dimmed confidence—a vicious cycle. But these doubts did not change the man’s personality, which was as ugly as it had been on the first day Vadim met him seven weeks ago.
“What did I tell you about speaking, Shay?”
“Screw you, Petrov! Everyone knows you’ve got your spot because of your history with one of the team’s owners.”
All the players had stopped now. Isobel watched, her color rising, her eyes alive with concern.
Cade stepped in. “Shay, you’d best apologize.”
“Fuck that! I’m not saying anything that isn’t true. She might not be banging him now, but she sure as hell banged him all those years ago.” Shay glared at Vadim’s woman, and then dared to speak to her. “Should we take a number, Coach Chase? Make sure you rate us on all aspects of our performance?”
“Shut up, Shay,” Cade spat out with a guilty look at Isobel.
Coach Calhoun moved in, pretty quickly for a man of his lumbering bulk. “Get out on the ice. Now!”
When no one moved, Isobel took a step forward, only to be checked with a hand on her arm by Kelly. Vadim knew it was harmless—he knew his Bella would not have moved on so quickly—but he still saw only a red blur in front of his face.
His fist clenched. He raised it, but in half a heartbeat, found it covered by Isobel’s hand.
“Don’t, Vadim. Tonight’s too important.”
