So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(49)

Vadim sat heavily on the locker room bench, bent over while he unlaced his skates and caught his breath. His entire body was shaking, every cell burning with the aftereffects of a hard game. Adrenaline was still streaking through him. The Rebels had won, and nothing felt better.

Except perhaps being buried inside Isobel Chase.

“Good game, young Padawan.”

He looked up to find the green-eyed witch herself standing over him. She wore a black turtleneck sweater that covered so much skin it should not have been sexy, yet it hugged her breasts in a way that was a capital crime. As for her dark-rinse jeans making love to every curve? Worth at least fifteen to life.

“Spasibo. Though the second goal was down to Bren. I was just there at the right time.”

Bren shouted over to him. “As much as I love taking undue credit, Petrov, NHL rules dictate that whoever touches the puck last is assigned the goal. That first one you buried was a thing of fuckin’ beauty, however. And it was all yours.”

Vadim fought his smile. He was pleased, and especially pleased to get the kudos from a man he respected. Their captain was a straight shooter and didn’t dole out compliments to just anyone.

He raised his eyes to Isobel. “This is down to you, Coach.”

Two spots of color flagged her cheeks and her smile looked wobbly around the edges. “I’m glad if anything I did helped.”

He held her gaze. Oh, you helped, all right. You helped so well that I would really love if you helped again.

She must have read his thoughts because she backed up a step and thumbed over her shoulder. “I should probably . . .”

“Yes, you probably should.” Before he surrendered to temptation and pulled her down into his lap.

Violet had just come in with a loud shout of, “Ready for inspection, boys?” Dante followed, looking strangely pissed off. The GM said something to Cade, and Alamo’s response only seemed to irk him more. Could the man not be happy that they had won after losing three in a row?

Vadim lowered his chin but watched while Isobel headed out. To keep up the illusion, she stopped and said something to Coach Calhoun and then to a couple of the other players. Wouldn’t want to look like she was playing favorites. Ten minutes later, Vadim walked out of the locker room to a bank of microphones in his face.

“How’s it feel to be back, Vadim?”

“The knee holding up okay?”

“We’ve heard you’re receiving private lessons from team owner Isobel Chase. Care to comment?”

So it begins.

He needed to be extra careful about how he handled questions about Bella. Cade’s warning came back to him: You want to make that harder on Isobel or you want to calm the fuck down and figure out a plan? Protecting her was key.

He gave clipped answers to their questions, careful not to dwell overlong on how Isobel had helped. He was also conscious that she was standing with Harper nearby, being interviewed by another reporter. When had his body become so aware of her presence, every cell thrumming to the beat of his need for her?

As his answers weren’t interesting enough, the reporters moved on to other players, and Vadim headed down the tunnel on the lookout for his sister. The charter flight back to Chicago would be leaving soon, so there wasn’t much time. That’s when he noticed her.

She was not alone.

That woman. He had expressly forbidden her to come.

“Vadim!” Mia threw her arms around him, and the leash on her wrist pulled at the silly dog’s collar. He tried to jump up on Vadim, wanting in on the affectionate exchange. “Bro, you played great. I was a little worried about you in the first period, but you sooo pulled it out in the second. I’m mighty proud of you.”

He nodded, the rock of bile in his throat impeding any communication. He had told her not to bring Victoria. But his sister was barely sixteen, a child, who thought all problems were fixable. Leukemia, an injured knee, an irreparably broken relationship between a son and the mother who had discarded him like one would scrape shit from a shoe.

Sixteen months ago, he had seen the woman at the bedside of his sick sister for the first time since he was ten years old. The sister he had learned about one day prior. Fifteen years was a long time to go without seeing a once-beloved parent. Those years had added fine lines around her expressive blue eyes, yet left her beauty undiminished. Glossy onyx-black hair had framed her face in soft waves, different from the severely pulled back style she had worn when he was a boy. She was also shorter—or perhaps he was taller.

Tonight she glowed, and just as at that moment over a year ago when he had met her at the hospital, he wanted to stare at her all day.

“Hello, pchyolka,” she said to him now.

His heart thrashed fiercely. That nickname—little bee—he would have happily gone the rest of his life without hearing it again.

Mia must have seen the look on his face. She leaned in close, still holding on to him. “I know you said not to bring her, but she wanted to see you so much. You can’t ignore her forever.”

He saw the desperate love rolling off the woman behind his sister, and it firmed his resolve.

Can’t ignore her forever? Just watch me.

“I’ll see you the next time I play in New York,” he murmured to Mia, and kissed her on the forehead. She was a meddling menace, but he understood her desire to play at happy families. “Keep practicing.”