So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(17)

He needed her help. And he needed to get over the past so they could get on with the future.





FOUR




Not many experiences compared to hanging in the bathroom stall at a local bar with sweats around your ankles, listening to a brood of chickies drool over the man who made you a woman and did a pretty crappy job of it.

“I can’t believe he’s even hotter close up.”

“Gah, I know! Those cheekbones look like they were—”

Forged over hell’s anvil? Carved by the devil’s scimitar?

“Made for me to lick them!”

Or that.

The Empty Net was a local bar near the Rebels’ arena in Riverbrook, so it was a natural watering hole for anyone associated with the team. The guys liked it because they didn’t get hassled, though since the Rebels’ fortunes had improved this season, a few more puck bunnies had wandered in from their hutches to visit. The energy was different tonight, for sure. Usually the ambient noise was AC/DC, pinball pings, and bro banter, but tonight’s soundtrack was the clicking of heels, nails-on-a-chalkboard giggles, and “do you have a martini menu?”

Russian hockey royalty was in the house—and it had brought an entourage.

After leaving the bathroom and the gaggle busy adjusting their plumage for maximum impact, Isobel plopped down onto one of the bar stools farthest away from where Vadim and the rest of the team had set up court. None of them had spotted her, and she preferred to keep it that way. She didn’t usually spend much time here, but the team’s head trainer, Kelly Townsend, had sent her a text asking if she could meet up.

Before she could order a drink, her phone screen lit up with a smiling face: Jen Grady, her former roomie at Harvard and now the captain of the Montreal Mavens. They caught up every few weeks.

“Hey, Jenny-Benny, what’s up?”

“Not much. How’s the noggin?”

“Oh, still attached.” Isobel moved on quickly, as she always did whenever her injury came up. “I expect you must be busy getting ready for Worlds.” The Women’s World Hockey Championship was starting in a couple of weeks. Her heart clamped at the thought of how she was excluded.

“Yeah, drills till I can drill no more. So a little birdie told me you’re goin’ at it with Petrov.”

“What?”

“You’re his personal coach. Nice work if you can get it, girl.”

Her gaze wandered to the other side of the bar. If the woman wearing a vagina-length skirt—uh, in February—would only move a smidge . . .

“Yeah, well, he’s a Russian pain in my ass who doesn’t appreciate when I’m trying to kick his.”

“Hey, don’t kick that perfect ass too hard. We’ve all seen The Body Issue.”

Apparently, Vadim Petrov’s flawless melons were destined to haunt her like the Ghost of Mistakes Past. “Airbrushed, my friend. Let me list his faults.”

“Don’t! I’d rather live in ignorant, Petrov-is-perfect bliss.” She coughed slightly, changing the tone. “So Lindhoff was asking about you.”

Stefan Lindhoff was the assistant coach for Team USA during Sochi and had just been appointed as head coach for the next Games in Pyeongchang, one year out.

“He was wondering if you were going to try out for the Games,” Jen said. “Said he left a couple of messages for you.”

He had, and she’d ignored them. “It’s been so busy here with the team and my love life. You wouldn’t believe how much action I’m not getting.”

Jen laughed dutifully. “Look, I know the doctors told you to take it easy. You went through an unbelievably hard time after your injury, but did you ever think that maybe you have more competitive play left in you? Coach will likely use Worlds to fill most of the spots, but they’re still holding tryouts in Plymouth in a month. Coach wants to see you there. I want to see you there. If you think you’re ready, of course.”

Ready? It was one thing to skate demonstration crossovers for unappreciative pros. Getting back out there in the hurly-burly of battle was another thing entirely.

“Okay, okay, I’ll give him a call. Find out if he’s really interested or if you’re just projecting.”

“You wound me, bitch.” Then, softer: “Think about it, Iz. We have silver, but let’s go for gold. One last shot.”

On ending the call, Isobel considered Jen’s words. She’d assumed her playing career was over, but apparently a little flattery and the idea she might be wanted were powerful incentives. God only knew she wasn’t wanted by Vadim Petrov.

Tina, one of the Empty Net bartenders, caught her eye. Beer would aid in her decision-making process.

“Hey, T, how about a Blue Moon IPA?”

“I got that,” she heard behind her.

Kelly sat on the seat beside her, smelling freshly showered and wearing a blue button-down shirt tucked into dark wash jeans. His light brown hair was slicked back with hair product.

“Oh, hey!” Isobel said, discombobulated at how well he cleaned up. She’d never seen him in anything but sweats. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Why? Because you’re paying my salary?”

“No.” Yes. “Because I—” She stopped. Restarted. “I was going to make some feminist case for buying my own drinks.”