So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(73)

The goaltender spreads, filling the crease, leaving no gaps, except Isobel sees a chink of light. Her hockey IQ is nothing short of phenomenal. She passes left to her winger, moves into position, and when the puck is back on her blade, snipers to the top shelf. A drive of beauty, it will win the game, though she won’t be on the ice when the final buzzer sounds.

This was where the highlight reel ended, but Vadim’s brain picked up the next frames of that fateful night two years ago. Each move, stride, and hit was stamped into his memory.

A minute after that beautiful goal, she’s checked hard by a defender and falls to the unforgiving ice. Her helmet slips off—she’s always liked to wear it loose—and an opposing player is unable to brake in time.

A skate slices through Isobel’s skull like it’s the softest butter.

Blood pools on the ice, and I know. I know this is not a typical rink injury. I know this will end her career.

Possibly her life.

The crowd shoots to its collective feet, everyone in a horrified hush as her teammates and game officials huddle around her.

Too long. She’s been down too long.

I start out of my seat, pushing past the rubbernecking crowd, my mind racing as fast as my heart. If it’s a minor injury, they will bring her through the tunnel, back to the locker rooms, but if it’s as bad as I suspect, she will be in an ambulance before I can make it to the arena’s back area . . .

“You all right, Petrov?”

Vadim took a moment to haul himself back to the present. Bren was eyeing him as if he’d been speaking in his sleep.

“Ya ne znayu.” I do not know.

Thankfully, this video recap ended before the worst moment of her life. But just like him, she was thinking about it. Stark paleness blanked her face as she headed up to the stage. He knew it was the one moment uppermost in her mind.

The moment she lost it all.





TWENTY-FOUR




Vadim shook hands with Lenny, the Rebels’ HQ head of security.

“Sorry ’bout this, Mr. Petrov. I could have called Ms. Chase or Mr. Moretti, but I figured you might be the best person to handle it, seeing as how you’re no stranger to night skates yourself.”

“You did the right thing.”

Lenny shuffled alongside Vadim as he headed toward the practice rink.

“I thought about shutting the lights out, force the issue, so to speak, but I didn’t want her to have an accident. She wouldn’t listen to me when I told her she should take it easy and come off the ice.”

That sounded like Isobel. “How long?”

“Going on ninety minutes now.”

Vadim mentally kicked himself. After the fund-raiser, she had disappeared, not even telling Violet where she had gone. No answers to his texts, either.

That video.

He should have known when he couldn’t find her that she would come here. The rink was her cathedral, the ice her touchstone. It was where she would always return.

But ninety minutes? That was more than any set of legs, even those of a powerhouse like Isobel Chase, could endure.

“I will take care of it, Lenny. Thank you.”

“All right, Mr. Petrov.” Lenny turned and walked back to his post near the entrance.

Should Vadim go back and grab skates from the equipment room? Deciding against it, he continued to rinkside, the sound of ice being crisscrossed and shredded getting louder with each step.

His heart stuttered, stalled, and crashed at the sight before him.

Bella on the ice, the green fabric of that sexy dress flapping behind her. Her dark hair flew like the wind, her silhouette that of a Valkyrie as she corralled the puck and shot it into the net.

But even a Valkyrie needed armor. On her body, no pads. On her head, no helmet.

Fury reared up in his blood, chasing away his admiration. If she fell and struck her skull—that would not happen.

“Isobel!”

She spun on her blades to face him, a glare already daggered his way. Then she pivoted and skated back to the center, where she had lined up several pucks.

Fine. He would play her game.

Two minutes later, he was out on the ice. He’d left his jacket and tie behind and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Skating in suit pants and a dress shirt felt odd, but maybe the moment deserved oddness. He would give her this.

And then he would put her over his knee and give her the spanking she deserved.

“Ready?” he asked, thrusting a helmet toward her. A foolish question. This woman was born ready. She was the daughter of greatness, the child of Clifford Chase’s destiny.

“I don’t need that.”

“Then I will be forced to take it easy on you. No checks. Hockey for toddlers.”

Growling, she grabbed the helmet and forced it over her head. He grasped the chin straps, absorbing her ire while he took care of securing her safety. As soon as it was tight, she shoved him in the chest.

“Don’t spare me.”

“Never.”

It took him a few minutes to catch up, to warm to the rhythm of the ice. The rhythm of her. His clothes restricted his movement and he would not be surprised if his pants split right down the center on his first lunge. Perhaps that’s why she was able to whip the puck away from him twice in a row.

“Come on, Russian, you’re going easy on me.” The words were a tease, the tone was disgust.