So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(63)

The girls perked up, and Gabby spoke for the group. “But there’s only three of us girls.”

“There’s also your coach. Last time I checked, she is a girl.” Vadim assessed them. “What positions do you play?”

“Forward, center, and defender.”

“Marcus, you good with being goaltender for Captain Petrov’s team?” Isobel asked.

“Yes, Marcus, I need you on Team Petrov.”

Marcus gazed in wonder at Vadim, like he’d been chosen first by the most popular kid in school. All he could do was nod dumbly.

“Hey now, Ruski,” Callaghan said. “Pretty sure you’re trying to bamboozle me by picking the quickest players. Not to worry, we boys will take care of business. I need four good men and a goalie.”

With the teams set, the remaining players sat rinkside, where Cade would officiate. “But no swearing, Alamo, ’kay?” Isobel cautioned.

“Rebels’ honor, Coach Chase,” he drawled with a dirty grin.

They set the period to five minutes so the other kids would get a chance to play. As well as officiating, Cade kept up a running commentary throughout that had the kids on the bench in stitches.

“The Czar with the puck now and he passes to—what’s her name—Gabby?—I’m never gonna remember that. Let’s just call her Skittles. So Skittles rushes the zone, only to run into trouble with a dispossession by Tall Dude. Not bad on the stick-handling, TD. And now they’re on the break with Killer comin’ up the side for support. Quick pass and . . . and back to TD and . . . foiled by Team Petrov’s tender! The Crease Monster rules!”

Vadim and Ford were obviously operating at about 30 percent, given the youth of their teammates. Not once did they try to score themselves, always making sure to pass back to one of the younger players. After five minutes, the teams switched out with their classmates, Cade went in for Petrov, and Jackson Callaghan offered to referee the next period.

Which is how Isobel found herself sitting on the bench with Vadim.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Hello.”

“How’s Mia?”

“Improving.”

Another pause. “Thanks for doing this. I thought maybe you weren’t talking to me.”

He kept his eyes on the rink, where Cade was still announcing the game, even while playing.

“Freckles with the puck . . . and now he sees an opening . . . but Alamo slaps it away . . .”

“I thought maybe I wasn’t talking to you, either.” Vadim turned slightly, eyes blazing. “I have not come around, Isobel. But then you don’t need me to, do you? You are your father’s daughter. The game will always come first.”

He had a point, but she also knew this: if she wanted to succeed, she couldn’t live in anyone’s shadow. Not her father’s. Not Harper’s. And certainly not Vadim Petrov’s.

“When is your tryout?” Each word sounded like it practically choked him.

“Saturday.” She nudged his shoulder. “Wish me luck.”

“The Girl with the Blazing Skates doesn’t need luck.” He stood and twisted to face her. “She needs her head examined.” And then he stormed out onto the ice.



On Saturday morning, Vadim walked into the kitchen, found Victoria cutting up fruit at the counter, and turned to walk out again.

“Vadim.”

He stopped, every muscle in his body straining with tension. Stay? Go? Punch the fridge door?

“I was about to take Mia some breakfast, then the kitchen is all yours. I have to walk Gordie Howe.”

On hearing his name, the stupid ball of fluff rubbed against Vadim’s legs and gave a little yip.

“I can walk him.”

She waved off his offer. “You played well last night. Mia was so excited to see you score that winning goal.”

Throwing all his emotion into the game in Vancouver seemed to be the best—the only—thing to do. His home no longer belonged to him. He felt oddly unmoored from his own life. And then there was Isobel, who wished to risk it all to get back this part of herself she claimed was missing. No helmet could protect her from the one bad check that could end her life. Infuriating woman!

Her tryout was today in Massachusetts, and guilt pinged him that he had not wished her well. But doing so would condone her choice. He refused to be a party to such madness.

He should call the coach and insist she be sent home. To him.

This was where she belonged, wrapped in his arms, taking naps on his sofa. Not wanting to be solo with his miserable thoughts, he edged back into the kitchen and approached the coffeemaker, only to have another scent invade his nostrils. Previously hidden from view by Victoria’s slim frame, a teapot sat on the counter, a canister of Russian Caravan beside it.

“You are making tea?”

His surprise teased her smile. “Of course. I drink it all the time. Your sister can’t start the day without it.”

Mesmerized, he watched as she went through the time-honored ritual. She poured a splash of the zavarka, or tea concentrate, into a cup from a small teapot that looked vaguely familiar, then added hot water and a spoonful of jam.

His heart thrummed violently. It was how he used to take it as a child, following the lead of his mother.

“You don’t drink tea anymore?” she asked. “Alexei had to dig this teapot out of storage for me.”