So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(18)

“You can buy the next round,” he said. “I’m all for feminism where alcohol is concerned.”

“Fair ’nough.”

He ordered the same and waited until the glass was set before him, then raised it and clinked against hers. “To the Rebels.”

She murmured her agreement and took a sip. “So what’s on your mind?”

His brow crimped. Crap, that had sounded rude, jumping right into the fray like that. Small talk was so not her forte.

“Well, I figured with you coaching Petrov, it might be good to draw up a plan so we’re all on the same page about his program.”

Warmth infused Isobel. So far, the Rebels’ coaching staff had been cool toward her, understandable given her ownership credentials. But she’d been a well-respected coach before she was a franchise owner, and that was where her heart lay. Or at least where it had landed.

One last shot, Iz.

“That’d be great.”

For the next thirty minutes they chatted about the player on the other side of the bar. It might seem odd, but really they were discussing him as an asset. A mass of muscles and tendons and bones. All his value lay in ensuring that his body and mind were in tip-top condition.

So color Isobel surprised when halfway through the second round—which she had bought—Kelly let loose this gem: “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”

A mouthful of beer went down the wrong way, and Kelly had to clap her on the back while she recovered.

“Not terribly encouraging,” he said.

“Sorry, it was just—did you ask me out on a date?” She thought about his hair product, his button-down shirt, and how nice he smelled. “Is this a date?”

He held up his hands. “No! I’d never try to pull a fast one like that.”

She gave him the once-over.

“I mean . . . I put on a nice shirt. Best foot forward and all.”

“Wish I’d gotten the memo,” she muttered, feeling extra unsexy in her sweats.

“I’ve been watching you.” The hands went up again. “Not in a creepy way, but I’ve noticed you since you arrived a few months ago. I can see you’re in a tough position, wanting to have more say in the coaching, but not wanting to step on any toes. I really admire you, Isobel, and all you’ve accomplished.”

More flattery. Don’t let anyone ever tell you it wasn’t the ultimate aphrodisiac. Hell, she could see why Petrov banged every woman who told him “you’re the best, Vadim! The absolute best!”

“You’d like to have dinner with me?”

“Sure, why not?”

Slightly less than a resounding vote of confidence, but he was the first guy to show a genuine interest in her in forever. Didn’t couples meet at work all the time? Couples, you know, those people who shared similar interests, strove for common goals, had things to talk about at the end of their day. And he’d initiated it, so it wouldn’t look like she was using her boss persona to force an employee into dating her. It might be weird, but it also might be . . . perfect!

Was she attracted to him? Almost as tall as her, he had nice normal hair and warm hazel eyes and he was clearly in shape. Not the bull shoulders of—do not go there—the athlete type she was used to meeting, but still toned and strong. His smile didn’t give her flutters exactly, but that kind of attraction was so overrated.

She allowed herself to go there after all. She had thought sex would be awesome with the Czar of Pleasure, and look how that worked out. Fireworks happened to other people. She wanted a guy she could talk to.

“Yes, let’s do dinner.” And then she laughed coquettishly to affirm her interest.

He smiled. In response, her heart gave a little jump. Nothing earth-shattering, but enough to know she wasn’t completely denying herself the hearts-aflutter experience. She was sure of it.

Standing, he kissed her on the cheek. “See you at work tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got to go, but this has been really . . .”

“Nice?”

“Yeah.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “Nice.”



Vadim wished he hadn’t come out tonight.

Sure, the company was pleasant enough. The players were an enjoyable bunch, not afraid to poke fun or rake him across the coals, especially about his attractiveness to the opposite sex. Several women had positioned themselves kitty-corner to their table, throwing seductive glances his way. He had wondered aloud to his teammates why they didn’t approach, and Erik Jorgenson, their Swedish goalie, said that they rarely did. That in fact very few women frequented this bar at all.

Vadim didn’t understand this. Hockey players were considered gods in Canada—there were hockey fans, and then there were French Canadian hockey fans—and all of Vadim’s non-ice time in Quebec had been spent holding women at arm’s length. It was tiring, but a necessary part of the job. Sometimes his arm slipped and let one or two through. These were the perks. They worked hard on the ice so they could play harder off it.

“Looks like word’s out that the Czar of Pleasure is here,” Cade said.

This again. If he was feeling more like himself, he would have raised his head and given one of the women—the pretty blonde with the high-pitched giggle and the rack that didn’t grow naturally—the nod to join them. But he was not feeling like himself. He was feeling irritated, and it was because of Isobel Chase.