So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(10)

“Miz Chase.”

Yep, shower for one. Dry off. Then another.

“Shay.”

This guy hadn’t exactly welcomed the ownership changes at the top. He was built in the mold of her father, a man’s man with distinct tendencies toward assholery. While Shay never came right out and complained, his position was clear: women should not be running hockey teams. Now he blocked her path, actually and figuratively.

“Got places to be,” she said, and while she could have gone around him, she elected to wait until he moved around her. Better keep that intimidation shit for the ice, dickhead.

With one last sneer, he rounded her and walked away.

She shuddered. Make that shower a triple.

Pushing the locker room door ajar, she called out, “You guys decent?”

A rumble of male laughter answered, then Remy’s voice sounded above the noise. “That’s open to interpretation, but if you mean mostly covered up, then yeah.”

She walked in, prepared for Remy’s assurance to be a bunch of bull. In her years coaching the minors in Montreal, she’d seen a wealth of penis—long, short, fat, skinny, weirdly curved, and oddly shaded—so in-the-buff athletes no longer fazed her.

And would you lookie here? If it wasn’t the very pleasant sight of Cade Burnett, towel-free and ass-out. He turned slightly with a wicked grin, penis in profile. Not bad.

“Howdy, Isobel.”

“Hey, Alamo.” Reluctantly, she moved her gaze to points north. “Heard you fell on your pretty face during practice. You okay?”

“Yeah. St. James caught me with my helmet loose. Sometimes I forget he’s an asshole.”

She studied the growing bruise on his chin. “You’re all assholes, but you’re one of my favorite assholes.”

“Bet you say that to all the good-lookin’ Texans.”

Such an outrageous flirt. “I’m looking for Petrov.”

“In with the trainer,” Remy said, the words muffled as he pulled a sweatshirt over his head.

She turned to leave, but didn’t get far before she felt a hand touching her arm. Remy stood behind her, his expression sheepish.

“About this morning.”

Yes. This morning. She was currently staying in a guest room at Harper’s house, affectionately known as Chase Manor, in Lake Forest, a situation that was supposed to be only temporary. On her way to grab a cup of joe in the kitchen before the practice-that-never-was, she’d walked in on her sister and Remy in a pose she would need a lifetime supply of bleach to scrub from her retinas.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said.

He looked horrified. “No, you shouldn’t be sorry. Hell, that’s your home, and usually Harper’s over at mine. But I’d stopped by after the club last night, and well . . . you shouldn’t have to tiptoe around your own house. To be honest”—he lowered his voice—“I’d rather we were living together at my place, but Harper wants to wait until the season is over. Less media attention.”

“That’s probably a good idea. Don’t get me wrong, you guys are great together, but the next couple of months are going to need all our focus.”

He rubbed his chin. “I s’pose.” But he didn’t sound like he agreed. Was he looking for her permission to push Harper on this? Humans with penises, so needy.

“Harper’s crazy about you, DuPre. And I get to witness it in all its naked expression on our kitchen counters. Yay!”

Remy chuckled.

“We’re heading to the Empty Net tomorrow night,” Cade said as he rubbed a towel over his junk. “Gotta give Petrov a proper welcome. You in, Isobel?”

Fraternizing with the players deliberately and with Petrov specifically? Uh, no. Last night was an accident. Besides, she was fully aware of how in demand the players were by the opposite sex and just how willing they were to fulfill the supply side of the equation to any hockey groupie in range. A philanderer father and two cheating exes told her she did not need to witness that.

“Thanks, but I’m busy washing my hair.” And with that, she headed out, steeling herself for a stern talk with their new left-winger.

She entered the trainer’s room . . . and immediately wished she’d used the same MO as she had outside the locker room two minutes ago.

As in, should have knocked.

Sorry, Cade Burnett, your brief reign as King Perfect Butt is now over. A new ruler has ascended the throne.

Vadim Petrov took assology to a whole other level.

He lay stretched out, facedown, on the trainer’s table, a towel draped over his back, leaving his lower half—yes, ladies, the best half—exposed. Two perfect globes sat up like melons. If melons could, uh, sit up.

Melons? Oh for Gretzky’s sake, woman. Snap out of it.

Luckily, she had a few things going for her to aid in this snap-out effort.

1. She’d seen plenty of perfect hockey player ass. Dammit, she was a professional, and this was just another one.

2. Petrov’s ass was old news. The guy had recently displayed it shamelessly in ESPN’s The Body Issue, so the world and its Aunt Cecily knew every curve and contour.

3. Most important and most relevant to this situation, she’d actually touched/stroked/squeezed this particular ass years ago, and frankly, she wasn’t looking to repeat.