So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(83)

Only a mother could be so sure that her son was loved despite all evidence to the contrary.

He stood and enveloped his sister in his arms, while Gordie Howe yapped around excitedly. “How was practice?”

“Uh, good. What are you doing here?”

“I cannot come to see my family?”

“Sure you can, bro.” She thumped him on the shoulder, her eyes soft and wet. “I just didn’t expect you. Are you staying the night? You can have my room!”

“That would not be very brotherly of me. I have made a reservation at a hotel nearby. I will come back for breakfast.” He turned to his mother. “If that is okay.”

“Of course it is.” Vika looked as teary-eyed as Mia—well, that would increase tenfold with his next move. He had forgotten all about it until now.

“I have something for you. Wait one moment.” He went to his overnight bag and pulled out a package.

“For me?” Mia said.

“No. This is for our mother.”

With shaking fingers, Victoria opened the boxed gift and flipped the cardboard lid. Peeling back the tissue paper, she yelped in surprise.

“Vadim, it’s beautiful!” She lifted it out of the box: a samovar used to make tea in the Russian tradition. Made of polished brass, this one was less ornamental than many, more functional. Watching her face transform with emotion was still too painful, so instead he fixed on her blurred reflection in the burnished metal.

He cleared his throat. “Do you already have one?”

“I do, but it isn’t as beautiful as this. It’s on its last legs, actually.” She stood and threw her arms around him, sinking into him, and he found himself holding on to her, as if that could replace every hug he’d missed for the last seventeen years.

It couldn’t, but hugs were contagious, were they not? He was happy to become infected.

“What time should I come over for breakfast?” It was Saturday, so he didn’t want to force them to rise too early, but his flight back to Chicago was at two.

“Eight. It’ll give me time to get to the bakery.”

“I’ll bring the baked goods. You provide the tea.”

Swiping at her eyes with one hand, Mia gripped his forearm with the other. “You could just stay here tonight. On the sofa.”

“Ah, but is that not where Alexei will be staying?”

His mother blushed. “Alexei? I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t you?” He called out loudly in Russian, “You can come out now, you old fool!”

The durák put his head around a corner, his expression sheepish. “The walls are thin. You will wake the neighbors.”

Mia laughed, all amazement. “You mean he was here the entire time? Hiding?”

Vadim shook his head in pity. “I saw his shoes over by the armchair. Fools in love are not known for their common sense or the ability to cover their tracks.” To Alexei, he commanded, “Do me the service of treating my mother with respect and court her with pride in the open.”

The old bulldog scowled. “I do not need your permission.”

“No, you don’t, priyatel’.” Friend. He kissed his sister, then his mother, on the forehead. “Until breakfast. And, Alexei?”

He placed a hand on his old friend’s shoulder, the man who had attended every hockey game, given unsolicited opinions, and stepped into his father’s shoes for very little reward. “Please take this with the kindness it is intended. You are fired.”

And then he left his family awestruck.





TWENTY-EIGHT




Vadim sat on the bench, tying his skates. He put a double knot in one, then looped the end through and triple knotted it. It was unnecessary, but he had been doing it since his KHL days. Hockey players were a superstitious lot.

Dante appeared in the locker room and moved through quietly, speaking a few words to each player. Sometimes he gave a short speech, but before an important game—against a tough opponent, a longtime rival—he preferred to float, aware of the tensions and not wishing to add to them. Tonight was their last shot, the final game in the regular season. Lose now and be ready with the refrain of failed seasons everywhere: there’s always next year.

The big speech was left to Remy, whose gift for rousing the troops was incomparable.

“Well, mes amis, I could say it’s just like any other game but it’s not, n’est-ce pas?”

“Hell, no,” Burnett said, shaking his head.

“I know it’s been tough the last few years. This year has looked a whole lot better. But anyone who thinks we gave it a good shot and better luck next time had better rethink that position. Because this could still happen. We could still happen.”

Murmurs of assent greeted this statement.

Remy looked around, his gaze touching every player in the room. “Now, not to pile on the pressure, but this is my last season in the NHL.”

“No way, Jinx!”

“Fuck me, you’re kidding!”

“Lazy fuckin’ bastard.”

This last observation was from Bren St. James, who, by the looks of that crooked half smile, was not surprised at his friend’s announcement.

Remy let loose a big grin. “Win or lose, I’m retiring to cook, get fat, and make babies.”