ELEVEN
At 8 p.m., Vadim walked into the bar at the team hotel in New York, feeling light of heart. This was new to him because 1) Russians did not suffer joy gladly and 2) the last year had been hell on his body, his spirit, and his sanity.
Tomorrow he would play.
This morning, a summons to Coach Calhoun’s office had ended with this good news. Isobel had been there, too, nodding her head seriously while Coach yammered on about a testing phase and the need for Vadim to prove himself. And Vadim could only think of Isobel, how her tits tasted, and her soft moans as she straddled him.
Have I proved myself worthy yet, Bella?
For the past week, they had continued with their practices. Isobel wanted their relationship to be all business, and he was trying to respect those boundaries. He understood that she was under scrutiny by everyone, especially the other players. But that did not mean he couldn’t dream. Fantasize.
For the next hour, he would set his dirty dreams aside and bond with his teammates over alcohol.
On Vadim’s entry, Cade waved from the corner where he was sitting with Ford, Erik, Violet Vasquez, and Kelly, the trainer. Vadim raised a hand back, but instead of going over, he stopped in front of another booth. It was occupied, but Vadim figured the more mature conversation of the team’s elder statesmen was preferable to sitting with his rival for Isobel’s bed.
“Well, if it ain’t our brand-new left-winger,” Remy said with a big grin. “Take a load off and rest up that knee before it starts givin’ you trouble, Petrov.”
Amused, or as amused as someone with Russian DNA could be, Vadim sat in the booth beside Bren St. James, who nodded his approval. Fans claimed he resembled Khal Drogo in Game of Thrones—Vadim didn’t really see it. More unusual was the fact that St. James was a Brit in the NHL.
“Captain,” Vadim offered with a wry salute. “Another round, gentlemen?”
A waitress appeared in a flash. “Hi, there, handsome.”
“Hello. Fat Tire, please, and whatever these guys are drinking.”
“No vodka for you?” Remy asked.
“We don’t carry Vesna,” the waitress answered before Vadim could comment. She dipped close, displaying stellar cleavage that would normally have sparked his interest. Unfortunately his mind was stuck in a compact-size car with steamed-up windows as Isobel Chase ground her strong, fuck-me-baby body on his dick.
The waitress continued to speak while Vadim’s mind strayed to a more pleasurable place. “But I can bring you a shot of Grey Goose. Mother’s milk for you guys, huh?”
Vadim had never been a fan of vodka, even though he was the face of one of its high-end brands. “I’d better not risk it. Eyes everywhere,” which made Remy laugh.
“You ready?” Bren asked Vadim as the waitress swayed off. Where Remy was easygoing and talkative, Bren was stoic. He spoke little, but when he did it usually carried a lot of weight, as it should with a team leader.
Vadim had been practicing on off days with the crew, but it was no replacement for actual game play. At two months since he had seen time on the ice, he was more than ready.
“It’s been too long.”
They both nodded. Veterans understood that injuries could do more than make a man itchy to get out there. They had a habit of destroying confidence and of making a player second-guess everything.
Like Isobel. Her vulnerability when she talked about her need to stay at the highest level even though she could no longer play professionally was a skate blade to his heart. Some were never the same after an injury.
Vadim had no intention of being the same. He would be better.
The waitress returned with two beers and a soda.
Remy took a slug of his beer. “So how’s working with Isobel going?”
Tread carefully. Just as there were eyes everywhere, the ears were also ubiquitous.
“It is what it is.”
Remy mouthed wow at Bren, who looked amused. “Quite the endorsement, Vad.”
“No one likes the fate of their playing time decided by—”
“A woman?” Bren offered.
“Someone so young,” Vadim countered. That Isobel was an excellent skater was undeniable, but no man enjoyed losing control. He especially did not enjoy how both his mind and his body rioted in her presence. Perhaps the female-in-charge element bothered him more than he cared to admit.
Or perhaps he wanted to fuck his hot coach until he lost all reason.
“I will feel better when I play.”
Remy nodded. “She must have done something right.”
“That’s pretty magnanimous of you,” Bren said to Remy.
Vadim’s hackles were immediately raised. He could criticize, but he refused to tolerate it in others. “You do not like Isobel?”
Remy rubbed his chin. “She doesn’t like me. Well, that’s not exactly right. It’s more that she doesn’t approve of me and Harper.”
“Thought she shoved Harper into fessin’ up about you being the one and all that,” Bren said.
“Yeah, but more for Harper’s mental health. Something had to give and Isobel recognized that Harper’s go-it-alone thing was messing with her mind. I’d say Isobel would prefer Harper was with anyone but a player, but as that’s not happening, she has to live with her sister’s choice. Harper says it’s more because Isobel thinks hockey players are predisposed to cheat.”
“Well, old man Chase wasn’t exactly the best role model,” Bren said. “Fucked his way through every hotel bar in North America. I’m only surprised there aren’t more little Chases popping out of the Clifford gene pool.”
“I think there can be only one Violet.” Remy shot Vadim a sly glance before adding, “Yeah, you’re never going to see Isobel gettin’ involved with the players. As for Violet, I don’t think she has any such scruples.”
For a moment, Vadim thought this mischievous look in his direction was because Remy suspected that Vadim and Isobel had crossed a line, but then he realized that this was aimed at their captain. Had he thought Bren St. James looked dark before? A new storm front descended over his grave features.
“Burnett can’t handle her,” he said, and there was a finality about his statement that caught Vadim’s interest. Bren and Violet? Talk about complete opposites.
On cue, a loud laugh trilled from the other side of the bar. If Vadim didn’t know this belonged to Violet, their captain’s white-knuckling of the edge of the table would have made this clear. Bren muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Fuck.”
“Why not ask her out?”
Remy held up a hand. “Sorry, Petrov, but the world’s not ready for these kids to bang it out. We’re all gonna need to invest in Kevlar first.”
Bren glared at Remy. “Remind me why I choose to spend time with you, DuPre.”
“Who else is gonna put up with your moods, mon ami?”
The Scot shook his head, a half smile on his lips. As fascinating as this was, Vadim was eager to get back to Isobel, particularly Isobel’s self-imposed embargo on fraternization with the players.
“Apparently Isobel is interested in Kelly,” he said, testing the temperature of the table and the validity of the theory.
Remy considered this. “I heard it’s the other way around, but she’s not opposed. Coach and trainer? Sounds like a match made in heaven.”
Perhaps, on paper. Perhaps, one that would not offend whoever was offended by inappropriate hookups between team owners and players.
It was also what Isobel had said she wanted—once.
But there was a world of difference between saying and doing. And last week in the steamed-up confines of her ridiculous clown car, the doing told Vadim all he needed to know. Her mouth on his was the miracle he’d been missing for eight years.
Fury coursed through him at how he’d screwed up. He had ruined her first sexual experience in his haste to get his rocks off. Nineteen-year-olds had a lot to learn about pleasing a woman, but surely he could have gone gentler with her. Listened to her body. Anticipated her needs. And now, that disaster lay between them like a peak that had to be scaled.
But he couldn’t. He had to stay on his side of the mountain. He had to stay away from her so she would not lose respect from the world for her coaching skills.
An hour later, the small groups were dispersing, and while it was at least three hours to the team’s midnight curfew, it was clear that the night was ending. Vadim didn’t mind, as Mia had texted to say she was in an Uber and on her way.
He stood, so did Remy and Bren. “Do zavtra, gentlemen.” Until tomorrow.
As he turned, someone bumped against his shoulder, though bumped was generous. If Vadim wasn’t 229 pounds of rock-solid muscle, he might have taken a step back.
Leon Shay stood before him with Kazinsky, one of the defensemen. They must have just come in, because their cheeks were ruddy and a dusting of snow covered their jackets. Shay’s eyes were cloudy. Unfocused. The man was drunk or close to it.
“Petrov, I hear you’re starting tomorrow.”
“It is what I am paid to do. It will be good to be back.” Even if it was at the expense of Shay in the starting lineup. At half strength, Vadim was ten times the player Shay would ever be. Coach had made the right decision.
“So who’d you blow to get back on the roster?”
“Come on, man, don’t start this.” Kazinsky, evidently the wiser or more sober of the two, put a hand on his tipsy friend’s arm.
Don’t start what? Vadim looked from Shay to Kaz. The defender dropped his gaze in embarrassment.
Had Vadim not told Shay what would happen if he spread gossip about Isobel? He glanced down at Shay’s running shoes, the laces now grubby from the snow-slushed Manhattan streets. Not idly, Vadim wondered if those laces would break when he wrapped them around Shay’s thick, stupid neck.
Meeting Shay’s unfocused gaze, Vadim spoke in a quiet, reasonable voice, though every cell in his body itched to do battle. “Perhaps we should speak outside.”
Shay leaned in unsteadily, his breath stinking of whiskey. “So you can hit me and finish the hatchet job you started when you were traded in? And here I was thinking that Isobel Chase was going to spread her legs to get her dream job. Looks like you’re the one who needs to whore yourself out, you Russian prick.”
“Poshol ti, you fucking kozyol—”
“Okay, that’s enough.” Bren stepped in and wedged his body between Shay and Vadim. “Both of you, off to your rooms. It’s too late for this shite.”
A crowd had gathered, a mix of hotel patrons, the few remaining Rebels players, and Kelly. Bren stepped back, hands raised, seeking calm, and Kazinsky followed suit. Shay remained, his brain clearly in some sort of hamster wheel of confusion. Vadim would not hit a man who’d had too much to drink.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t get the last word in. Not sporting, perhaps, but Leon Shay wasn’t the type of man who understood these subtleties.
Vadim’s agent often urged him to protect his face with the same zeal he used to cultivate his skill on the ice. A famous photographer had once called Vadim’s bone structure flawless, and while he was usually opposed to inflicting damage on such perfection, sometimes one had to choose the lesser of two evils.
“I am sure if you work hard, Shay, you will have your place back on the first line.”
Shay may have been drunk, but he was lucid enough to understand a veiled insult when he heard it. True, Vadim would never strike a drunk, but he would accept the first blow—and ensure this durák saw no ice time for the rest of the season.
So when that sloppy fist met Vadim’s jaw, he accepted it in the way a Russian accepts the sharp bite of wind coming off the Ural mountain range. With fortitude and the knowledge that he may not win this battle, but the war had turned in his favor.