So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(82)

Oh.

Shit.

“Violet, I—”

“Look, I’ve got stuff to do.” Violet jerked upright and put her mug of coffee in the sink beside Dante’s. She hadn’t even taken a sip. In profile, it looked like she was—oh, hell, she was crying.

Isobel stood again, even more discombobulated than she had been ten minutes ago when she walked in and saw Dante in her sister’s kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Isobel whispered. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” I didn’t think I could.

“Doesn’t matter. After we lose this dumb game the day after tomorrow, it’ll all be over anyway. You can go skate yourself to death, and I won’t be around to see it.”

She stomped out of the room, leaving Isobel floundering.



Vadim stepped off the elevator in the high-rise building in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and looked left, then right. His mother stood at the doorway to the apartment where she lived with Mia, a crimp at the center of her forehead so deep it was visible from twenty feet out. He headed down the corridor to meet her.

“Mia’s not here,” she said quickly. “She’s at practice.”

He could fib and say that he had not known this, but the time for lies was over. Isobel had said he needed to see this from his mother’s point of view. His woman might despise him, but her advice about his family had always been sound.

“I knew Mia was out. I am here for you.”

Her blue eyes flew wide. Vadim had always assumed he had his father’s eyes, but he saw the ring of fire in hers now. Just like Vadim’s, a signifier of deep emotion. His father had never been an emotional man.

“Come in.” She wore a blue silk blouse and a well-cut black skirt. Not expensive, but smart and professional.

“You are just home from work?” he asked as he stepped into the foyer, though foyer was too generous. Mia had told him it was a small two-bedroom that, like all New York real estate, cost a fortune. He placed his overnight bag near the coat closet while Gordie Howe sniffed it, and then him. Ridiculous creature.

“About an hour ago. I was just about to open a bottle of wine. Would you like a glass?”

“I am not drinking alcohol this week. We have one more game, and I don’t want to jinx it.” They had lost their game in Denver, the one that would have been their cushion. Now there was only one shot left in Chicago against the Eastern Conference leaders, Philadelphia.

He should not be here. He should be home getting ready. But he could not be where she was, not without falling to his knees before her and apologizing. He refused to say he was sorry for saving her life!

“Tea?”

He nodded. She left the room, and he found his gaze avidly drinking in everything before she returned and made more of his curiosity than was warranted. Clearly this was a lived-in place, a weathered and well-loved home. Interesting art graced the walls, and photos covered every flat surface. Most of them were of Mia, or of mother and daughter.

His breath hitched.

Not all of them.

He picked up a gilt-edged frame with hands that would lose the Rebels the last game of the season if he let them tremble like this. Taken when he was nine years old, it showed him wearing hockey gear and carrying a trophy that was almost as big as he. His first big win.

Had she hidden it away all these years while she kept his identity a secret from Mia? Did she occasionally remove it from its storage place, unwrap its protective wrapper, and pore over it with a desperate longing?

He suspected she had. He suspected this separation had been as hard on her as it had been on him.

“Do you remember when you wanted to give up hockey?” He heard her voice behind him.

A stress laugh spilled from his mouth. “I was too small. And Papa said it would never work out for me. I was always getting checked and pounded. I loved hockey but I hated competitions.”

She smiled. “And I told you that if you couldn’t be the biggest, you would be the quickest. Buzz around the ice like a pchyolka.”

Little bee. That is what she called him. But after she left, he had an unexpected growth spurt, his muscles came in, and he no longer needed his quickness. His power came from brute strength. His speed never left, but he did not rely on it.

He forgot what had made him so suited for hockey in the first place. He forgot a lot of things.

“I’ve made a mistake. Screwed up with Isobel. I thought what I did was for the best, but she doesn’t see it that way.” He noticed his mother’s wry arch of her eyebrow. “Yes, tell me, Mama, how we men know nothing about our women.”

“Oh!” Tears welled in her eyes. What had he done now?

Ah. Mama. He had called her Mama.

She sniffed and knuckled the corners of her eyes.

He cupped her shoulder. “Don’t cry. I won’t call you Mama again.”

That only made it worse, though it was hard to tell if she was laughing or crying.

She swiped at her cheeks. “I’m such a blubberer. Let me see to the tea, and then you can tell me about Isobel and how you messed up.”



An hour later, the front door opened and Mia called out, “Whose bag is this?” She stopped, mouth agape, on seeing Vadim on the sofa.

“Don’t be so surprised, sestrichka. I said I would visit.”

“But . . .” She looked at her mother, then back at Vadim, who was sitting with shoes off, legs stretched out on a footstool, and Gordie Howe in his lap. Yes, he had made himself quite at home while he explained what had happened with Isobel. His mother had listened, not judging. Isobel would need time to come around, she advised. He had threatened her independence, and now she was figuring out how to align this with her feelings for him. Vika had no doubt that Isobel was crazy about him—she knew it from the moment she saw their dinner table teasing of each other in Chicago.