So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(64)

“When I moved to Canada, I got into the habit of drinking coffee.” He couldn’t avert his eyes from the spoon as she stirred the jam into it. “I am surprised you would take this piece of Russian culture back with you to America.”

“I wanted to . . . stay connected to that part of my life in some way.” She coughed slightly. “You used to like your tea with raspberry jam. I asked Alexei to buy a jar just in case.”

Irked at her transparent efforts to curry favor, he snapped, “Why are you making Mia breakfast anyway? She’s well enough to get up.” Well enough to travel, too, yet he was in no hurry to shove them out the door. He liked having Mia around, even if she came with the baggage of Victoria.

His mother smiled serenely, and the remembrance of how she used to grace him with that sunshine was a sharp, stabbing ray of light.

“I like to spoil her,” she said. “Soon she’ll be at college, and I won’t have a chance.”

Already close to college age and he had just found her. Would his sister still want to know him once she had made a life for herself elsewhere? That made him think of Isobel again, who was in such a hurry to leave him for the next world. These women.

“Where is Alexei?”

“He went to the store.” She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.

“What? Speak.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t parted company with him.”

Vadim leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. “He has always been loyal to my father.”

“Yes, but your father isn’t around anymore, and you are perfectly capable of looking after yourself.”

He eyed her speculatively. “It is good to have an assistant, one who will not gossip to the tabloids about my personal life. The last one I had simpered and made googly eyes at me all the time. And I do pay him well.”

Her blue eyes watched, searing him once more. “You seem upset.”

A stupid statement. His arched eyebrow let her know this.

“More so than just your usual annoyance with my presence,” she teased. How wonderful that she could joke about it. What progress they had made!

He shrugged. “Isobel has set out on her mission of self-destruction today.”

She mouthed ah. Back to stirring the tea. “Perhaps you should support her. Not everything has to be so black and white, does it?”

People in the wrong always said that. Vadim knew exactly who was right here.

Before he could argue his point, Victoria coughed hard, her hand reaching for the counter in support.

In a flash, he cupped her arms. “You are ill?”

“Just a sore throat. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. You have the flu.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Another day or two, and Mia will be well enough to travel.”

At which time Victoria would be worse. This was his life now, the family reunion that refused to end.

“Off to bed with your tea. I’ll take our invalid her breakfast.”

“Vadim, there’s no need. I have to walk Gordie Howe and—”

“I will walk the little dog with big shits. Do not argue with me. Why must all the women in my life argue with me?”

She smiled, a wobbly curve of her lips that appeared to come apart around the edges. The image she projected as he peered down at her was so frail, so vulnerable, almost deserving of his pity. Of his affection.

Only then did he realize that he was touching her for the first time in seventeen years. He dropped his hands.

Her expression clouded over. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

As if that was the reason he had recoiled.

“Go to bed. I will take care of everything.”





TWENTY-TWO




Isobel had spent a good chunk of her life in locker rooms, but she’d never been so grateful to sniff the stink of this one at the Team USA training compound in Plymouth, Massachusetts.

This is it. My last shot.

Only Vadim knew she was here. She didn’t want to tickle anyone’s hopes, or in Harper’s case, judgment. Better to focus on her dream without worrying others would take a dump on it. Even so, when she checked her phone one more time, her heart plummeted at the blank screen. No good-luck messages.

Fine. Let him pout.

“Chase!” Stefan Lindhoff, head coach for Team USA, crashed into the locker room and pulled Isobel into his arms for a bear hug. “Thought you might chicken out.”

Isobel pulled back and punched him in the shoulder. White haired at the age of forty-three, he’d enjoyed an on-again, off-again career in the NHL before he’d found his true calling: yelling at people to haul ass down the rink.

“Screw you, Coach, I’m here to skate. And, uh, screw you.”

He laughed his head off. “You always had a cheeky mouth on ya. Ready to get out there?” He was already walking toward the rink, expecting her to follow him. “So you’ll probably recognize a few of the players from Sochi, and there’s no shortage of talent from the college ranks,” he threw out over his shoulder. “This year the pool is pretty deep.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been warned. Look, Coach . . .” She stopped, and he faced her. “I appreciate that you’ve given me a chance here. I know I haven’t played competitively for a while, but I haven’t stopped training. I haven’t stopped believing I could get back here.”