So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(26)

“Yep, even the defenders. You never know when you’ll have a shot, so you need to practice as well.”

Isobel skated to the line while the kids formed a line a few feet back. Once Miguel was set up in goal, she dropped the first puck and skated out of the way. Natasha glided up and gave it a tap. Too weak, and Miguel had no problem deflecting it. During the first round of fifteen shots—the number of kids in class today—Isobel watched, noting each player’s attempt and how it might improve. On the second round, she offered observations. Harder. Aim for the five-hole. Try a feint.

By the time twenty minutes of penalty drills were over, each of them had scored at least twice. It did her heart good to see the joy on their faces as that puck slid below the tender’s body.

“Okay, that was great, guys. Everyone help with picking up the pucks and then go hit the locker rooms.”

As Isobel gathered pucks, Gabby skated over with Natasha. They nudged each other, clearly building up to say something.

“What’s up, ladies?”

“We were wondering . . .” Natasha started, and looked to Gabby for help.

“Do you know Vadim Petrov?” Gabby blushed, and then launched into giggles, which set Natasha off into her own gigglefest.

“Yeah, I do. In fact, I’m giving him a few lessons right now.”

“You’re his coach?” Gabby’s eyes widened in admiration, and Isobel felt a little warm bathing in it. “Is he as cute close up as he is in the underwear commercials?”

More cute. A hundred times more cute. Not only that, but every time I’m with him, I revert to your age. Since when did twelve-year-olds have crushes on dangerous, unsuitable men like Vadim Petrov?

“Sorry to burst your bubble, guys, but a lot of that is airbrushing. In fact, he’s got wrinkles. Pimples, too.”

The girls’ faces crumpled in disappointment. Get used to it, ladies. Men will do nothing but. A couple of the boys hovered nearby, listening in, and now Jordan, one of her centers, skated closer.

“So he’s okay with a woman coach?” There was a touch of challenge in it.

“Well, Jordan, he’s okay with a coach. I don’t think the fact I’m a woman has anything to do with it.”

“Do you think he might be able to visit?” Gabby asked, her eyes bright with visions of hot, albeit wrinkled and pimpled, Russians. “It’d be great to have a real hockey player showing us some stuff.”

Chopped liver right here, apparently.

“I’ll see what I can do. Now off you go, your parents will be waiting.”

The kids skated off, bubbling with excitement that a “real” player might make an appearance. Le sigh. She sat on the bench, trying not to resent Vadim or Moretti or her injury, thinking about what the hell she was doing with her life. A few minutes passed and a new group of kids came on the ice, the thirteen-to fourteen-year-olds in the bantam class. She looked up as a big set of thighs entered her field of vision.

“Hey, Isobel.”

“Hey, Jax. How’s it going?”

“Not bad.” The older kids’ coach, Jackson Callaghan, brother of Rebels right-winger Ford, once had a promising career laid out before him. A car crash over ten years ago ended his dream, but in the last few months he’d taken over as the head coach for the junior club. “How’s my dickhead of a brother doing?”

“Pretty good. Holding the first line together.”

Jax gave a subtle chin nod to the bench beside her. She displayed her palm, and he took a seat.

“So, other than running a pro hockey team and teaching Petrov how not to be a Russian asshole, what are you up to these days?”

She laughed. She didn’t know Jax all that well, but she liked his blunt approach.

“Just assessing all my options. Jobs. Men. Sandwiches.”

“Oh yeah? Got some good stuff in the works?”

“Chicken and cheddar from Potbelly’s. Then I’m thinking college coaching or back to the minors.”

He nodded, then jerked upright and shouted out to a couple of boys on the far side of the rink. “No checking during warm-up!” The troublemakers parted and headed back into innocuous figure eights.

Jax sat again. “How’s the fund-raiser coming along?”

In a few weeks, they would host a glitzy gala to funnel more money into the Hockey for Everyone coffers. They chatted a little about it, but Isobel’s mind was still stuck on her various career dilemmas. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“If you had a chance to play pro, even if it was just one night, would you take it?”

“Without hesitation.”

“Even if it meant you risked reinjury or worse?”

“I’d skate toward that faster than my kids inhale Gino’s deep-dish.” He cocked his head. “You got another shot, Isobel?”

“Maybe.”

He stood and did a quick pirouette on his skates to face her. “What did Gretzky say? You miss a hundred percent of the shots you never take.”

Yep, that’s what he’d said. The Great One could always be relied upon to steer a girl true.



Vadim held the phone up to his ear, determined to listen closely and read between the lines.

“Hello,” a sleepy, sexy voice said. A little Gallic irritation in it, too.