So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(41)

Isobel couldn’t help her smile. “So that’s where all the Petrov personality ended up.”

Pride ruled his expression. “She is . . . spirited.”

“She adores you, and the feeling’s obviously mutual.”

Vadim threaded his arms over his chest. “This is relatively new for us. We only connected a short time ago.”

There was a story here. “I’ve heard of her, but I didn’t know she was related to you.”

“Neither did I,” he said bitterly. “My mother chose not to notify my father that he had another child. She moved to New York after she left us and only informed me of Mia’s existence after he died eighteen months ago.”

Wow, that sucked—and it clearly still stung Vadim. Pain radiated off him in waves. But she knew him well enough to recognize her pity would go unappreciated, so she skirted the edges of the problem. “I’m surprised her connection to you hasn’t gotten out.”

“It is for her protection. With her talent and youth, she is under a lot of pressure. If the media knows of her relationship to me, it may affect her performance. I think that you, of all people, understand this.”

She did. Because she was the daughter of an NHL legend, the media had been relentless about her future from the moment she hit puberty and started skating rings around grown men. To be honest, the real pressure had come from her father, and she had to admit there were times when she would have gladly gone incognito. A few weeks without the Chase name would have done wonders for her sanity as a teenager.

“Should I be concerned why my coach is visiting me in my hotel room late at night?”

“You know why I’m here, Vadim. What the hell were you thinking? A fight? In public? With Shay?”

Through her outburst, he stood stock-still in those erotically thin sweats that shaped everything and somehow drew more attention to his assets than if he’d been naked. The trim waist, narrow hips, muscular thighs. Yeah, yeah, she’d deliberately skipped over that all-important area, because if she gave it a moment’s thought, she was going to get trapped in his dick-sand. But thinking about not going there was the one thing guaranteed to turn her eyes into magnets. Perhaps a quick glance to prove her mettle . . .

No fair! The drape of the cotton was like a perfect kiss to that intriguing bulge. Was that a cock at rest or was something more interesting going on there?

She refocused. This is not why you are here. You are here because all the work you put in was for nothing.

While the energy between them zip-zap-zinged, Vadim watched her carefully. He seemed to be holding himself at bay, that jaguar on his shoulder a fitting proxy, his fists on his hips in the least casual arms akimbo she’d ever seen. Every muscle in his body strained, and not for the first time, Isobel wondered what it would be like to have this fully mature beast—not the callow youth of before—take her hard.

“You’ve been cut from tomorrow’s game. Maybe more games.”

“It was worth it.”

He had not just said that. She threw up her hands, glad to have another outlet for the inappropriate lust rippling through every nerve ending.

“You’d better tell me what started this, because I swear to God, Vadim—”

“What? You’ll tickle it out of me?”

She blinked. What a weird, funny, distinctly un-Vadim thing to say.

“Don’t get cute with me!”

He sighed, back to his default setting of all drama. “Isobel, you should leave now. We both know that we do not do well together in small spaces.”

She cast a theatrical look around the room. “Looks like you’ve got a big enough space right now. Big enough for your giant ego and your dumb muscles and your huge dick!” Don’t talk about his dick. His big, beautiful . . . “You’d better not be expecting the team to pay for this.”

He moved toward her, bringing with him that giant ego and dumb muscles and huge, ahem—she stepped back until her butt met the door.

He placed a hand on the frame beside her cheek. “It would be best if you leave.”

“Not until I get an explanation. I can’t go to Coach and Moretti to get you reinstated without all the facts.”

“I was involved in a fight. I am out of the game. Those are the facts.”

“Just like that? No way. We’ve worked damn hard to get you fit for play, and I sure as hell am not going to accept this. Start at the beginning.”

“The beginning, Bella?” Ruefulness and amusement crossbred on his face. “As is so often the case, it began with a girl. The most fearless girl I have ever met. Skates like the wind, shoots like a sniper, swears like a Russian sailor.”

“Sounds like fucking trouble.”

And that sounded like fucking flirting. Stop flirting with your player.

Before he could make some flirty comment back—though flirting wasn’t really in Vadim’s wheelhouse—she tried to refocus on why she was here. Not because of his chest, or those tattoos, or that freshly showered man scent now tearing down every brick in her walls.

She thought of Harper’s warning. If you want to be taken seriously in this business, as a coach in this business, don’t get involved with Petrov.

Discuss “coach” things. “What did Shay say to set you off?”

“What makes you think he said anything? Perhaps I started it.”