So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(86)

Violet was right. The guy was a complete asshole.

“I think we were both hurt in different ways. He expected so much of you, Isobel, while expecting nothing of me. Equally heavy burdens. But that night, when you sank that first goal against Canada—wow! Dad couldn’t jump so I jumped for him. For you.”

Isobel would have loved to see that. Instead, Harper had kept this to herself, for her own reasons. They’d wasted so much time.

“Then I went back to being a jealous shrew,” Harper added, tongue firmly in cheek. She sighed, her eyes soft and shiny. “But, Isobel, if this is what you want, coaching, the Rebels—we’ll make it happen. I’ll make it happen.”

Isobel believed her, but it wasn’t what she wanted. Not like this. She had to stay through the play-offs, assuming they got there. Then . . . who knew?

No Games. No pros. No coaching.

No Vadim.

Oh, that hurt like a mother. “I’ll be okay, Harper,” she lied. “We’ll be okay.”





TWENTY-NINE




The mood in the owners’ box was somber, each of the Chase sisters lost in her thoughts. Their future as the only woman-owned NHL franchise was on thin ice. (Bam!) Anything less than a win tonight would finish the team’s season and their rule of the Rebels with it.

Isobel’s phone buzzed with a message from Mia in New York.

What’s wrong with him? It’s like he’s forgotten how to play hockey.

Halfway through the second period, the Rebels were down two-zero. Nothing was connecting, their moves sloppy, the pressure getting to them.

Mia had texted Isobel yesterday to say that Vadim visited them in New York and had reconciled with his mother. It did her heart good to know he’d made strides in their relationship, and Isobel was hopeful this would free up his game.

Not so far. One of her U-12s would be more effective than Vadim Petrov on that ice. He just couldn’t seem to get it together. None of them could. It was like Vadim was the bellwether, and as Petrov goes, so goes the team.

She slid a glance toward her sisters. Harper had a death grip on the armrest, while Violet was staring at Dante, her expression unreadable. He caught her looking and held up his hands in a gesture of what? Isobel wondered what was going on between those two.

Dante turned to Isobel. “Look, I’m going to voice something that no one else apparently has the guts to say aloud. You need to go down there and tell your boyfriend to get his stick out of his ass and start earning the shit ton of money we are paying him.”

“He’s not my—he’s not the only player on the ice, Dante.”

“No, but he’s the only one playing like he’s stuck in a fucking Siberian labor camp. He’s a mood player. Always has been. And right now, he’s in a bad mood.”

This was true—and he wasn’t the only one. Everyone was staring at her with doomsday expressions.

“What the hell am I supposed to do about it?”

Dante threw his hands up, displaying a lot more Italianness than his buttoned-up persona would have hinted at. “Oh, I don’t know. Be his coach.”

“I quit, remember?”

“I unaccept your resignation.”

“This can’t be fixed with coaching.”

Violet snorted. “Yeah, why should he listen to you anyway? You don’t have two brain cells to rub together.” This snarky statement focused the attention of the box’s participants on the baby in the family. “Well, she doesn’t. Probably hit with too many pucks like all those idiots out there.”

Harper and Dante shared a Mom and Dad are curious glance. “What’s going on here?” Harper asked.

“Nothing,” both Isobel and Violet muttered, like the eight-year-olds they’d reverted to, before returning to ignoring each other.

Harper smiled thinly at Dante. “Do you mind giving us a minute?”

“If it fixes the Shitfest on Ice, then not at all.”

He stepped outside, leaving Harper to divide a look between her two younger sisters. “What’s happened?”

Neither of them said a word.

“One of you had better speak, or I’m going to start emptying all the wine from the owners’ box bar in the sink, starting with Violet’s favorite Malbec.”

Violet pointed at Isobel. “This crazy bitch tried out for the Games and is mad at Vadim because he threatened to shame Team USA in the media if they let her play.”

Harper’s mouth fell open. “Really? Did you actually make the team?”

“I would have. Except for Vadim sticking his big Russian nose in and talking to Coach Lindhoff.”

“I’m sorry, Isobel,” Harper said, touching her arm. “That must have really hurt.”

“It—it did.”

Violet shook her head, a sneer on her lips. “You people. This sport has brainwashed you into thinking your lives are nothing without it. How can you be okay with this, Harper? She could have died.”

“This is her life, Vi.”

Isobel’s chest filled with gratitude. Harper was nothing but a boatload of surprises lately. “Thank you.”

“And Vadim really should have tried to persuade her without talking to the coach behind her back.”

“Yes, he should have,” Isobel agreed, not that she was persuadable, but Harper was checking all the right boxes. This is how family supports each other, Violet.