So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(62)

“He likes you,” Victoria said.

“He knows where his next meal is coming from.” Absently, he stroked the dog’s shiny coat and was strangely gratified to feel him relax. If only his own comfort could be bought so easily.

“You were always good with animals,” Victoria said softly. “Cats, dogs, even hamsters. Remember when you lost that horrible ball of vermin, and we had to turn the house upside down looking for it?”

“That horrible ball of vermin was Boris, my closest friend. He liked to sleep in warm, dark places.”

“Yes, and he liked to leave turd-shaped gifts. I threw out so many shoes.”

Good old Boris. Vadim found himself smiling against his will. He reached for the hardness inside him, but it was becoming more difficult to find.

Apparently encouraged, she spoke again, her voice now more animated. “What was the name of your dog again? The big, black mutt?”

“Fyodor.” He hadn’t thought of him in years. He might have been a mongrel, but he’d held himself like a king.

“Fyodor! He followed you everywhere.”

She was laughing now, confident she had found a way to break him down. He could feel himself slipping as memories inundated him from all sides in colorful, jagged pieces. One soared above the others: the swings in Maritime Victory Park in St. Petersburg.

Push higher, Mama.

That’s as high as it goes, pchyolka.

More, Mama. Don’t stop.

“Whatever happened to Fyodor?”

“Papa ran him over, backing up out of the garage.” Fyodor had liked to sleep under the car, though it made no sense, as it was warmer in the house. Poor mutt, another dumb animal who had sought comfort and paid the price.

“Oh,” she said quietly, the wind ripped from her sails. And yet again, that guilty pang checked his heart. She had liked Fyodor, always ready with a treat for him under the dinner table.

He could feel the storm rising again, the war dueling in his chest. She had no right to dredge up these memories or make him sorry for her. She had no rights at all.

“Let’s get something straight,” he said. “You’re here because of Mia, no other reason. So you can quit with the journeys down memory lane. We won’t be reminiscing about the good old days, so stop trying so hard. Just stop.”

He got up, placing Gordie Howe on the floor. The dog looked up at him expectantly, then switched his attention to the other person in the room, assessing his options. So fickle.

“Understood,” Victoria said, and instead of the hurt he expected to hear in her tone, something else rang clear. Something that sounded a little like victory.

Chyort! This woman thought she had gained some advantage over him, and while the power shift was subtle, he felt it as he left the room. He felt it in the gaze she transferred to her phone instead of to his departing back.

Gordie Howe, the traitor, remained with Victoria. Apparently the dumb pup knew who had eked out a win in this round.





TWENTY-ONE




“Gather around, guys. Time to meet our special guests.”

Isobel watched as the faces of her juniors lit up when their guests came onto the ice. Seeing Ford Callaghan, Cade Burnett, and the mighty Vadim Petrov himself up close was a thrill for them. Normally, seeing the Russian would be a thrill for her, too. But they had left things in an odd place. At least it hadn’t affected his play. In the week since, they’d won two games at home and were about to head out to Vancouver tomorrow.

“Hey, Coach,” Burnett said to Isobel, and then to the group. “Got ourselves any future pros here?”

Half of the kids shot their hands up, and the rest looked like they wished they’d thought of it.

Isobel smiled. “Guys, you probably recognize these troublemakers, but I’ll introduce them all the same. The one with the funny accent is Cade ‘Alamo’ Burnett, the bulwark on the Rebels’ defense line.”

“Aw, you’re makin’ me blush.” He winked at Natasha, causing her to color furiously.

“And you’ve met this guy before,” Isobel said, gesturing to Ford. “The guy who looks like a marauding Viking is Coach Callaghan’s brother, Ford ‘Killer’ Callaghan. Currently the leading goal scorer in the Western Conference.”

Ford saluted them with the butt of his stick. “Team.”

“And last but not least, meet Rebels’ left-winger Vadim Petrov, no nickname necessary.”

“Except Czar of Pleas—”

“Ladies,” Isobel cut off Gabby, who was pumping out enough teenage hormones to knock Vadim over. Unfortunately the Russian was looking particularly hot today, not a wrinkle or pimple in sight. “Let’s remember these are our guests.”

The girls giggled like girls their age are wont to do. Vadim raised an eyebrow at Isobel, then held her gaze unerringly. She had no idea what to do with it, so she merely reddened to the point that she and Natasha were a matching set.

Moving on. “I thought maybe we’d play a couple of periods. How about we start with Captain Callaghan and Captain Petrov?” She looked at the Rebels players. “Okay?”

“Hell—I mean, heck yeah,” Ford said. “Might be my one shot at wearing a captain’s band.”

Vadim graced them with speech at last. “Perhaps we shall start with girls versus boys.”