So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(74)

She floated the puck in front of him, inviting him to slap at it. Instead he circled so he hovered behind her, a predatory move.

“It is colder than I expected,” he said against her ear.

“You’ve gotten soft since you moved to the NHL. What would your countrymen think of poor little Vadim who can’t handle a little chill?”

“They would think I should find a woman to warm me.”

She turned and passed the puck to him. “Try to score.”

He moved until he was close enough to kiss her. The temptation was almost unbearable, but he resisted. “Try to stop me.” Then he struck the puck so it hit the board behind the net and ricocheted back.

The next ten minutes were spent in a game of wits and hits. He was careful not to check too hard. She didn’t give him the same consideration.

At the third slam of his body into the Plexi—and der’mo, he did not enjoy playing without padding—he dropped his stick and flipped their positions. Covering her body with his, he held her securely against the plastic.

Skating with her turned him on. Isobel had always excited him, but watching her talent as she danced rings around him, the balletic ice moves of a master—this made him feel alive. And with that life, that zest spiking his blood, he knew he was back to where he had started.

In love with Isobel Chase.

Had he ever not been in love with her? He could barely remember a time he did not want her. Did not need her. Did not adore her with every part of his body and soul.

“Why are you here, Bella?”

“On this earth?”

“Tell me.”

Her eyes flamed behind her mask and he released the strap, pulling it off her head. He needed to see her properly. See her pain. He lifted her chin to look her in the eye.

“Lindhoff called. I didn’t make Team USA.”



He stared hard at her, stripping her more bare than that phone call two hours ago. Coach had called while she was in the bathroom at the Drake, where she’d holed up so she wouldn’t be tempted to raise a hand when some Lincoln Park socialite made a bid for Vadim during the dumb auction.

She shouldn’t have answered the phone. She should have let it go to voice mail, so she would have one more night of hope.

“What did he say?” Vadim’s tone was careful. Of course it was; he was dealing with a time bomb.

“What you said. What everyone has been saying. He was clear this wasn’t an indictment of my talent.” The words were choked out, dripping with bitter understanding of the position Lindhoff was in. “But he ran it by the lawyers, and they can’t risk the liability. One minute winning gold, the next their center bleeding out on the ice. Think of the optics.”

She dropped her stick, the clatter of it against the ice loud and final. It was over. She was done.

“Bella,” he whispered, his voice soft with pity she neither needed nor wanted.

She pushed him away, but he crowded her back, all brute Russian strength. His power mocked her weakness. His health scorned her failure. Nothing was stopping him from reaching the pinnacle of his sport. Their sport.

She shouldn’t begrudge him, but she did. Oh, how she did.

“And now you are here, unleashing your fury on these poor defenseless pucks.” He gave a half grin at that, but she couldn’t see the humor in it. Not yet.

His fingers tunneled into her hair, and he traced his warm lips along her jaw, her cheek, her hairline. Giving him permission, she turned her head slightly, anxious to get it over with. He smudged his thumb over the raised ridge of flesh, his eyes riveted to the path his thumb took.

“You have your trophy, Bella.”

This scar? She made a noise between horror and sadness. “Thirty-seven minutes. That’s what I got.”

“Most men never accomplish in a lifetime what you did in those precious minutes.” He cupped her jaw and held her in place while his lips moved over the physically healed wound. “You fought well, my angel.”

“Did—did you see it? The game?” She shouldn’t ask, but she had to know.

Sadness dimmed his eyes. “I saw it. Your goals were beautiful, your skating sublime. There was nothing you could not do on the ice.”

Her chest constricted on hearing his compliments. Was this what she wanted, fishing for praise just as she had with her father all those years ago? Yet Vadim’s words chilled her—they were all past tense. She would never achieve those heights again.

She must have drawn back, for he pulled her close to him, his eyes ripping her heart open until it was butterflied and bleeding.

“I know that you are trying to find your place again, Bella. That since your injury, you’re not sure where you fit in.”

“Hockey was my life for so long, and I can’t imagine it not being my—my everything. That’s why this shot at the Games meant so much. Otherwise, all I’ve got is coaching and—it’s hard, Vadim. It’s hard trying to get respect, and I’m really not helping my case by fooling around with you.”

“Fooling around? Is that what this is?”

“What would you call it?”

“It is what we are meant to do. We are who we are meant to be, and I want this with you.”

It sounded like Russian doublespeak. She didn’t understand it, but she knew it scared her. Was she trying to sabotage her coaching career by messing around with Vadim? But if she didn’t have that, who was she?