So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(78)

“But you would be the best mother you could be for Mia.” The sharp lance of her initial confession twisted slightly, as if to let the blood around the wound flow more easily. He needed to shore it up. Choke it off.

He buried his head in his hands. Was knowing better or worse?

A soft hand on the back of his neck soothed. Mothered.

“A part of me died the day I left, Vadim. The rest of me the day I realized I couldn’t see you again. Not until he was gone for good or Mia was eighteen.

“He never hit me. He never raised a hand. But he was a cold man, Vadim. A cruel man. My parents warned me not to be taken in, but I fell in love. I thought I could soften him after marriage, but it was a mistake to think he could change. Men don’t change.”

Even now, she insulted her son, but he couldn’t blame her. Inside he was an immutable block of ice, incapable of seeing beyond the worldview crafted by his father. It is right or wrong. It is black or white. It is love or despair.

“I cannot do this now,” he said. Not without Isobel. She would tell him how to act. She would coach him to the correct response.

Isobel would know what to do.





TWENTY-SIX




Isobel couldn’t sleep.

Too much plagued her: the play-offs, the tryouts, her future.

Vadim. He was worried about her since the news of her failure to make Team USA. He wanted her to snap out of it, but it would take time to wrangle her self-confidence and make it her bitch again. And with this slip in her assurance, all those niggling doubts about her worth returned.

Like Vadim, confidence in one arena of her life had a direct impact on the rest. Injured and not playing, she’d lost what little mojo she had around men. But these past six weeks with him had boosted her up: coaching him back to his winning ways, feeling useful for the first time since her injury, Vadim’s attraction to her—all combined to create a heady cocktail of “Yes, you can!”

Now her confidence was at dirt-low levels, and relying on Vadim to buoy her up would be a mistake. He would tire of her soon. Of that she had no doubt.

Her phone buzzed with a call from someone she’d been avoiding. She hadn’t spoken to Jen since Plymouth, and the last thing she wanted to hear was her friend’s pity.

But things were looking up, weren’t they? She tried to force cheer into her body, so it would be heard in her voice. A coaching gig with the Rebels, a spanking-new career in the pros! Plan B was better than no plan at all.

Answering, she pressed the phone to her ear. “Hey, Jenny-Benny!”

“Congrats, Iz! Great game tonight. Your boy was on fire.”

She covered her mouth to hide her smile. You’re heading for a crash. “He’s not my boy.”

“Well, he seems to think he is.”

She could feel the stupid smile slip from her face. “What does that mean?”

Jen coughed slightly. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this.”

“Tell me what?”

Another throat clearing. This was getting ridiculous. “Jen?”

Finally, her friend spoke, and Isobel listened with a sinking heart while the last shreds of her strength shattered into dust.



She opened the front door of Chase Manor and let him envelop her. But her body refused to respond, her arms dead weight at her sides.

“What is it?” he whispered against her temple, and when she didn’t speak—when she couldn’t because her anger choked off her words—he drew back, his beautiful sonofabitch face crumpled in confusion. “Bella, are you all right?”

“No, I’m not.”

He moved forward. She stepped back.

Hurt came over him briefly.

“You killed it,” she whispered, each word torn and raw. “You killed my dream.”

He inhaled a breath, and in it she heard his relief. He was glad to have it out in the open. Maybe it had been eating him up inside.

He expected her anger, then he expected her forgiveness.

According to Jen, Vadim had called Coach Lindhoff and threatened to go to the media if Isobel was chosen. He would tell everyone that Team USA didn’t take concussions and player injuries seriously. That they’d do anything to win, even risk killing a player in their desperation to win gold.

He had known all along. That night at the practice rink a week ago when she had gone to mourn, he had come onto the ice with her. Skated with her. Made love to her.

All this time the reason she would never play for her country again—for herself again—was because of him.

“Yes, I called him,” Vadim said, his mouth hard with self-righteousness. “Lindhoff is using you for his own glory. He does not care if you live or die. He cares only for the gold.”

“I care only for the gold!” she spat out. “You had no right to do that. This is my career—”

“This is your life, Bella,” he boomed. “There’s a reason you retired from play after your injury. The doctors told you of the dangers, and you were willing to heed them at the time. But then your father died. You were lost, unmoored, not yourself. I know how this feels and I know you think you have failed him by not getting back to competitive ice, but that is no reason to risk everything. You are incapable of seeing this, so it must be shown to you. For your own good.”

For her own good. Where had she heard that before? Oh right, the mantra of the late, great Clifford Chase.