So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(38)

Fury coursed through him at how he’d screwed up. He had ruined her first sexual experience in his haste to get his rocks off. Nineteen-year-olds had a lot to learn about pleasing a woman, but surely he could have gone gentler with her. Listened to her body. Anticipated her needs. And now, that disaster lay between them like a peak that had to be scaled.

But he couldn’t. He had to stay on his side of the mountain. He had to stay away from her so she would not lose respect from the world for her coaching skills.

An hour later, the small groups were dispersing, and while it was at least three hours to the team’s midnight curfew, it was clear that the night was ending. Vadim didn’t mind, as Mia had texted to say she was in an Uber and on her way.

He stood, so did Remy and Bren. “Do zavtra, gentlemen.” Until tomorrow.

As he turned, someone bumped against his shoulder, though bumped was generous. If Vadim wasn’t 229 pounds of rock-solid muscle, he might have taken a step back.

Leon Shay stood before him with Kazinsky, one of the defensemen. They must have just come in, because their cheeks were ruddy and a dusting of snow covered their jackets. Shay’s eyes were cloudy. Unfocused. The man was drunk or close to it.

“Petrov, I hear you’re starting tomorrow.”

“It is what I am paid to do. It will be good to be back.” Even if it was at the expense of Shay in the starting lineup. At half strength, Vadim was ten times the player Shay would ever be. Coach had made the right decision.

“So who’d you blow to get back on the roster?”

“Come on, man, don’t start this.” Kazinsky, evidently the wiser or more sober of the two, put a hand on his tipsy friend’s arm.

Don’t start what? Vadim looked from Shay to Kaz. The defender dropped his gaze in embarrassment.

Had Vadim not told Shay what would happen if he spread gossip about Isobel? He glanced down at Shay’s running shoes, the laces now grubby from the snow-slushed Manhattan streets. Not idly, Vadim wondered if those laces would break when he wrapped them around Shay’s thick, stupid neck.

Meeting Shay’s unfocused gaze, Vadim spoke in a quiet, reasonable voice, though every cell in his body itched to do battle. “Perhaps we should speak outside.”

Shay leaned in unsteadily, his breath stinking of whiskey. “So you can hit me and finish the hatchet job you started when you were traded in? And here I was thinking that Isobel Chase was going to spread her legs to get her dream job. Looks like you’re the one who needs to whore yourself out, you Russian prick.”

“Poshol ti, you fucking kozyol—”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Bren stepped in and wedged his body between Shay and Vadim. “Both of you, off to your rooms. It’s too late for this shite.”

A crowd had gathered, a mix of hotel patrons, the few remaining Rebels players, and Kelly. Bren stepped back, hands raised, seeking calm, and Kazinsky followed suit. Shay remained, his brain clearly in some sort of hamster wheel of confusion. Vadim would not hit a man who’d had too much to drink.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t get the last word in. Not sporting, perhaps, but Leon Shay wasn’t the type of man who understood these subtleties.

Vadim’s agent often urged him to protect his face with the same zeal he used to cultivate his skill on the ice. A famous photographer had once called Vadim’s bone structure flawless, and while he was usually opposed to inflicting damage on such perfection, sometimes one had to choose the lesser of two evils.

“I am sure if you work hard, Shay, you will have your place back on the first line.”

Shay may have been drunk, but he was lucid enough to understand a veiled insult when he heard it. True, Vadim would never strike a drunk, but he would accept the first blow—and ensure this durák saw no ice time for the rest of the season.

So when that sloppy fist met Vadim’s jaw, he accepted it in the way a Russian accepts the sharp bite of wind coming off the Ural mountain range. With fortitude and the knowledge that he may not win this battle, but the war had turned in his favor.





TWELVE




Isobel ran into Harper as her older sister was leaving Dante’s room.

“What happened?” she demanded. Harper’s text message had merely said: Shay and Petrov are off the roster. Fight in hotel bar.

Harper sighed. “Dante and I walked into the bar on the tail end of an argument. Bren and Remy were pulling the two of them apart, and then it was full-scale omertà.” Mob code of silence. “As far as we can tell, no one filmed it, though there were a few civilians in the vicinity.”

Isobel knotted her hands into fists. “We know Shay’s a loudmouthed blowhard. He probably started this. Whatever this is.” She looked over Harper’s shoulder at Dante’s closed door. “I need to talk to Dante. He can’t suspend Petrov, not after all the work he put in. We need him on the ice.”

Harper grimaced. “Our GM wants to set an example. Zero tolerance. And neither of us holds out much hope of this not getting out and back to the commissioner.”

The NHL loved the fights on the ice—the big ratings proved it—but anything that might tarnish the rep of the league outside of the officially approved violence was a big no-no.

“This is total bullshit, Harper. Vadim has to play.”

Blood boiling, Isobel moved forward, their GM her goal, only to have her sister grip her elbow and steer her away toward the elevator. That petite stature hid the strength of an Amazon.