So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(61)

“You won!” Mia’s congratulations devolved into raspy coughs that sounded like a seal with a three-pack-a-day smoking habit. Lifting her head off her mother’s lap, she tried to sit up on the sofa in his living room.

“Do not get up.” Vadim knelt beside her and felt her forehead with his palm. “She is still hot.”

“Her temp went down one degree,” Victoria said. “I’ve been trying to get her to go to bed, but she insisted on waiting up for you.”

“Vad, you rocked it on the ice,” his sister sputtered. “Though you could have gone all the way with that second goal instead of laying it up for DuPre.” She coughed again. “Too generous.”

“There are plenty of goals to spread around. And these decisions made in the moment should not be second-guessed by armchair forwards, especially when they result in wins.”

She made a face, and in that moment she looked just like their father. Anger barreled through his veins at the woman who had denied the man the chance to meet his daughter.

Mia was too ill to notice his change of mood, but Victoria’s mouth thinned in discomfort. “Do you think Isobel might come to visit?” Mia asked.

“We shall see. For now, you must get your rest. Off to bed, pchyolka.”

“What does that mean?”

“Bee,” Victoria said, her eyes flashing. Always with the searching looks. “Little bee.”

Standing, he curved his arms under Mia’s body and lifted her close. “Because you are always buzzing around. On the ice, especially.” She was fast, possibly faster than Isobel had been in her prime. Not quite as strong yet, but she would get there.

Her forehead fell to his shoulder. “I’m glad people know.”

He carried her toward the guest room where she was staying, and though he suspected what she meant, he asked anyway. “Know what?”

“That we’re related. As soon as I found out, I wanted to tell the world. I was so proud to be your sister. But then when we met first, I was sick and I didn’t make a good impression.”

His heart ached in memory of her weakened state that first time he’d met her in the hospital in New York sixteen months ago. He had fought so many emotions that day: anger, regret, hate, all at Victoria. But as soon as he saw how ill Mia was, this beautiful girl who couldn’t help the decisions of her parents, he vowed to do everything in his power to cure her.

“You made a terrible first impression, sestrichka. But it’s understandably difficult to shine with the great Vadim Petrov in the room.”

Her soft giggle fluttered against his neck. At the door to her room, Victoria went ahead to turn down the bedcovers. He laid his sister down, and she curled up on her side while he placed the comforter over her.

“You saved my life, bro.”

“The flu is making you delirious.”

“I haven’t thanked you enough.”

He remained grave. “You have come to visit and brought your germs. This is gift enough.”

She groaned and he laughed, then dropped a kiss on her forehead to let her know he was teasing. “Go to sleep, and we’ll dissect my game choices tomorrow.”

“Night, Vad.”

“Good night, Mia.”

He left the room, his body itchy in a way it often was after a game. Adrenaline still rippled through him, but he’d left the arena quickly so he could tend to Mia—and avoid Isobel. Now that he’d seen his sister and ensured that she was safe, he wanted to blow off some steam. Fuck or fight.

As sinking his tension inside Isobel would not be possible until she came to her senses, he would have to satisfy his need with a fight.

Victoria emerged from the room, followed by the dog, and closed the door behind her. In silence they walked to the living room with the pup trotting quickly on his tiny legs to keep up.

“She’s getting better,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, her relief evident. “As soon as she can travel, I’ll take her home.”

“You would not leave her behind?”

Her face reddened, the jab having the desired effect. Pettiness pinched his chest. Why should he feel this way, caught in this no-man’s-land of suffering? All wrong. He refused to pander to her need to explain herself, because as soon as he asked, it would be a slippery road to accepting she’d had a good reason.

Bad mothers always have good reasons.

She sat on the sofa while he sat in the armchair farthest away. “How’s your knee?”

Neutral ground. This he could discuss. “Better.”

“Isobel seems to be good for you.”

“She is an excellent coach.”

“Only a coach?”

He scowled. “I am not discussing this with you.”

“Too old to take my advice?”

“Too old to take your bullshit.”

She smiled, and it sliced deeper than when she had looked wounded by his earlier jibe. “That’s fair,” she said. “I’m not exactly the best qualified when it comes to love.”

“No one said anything about love.” How typical. All women, even terrible mothers, apparently couldn’t help making assumptions. He had smiled at Isobel and showed concern that she was trying to kill herself; it must be love!

The silence expanded between them, and just when it felt like something would snap he felt a nudge at his leg. Gordie Howe. The silly dog likely sensed the tension and was seeking comfort. Needing something to occupy his hands and thoughts, Vadim picked up the ridiculous creature and settled it in his lap.