TWO
Isobel charged into Rebels HQ in Riverbrook, thirty miles north of downtown Chicago, on track for her father’s office.
No. The office of Dante Moretti, the Rebels’ new GM.
She was late, so she gave a quick wave of yes yes I’m here to his assistant and crashed through the door with her typical aplomb. Harper was already there, seated in one of the leather armchairs, which Isobel knew from personal experience were not as comfortable as they looked. In her hand was a coffee cup—not a mug, but a white porcelain cup on a saucer—which accessorized perfectly with her whole put-togetherness. Corn-silk-blond hair in a chignon, a houndstooth check sleeveless dress, black patent heels. Harper looked like she owned a pro hockey team.
They had never gelled, not for want of trying on Isobel’s part. From her earliest memories, Isobel adored her older-by-six-years sister. So pretty, so blond, so petite. Popular with everyone. But the admiration wasn’t reciprocated.
After Clifford Chase married Isobel’s mother, Gerry, he had abandoned his daughter from his first marriage. Harper had taken that hurt and used it as a shield whenever Isobel tried to get close. She hadn’t understood then why Harper pushed her away. Their father was a tough man to like, and while Isobel adored him, it had taken her a long time to acknowledge his faults. She now recognized the pain their father had caused. Six-year-old Harper, abandoned by Cliff, forced to live with her depressed, eternally blotto mother while Isobel enjoyed all his attention.
All of it.
Named after Lady Isobel Gathorne-Hardy, the daughter of Frederick Stanley, Sixteenth Earl of Derby and donor of the Stanley Cup, Isobel had lived her entire childhood burdened by her father’s expectations. Skate faster, Isobel. Shoot harder. You’re my winningest girl.
The past five months since his death had been turbulent, to say the least. Old wounds were ripped open and hastily sewn up, all so the Chase sisters could get through the next few months and make the play-offs. As for what would happen then, Isobel had no idea.
Whereas Harper looked like the model of an NHL franchise owner, Isobel most certainly did not. She’d awoken late and thrown on a tracksuit and sneakers, shoved her hair into a ponytail (with a rubber band from the junk drawer, because she couldn’t find anything else), and raced to the Rebels’ practice facility a few blocks over to meet with Vadim. That was an hour ago.
He hadn’t shown.
She’d texted, called, and received nothing in response. But then she saw his man, Alexei, in the parking lot forty-five minutes later, which meant Vadim had turned up for the team’s regular practice.
Needless to say, she was pissed. And now she was late.
Dante looked up, a tall white porcelain pot in his hand—it matched the cups, naturally—and acknowledged her entrance with, “Coffee, Isobel?”
“Yeah, sure, thanks.”
Dante Moretti was an unlikely GM, all dark broodiness and Italian hotness, who Isobel assumed had exited the womb wearing a Michael Corleone scowl and a three-piece Armani suit. After handing off the coffee cup on a saucer (biscotti, too—nice), he sat one butt cheek on the desk, facing them. Strong thighs were lovingly hugged by pin-striped pants. Such a waste, and further proof that God was a man.
A former player, Dante was the first openly gay general manager of an American professional sports team. In the macho world of the NHL, his appointment as an assistant in Boston had made waves, and now his ascension to the top echelons as GM in Chicago had brought a tsunami of attention to the Rebels organization. They were already fielding a barrage of vitriol as a woman-owned team; adding a gay chief executive to the mix encouraged all manner of trolls to come out of the woodwork.
Bring it, haters.
“Am I to be fired?” he asked lightly.
“No,” Harper said, all treacle. “We’ll give you longer than two weeks, Dante.”
“Well, that’s a relief. You called this meeting, so perhaps it’s time to tell me what’s up.”
The sisters shared a glance. They’d agreed that as the most experienced when it came to managing the team, Harper should lead this conversation. But now she looked as though her emotions were clogging her ability to speak. In the past few months, Harper had changed. She wasn’t the ice queen of yore. The terms of their father’s will had unveiled vulnerabilities she’d been hiding for years. Falling in love had softened her.
Seeing her sister’s hesitation, Isobel stepped into the breach. “We weren’t completely honest when we hired you, Dante.”
He took a sip of his coffee and set it down on his desk. Then he moved the cup and saucer a foot away, perhaps in anticipation of his reaction to whatever they were about to say.
“Continue.”
“You know about our father’s will, about how the team was left to the three of us to jointly manage.” If Dante thought it odd that the third in their sisterly triumvirate wasn’t present, he didn’t let on. Violet refused to attend any meeting or game unless she was contractually obliged to.
“It was all the media could talk about for three months,” he said with unmistakable impatience.
“Well, there’s more. A stipulation in the will says that if we don’t make the play-offs this season”—here goes nothing—“the team will be sold off.”
She had to give it to him. Not even a blink.
“Sold off to whom?”
“A consortium waiting in the wings. We’d get a semidecent inheritance-slash-payoff, and the rest would go to Clifford’s alma mater to set up a hockey scholarship.” Isobel looked to Harper to verify that about covered it.
Harper smiled her thanks and said, “That’s it in a nutshell. We thought about telling you before you came on board but didn’t want to let the pressure sway your decision.”
Dante’s throaty growl was his first emotional reaction. “Oh, you didn’t, did you?”
“Either you think the team has a shot or you don’t,” Isobel said, already on the defensive. “The team’s ownership shouldn’t make a difference.”
Dante looked unconvinced, and rightly so. “Then why tell me now?”
“Because this isn’t merely any old year,” Harper said. “It’s make or break for the family. Violet will probably sell off her portion to us at the end of the season, assuming we can afford it, but Isobel and I want to continue in ownership. This means everything to the two of us.”
Isobel shot a look at Harper. She’d always assumed Harper would fight tooth and nail to become sole owner of the team. Since when had she considered that the two of them might jointly run operations?
Dante shook his head, a rueful smile creasing his handsome features. “So now I’m part of the inner circle.” It sounded like he’d rather have been left outside in ignorant bliss. “Who else knows?”
Isobel turned to Harper. “Have you told Remy?”
“Last night. I didn’t tell him sooner because . . . well, because.”
Because she didn’t want to use the will’s stipulation to force him to stay with her. A month ago, Remy had a chance to trade out to a team with a better shot at making it to the postseason. Telling him about the “play-offs or bust” requirement would have muddled his decision, throwing pity for Harper’s predicament into the mix. She would never trust that he’d remained because he loved her.
Dante nodded. “Anyone else in the org? Other players? I’ve noticed Violet is pretty close to some of them.” His disapproval was obvious.
“She knows better,” Isobel said quickly. “We don’t want it getting out, and the players don’t need the extra pressure. The only other person who knows is Kenneth Bailey.” The Rebels’ lawyer.
Dante pushed off from the desk and walked to the window.
With Dante’s back to them, Isobel turned to Harper for a check-in on how she thought the conversation might be going. Harper’s head was cocked as she blatantly ogled their GM.
Stop it, Isobel frowned.
You stop it, Harper frowned right back.
That made them both giggle, which drew Dante’s querying look.
“Uh, sorry,” she muttered. “Just nervous.” And concerned we might have a suit for sexual harassment as well as breach of contract on our hands.
“I did wonder at some of your decisions before I came on board. They seemed rather rash.”
Harper placed her coffee cup and saucer on the desk. “We needed to hit the ground running. Throwing everything at it and bringing on a veteran like Remy, particularly as the team was rudderless for a while, was the best strategy.”
“St. James seems to be in better shape,” Dante said, referring to their team captain, Bren, who was coming off a rehab stint for alcoholism that had left the team bereft of strong leadership for a while. “I’d have a case for saying this materially changes the terms of my contract.”
“Or you could see it as the challenge it is,” Isobel said. “Whatever happens, your contract is good for three years. Any new owner would have to buy it out, so you’re not going to be disadvantaged financially.”
“That’s not really the point, is it, Isobel?”
No, it wasn’t. If they didn’t do well, and he was kicked to the curb by a new owner, it would be harder for him to move laterally to another organization. Not without a solid season behind him. They’d effectively tied his career to the fortunes of the team.
Welcome to the world of pro sports management.
“If you need time to think about it . . .” Harper trailed off.
As he viewed his surroundings, Isobel would have given her left tit to know what was going on inside that handsome head of his. She imagined him taking in the corner office, thrilling at his achievement in rising so far—and cursing the Chase sisters for throwing this wrench in the works.
After several interminable seconds, he faced them, his mouth set in determination. “Looks like I’m an honorary Chase for the next four months.”
Phew!
They chitchatted about tomorrow’s home game against Dallas, the tension of the earlier conversation dissipating with every minute they discussed this sport they each loved in a different way. As they made to leave, Dante called Isobel back. “Could I have a word?”
Harper smiled at them both, said her good-byes, and left.
Dante’s demeanor was all business. “Why weren’t you with Petrov this morning before the team practice? Too busy recovering from a Vesna hangover?”
Either the man had spies on the staff or he read TMZ on his way to work.
“He had a late night, so I let him sleep in,” she lied. “Extra practice starts tomorrow.” At his cutting look, she added, “Let me take care of Petrov in my way. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but athletes are sensitive and need careful handling. Russians, especially.” Vadim, especially. “Pushing him will only make him dig his skates in.”
Dante held her gaze for a long beat. “I know you want a full-time coaching job with a pro team, Isobel. With this team. We’re making history here, but there’s only so much change we can inflict on the team and fans in one year.”
Sure, breaking glass ceilings all over the place was totally awesome, but Isobel had to wonder if she’d shot her own ambitions in the foot by agreeing to hire someone with so much on the line as their GM.
“In other words, the history-making quota for this year has been fulfilled?”
Dante smiled in sympathy. “In a manner of speaking. When I came on board, you knew my requirements. I understand that as one-third owner of the team, you’re technically my boss, but I won’t bow to internal pressure to make you a regular coach. However, if you can turn Petrov’s game around, then that’d put you in pole position for a full-time gig next season.” He sighed heavily. “If I’d been here in January, I wouldn’t have brought him on. He’s temperamental. Mercurial. But you and your sisters made that call—among others—and I have to work with it. Petrov’s slowed down since his knee injury last year. He needs a lot of work to get him up to speed on the ice, and I think you can do it. This isn’t a pity appointment, Isobel. It’s a vital compromise.”
She understood. She’d spent much of her life understanding.
Dante pulled out a pocket watch from his pin-striped vest. It should have screamed “pretentious,” but instead it yelled “hot.” The guy was really too much. “I want daily updates. I’ll leave it to you to figure out a schedule that works around regular practice and games.”
“Not to mention his numerous sponsorship commitments and nightclub appearances.”
For the first time, Dante looked animated. “He’ll certainly bring in a different kind of fan.”
“Women with big . . . signs.”
He chuckled. “What’s a hockey game without glitter-covered marriage proposals and offers to incubate a star player’s spawn held up against the Plexi? Some of his fans may be proof that evolution can go in reverse, but as long as they’re putting their money where their über fandom is, then we’ll take it.”
Higher revenues meant more funds to spend on better players, which led to results and championships and butts in seats, thus feeding the hamster wheel of NHL success. She just hoped the Chase sisters would be around to see their hard work come to fruition.
“I can remake him a star on the ice as well as on billboards,” she said.
“I know, Isobel. I have every faith in you.”
If only the Russian felt the same way.
Vadim straightened his spine and ignored the pain in his knee. It wouldn’t do to have his new teammates think today’s practice had been tough on him. There was a time when he could have gone for hours, running drills, taking shots, pounding the ice. Such a time would come again. Until then, he would put his best skate forward and ensure that no one saw his elderly-man winces.
Twenty-seven years old and already in decline.
“Where y’at, man?”
Vadim looked up from his spot on the bench to find Remy DuPre, one of the Rebels’ centers, looming over him. He cast a glance left, then right before answering with, “I am here. In the locker room.”
DuPre laughed. “Sorry, Petrov, I meant how ya doin’? That’s just how we say it back in my hometown. You were skating pretty hard out there.”
Vadim assessed the man before him. Tall, but then most hockey players were. Thirty-five years old, but he held himself well for a man of his age. Most important was the fact that he was in a relationship with Harper Chase, the oldest of the Chase sisters. The headlines had died down during the last month, but Vadim had to wonder at the judgment of any man who would place himself in such a position with a woman. Sleeping with the woman who paid his salary and controlled his career? Not the most strategic of moves.
After a few days in Chicago, Vadim was still trying to work out the team dynamic. DuPre acted like the captain, though that official honor belonged to Bren St. James, a dour Scotsman who would give a gulag commander a run for his money. There didn’t appear to be any tension between DuPre and St. James; their command of the team was close to co-rule.
“I’m fine,” Vadim said, squaring his shoulders. “I expected the practice would go longer. That’s how it was in Quebec.”
“Oh yeah?” DuPre sat on the bench and started to unlace his skates. “Guess we decided to take it easy on ya, seein’ as how it’s your first week and all.”
Easy? Sure they did. They were testing his limits, how far to push him, whether he needed special handling because he was fighting his way back to full fitness. This was good. Vadim didn’t miss his old team, where in truth he was not used to the best of his abilities. When trading him in, Coach Calhoun had said they planned to use him on the left wing. Usually, right-handers such as Vadim were invariably placed on the right, but Coach and the team had recognized that his natural fit was his off side. Such intuition gave Vadim confidence that the Rebels knew what they were doing—at least in the coaching arena.
As for the rest of the Rebels organization . . . a team owned and run by women. Vadim had no problem with women running things, though he would prefer they did not fraternize off the ice, especially in his world of clubs and girls. He had invited his new teammates to the Vesna vodka PR event, as it was the sociable thing to do, and apparently Cade Burnett, the Texan defenseman, was friendly with Violet, the youngest Chase daughter. Vadim had known he would run into Isobel eventually, but he had not expected the judgment in her moss-colored eyes or the snark on her crimson lips. This was not the innocent adoration of before, a fresh virgin looking to be schooled in the ways of desire. This was . . . different.
Mostly, he had not expected his body’s reaction to being so close to her after all these years. Theirs had been a teenage infatuation, a singular blend of uncontrollable hormones, fortunate proximity, and the knowledge that her father would not have approved. If it had not ended so abruptly, it would have fizzled quickly. Why, all these years later, would this woman—the source of such frustration, the one who had thwarted his career—make his body hard and greedy?
After last night’s sparring at the club, he had left agitated and alone. That buzz he felt talking to Isobel had sizzled through his veins, keeping him awake and, much to his annoyance, horny. There was no good reason why Isobel Chase should turn him on in any way. Once, she tempted him, yes, but his tastes had changed.
He had not slept well, the pain in his knee bothersome. Not because he had allowed a few women to perch on it so he could fulfill his obligations to his sponsor! But at the end of the day, it liked to remind him of his failure. In the mornings, too. After slipping in and out of a restless sleep, he had hauled his body to the shower, hoping the steam would loosen it up. It took longer than he expected and delayed the start of his day.
Slight unease panged his chest at not showing up for Isobel’s “special” practice session this morning. But if she thought he was blowing her off, it would not be the worst message to send. Five minutes in her presence, and she was sneaking under his skin again. Insidious, immature, infuriating Isobel. He was doing her a service, really. Any extended time with her would likely result in him throttling the minx.
His cell phone buzzed with a message from Mia.
Are you off IR yet?
Injury reserve. He ignored his sister’s text. A mistake, as silence brought a torrent of questions.
Are you getting enough sleep?
Is the pain in your knee sharp or more like an ache?
Did you hook up with that blonde at the club last night? Or the skanky redhead? The TMZ footage was kind of grainy.
Chyort! His thumbs hovered over his phone in threat, though apparently not enough of one to make the messages stop.
Looks like they have cooties. All of them.
Then: Czar of Pleasure. LOL.
He groaned at the silly nickname. A woman had told a story to the gutter press about his prowess between the sheets, and a legend was born. He didn’t recall this woman—if he had slept with a tenth of the women who claimed to have slept with him, he would probably be on his syphilitic deathbed—but he accepted the name because, why not?
“You’re in demand, Petrov,” Remy said with a grin as the texts continued to vomit onto his screen.
“My sister. She’s a pain in my ass.”
Remy looked sympathetic. “Got four of ’em myself. Worst affliction known to man.”
Vadim wouldn’t phrase it quite so dramatically. “She is young, and we don’t know each other well. A recent connection.” Not for the first time, the reason behind this sent his blood into a boil.
Remy rubbed the unshaven scruff on his chin. “Sounds complicated. I’m here to be your priest, should you need it.”
Leon Shay, a left-winger like Vadim, strode out of the shower and into the locker room as naked as a babe. Not that Vadim minded—at this point, he’d seen more naked men than women—but there was something about the way Shay swaggered about with his swinging dick that bothered him. Territory marking, undoubtedly, given that Vadim was faster and had been brought in to shore up the left side. There was room for them both, but the better Vadim played, the less ice time Shay would get.
Which is probably why this ass placed a foot up on the bench with his cock at Vadim’s eye level. On a derisive sniff, he swiped at his legs with a towel.
Catching Vadim’s eye, Remy quirked his lips, affirming this was not Vadim’s imagination. A minute later, Remy headed into the shower while Vadim answered his sister’s text: I am in practice. So should you be.
“Gotta be careful around him,” Shay said, pulling deodorant out of his gym bag.
Vadim arced his gaze over the locker room and, realizing that there was no one else here, peered up at Shay.
“Careful?”
“He’s banging Harper Chase, so he may as well be spying on the team.”
Ah. Looked like he had discovered the team’s malcontent. Every locker room suffered one. Vadim waited for more on this rather entertaining brand of paranoia.
“Women running a hockey team.” Shay shook his head at what he evidently thought was a great personal insult. “Just be careful what you say, because there’s a direct line from here to Chase Manor.”
Vadim found this both highly amusing and likely beneficial for future gamesmanship.
“If you refrain from treasonous statements, then you have nothing to worry about.”
Shay stopped in the act of pulling his briefs on. “That’s not how it works outside of Russia, Petrov. Here in the good ole US of A, we like to think our speech is not regulated or restricted in any way. And you know what else? Fuck me if Isobel Chase isn’t angling for a coaching spot. Putting a fox in the henhouse, that’s what that is.”
“Are you saying this locker room is like a henhouse? Filled with hens?”
“It’s a metaphor, Petrov. A metaphor for trouble.”
Vadim pretended to consider this lesson in the English idiom. “Da. Trouble.”
The team whiner regarded Vadim with suspicion, trying to determine if he was being made fun of. Vadim kept his expression perfectly vacant, not unlike a pose for one of his underwear photo shoots.
Encouraged by the silence, Shay continued his grumbling. “Women thinking they can run and coach men’s hockey. And now a fag for a GM—”
He cut off as Cade Burnett strode into the locker room, wearing a towel and a wide grin. Vadim liked the cheerful Texan, who was having a good season.
“Petrov, trainer’s ready for you,” Burnett said.
About time. Vadim could have insisted his knee injury required he go first for the postpractice rubdown, but unlike these soft Americans, he was fine with waiting. Even if the stiffness in his knee would produce the kind of pain he’d need his best poker face to endure.
As for what else he might need a poker face, Vadim knew he’d have to watch Leon Shay carefully. Inside, his blood boiled at the notion this man thought Isobel could not coach men’s hockey. She was a champion! So perhaps Vadim had hinted as much to Isobel herself last night, but her gender was not why he had a problem with her as a coach. With their complicated history, the present would become only more tangled if they were to spend time together.
His life was already far too knotty to indulge her ambition.
He stood, relieved that his knee elected not to betray him at this moment.
Shay pointed at him. “Just remember what I said, Petrov. Watch who you talk to.”
Yes, Shay. Yes, I will.
Isobel headed toward the locker room at the Rebels’ practice facility, determined to have it out with the uncooperative Mr. Petrov. Turning a corner, she bumped into a tower of unyielding muscle, fronted by a snarl that had her almost recoiling. But that had nothing on how Isobel’s name on Leon Shay’s lips skeeved her the hell out.
“Miz Chase.”
Yep, shower for one. Dry off. Then another.
“Shay.”
This guy hadn’t exactly welcomed the ownership changes at the top. He was built in the mold of her father, a man’s man with distinct tendencies toward assholery. While Shay never came right out and complained, his position was clear: women should not be running hockey teams. Now he blocked her path, actually and figuratively.
“Got places to be,” she said, and while she could have gone around him, she elected to wait until he moved around her. Better keep that intimidation shit for the ice, dickhead.
With one last sneer, he rounded her and walked away.
She shuddered. Make that shower a triple.
Pushing the locker room door ajar, she called out, “You guys decent?”
A rumble of male laughter answered, then Remy’s voice sounded above the noise. “That’s open to interpretation, but if you mean mostly covered up, then yeah.”
She walked in, prepared for Remy’s assurance to be a bunch of bull. In her years coaching the minors in Montreal, she’d seen a wealth of penis—long, short, fat, skinny, weirdly curved, and oddly shaded—so in-the-buff athletes no longer fazed her.
And would you lookie here? If it wasn’t the very pleasant sight of Cade Burnett, towel-free and ass-out. He turned slightly with a wicked grin, penis in profile. Not bad.
“Howdy, Isobel.”
“Hey, Alamo.” Reluctantly, she moved her gaze to points north. “Heard you fell on your pretty face during practice. You okay?”
“Yeah. St. James caught me with my helmet loose. Sometimes I forget he’s an asshole.”
She studied the growing bruise on his chin. “You’re all assholes, but you’re one of my favorite assholes.”
“Bet you say that to all the good-lookin’ Texans.”
Such an outrageous flirt. “I’m looking for Petrov.”
“In with the trainer,” Remy said, the words muffled as he pulled a sweatshirt over his head.
She turned to leave, but didn’t get far before she felt a hand touching her arm. Remy stood behind her, his expression sheepish.
“About this morning.”
Yes. This morning. She was currently staying in a guest room at Harper’s house, affectionately known as Chase Manor, in Lake Forest, a situation that was supposed to be only temporary. On her way to grab a cup of joe in the kitchen before the practice-that-never-was, she’d walked in on her sister and Remy in a pose she would need a lifetime supply of bleach to scrub from her retinas.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said.
He looked horrified. “No, you shouldn’t be sorry. Hell, that’s your home, and usually Harper’s over at mine. But I’d stopped by after the club last night, and well . . . you shouldn’t have to tiptoe around your own house. To be honest”—he lowered his voice—“I’d rather we were living together at my place, but Harper wants to wait until the season is over. Less media attention.”
“That’s probably a good idea. Don’t get me wrong, you guys are great together, but the next couple of months are going to need all our focus.”
He rubbed his chin. “I s’pose.” But he didn’t sound like he agreed. Was he looking for her permission to push Harper on this? Humans with penises, so needy.
“Harper’s crazy about you, DuPre. And I get to witness it in all its naked expression on our kitchen counters. Yay!”
Remy chuckled.
“We’re heading to the Empty Net tomorrow night,” Cade said as he rubbed a towel over his junk. “Gotta give Petrov a proper welcome. You in, Isobel?”
Fraternizing with the players deliberately and with Petrov specifically? Uh, no. Last night was an accident. Besides, she was fully aware of how in demand the players were by the opposite sex and just how willing they were to fulfill the supply side of the equation to any hockey groupie in range. A philanderer father and two cheating exes told her she did not need to witness that.
“Thanks, but I’m busy washing my hair.” And with that, she headed out, steeling herself for a stern talk with their new left-winger.
She entered the trainer’s room . . . and immediately wished she’d used the same MO as she had outside the locker room two minutes ago.
As in, should have knocked.
Sorry, Cade Burnett, your brief reign as King Perfect Butt is now over. A new ruler has ascended the throne.
Vadim Petrov took assology to a whole other level.
He lay stretched out, facedown, on the trainer’s table, a towel draped over his back, leaving his lower half—yes, ladies, the best half—exposed. Two perfect globes sat up like melons. If melons could, uh, sit up.
Melons? Oh for Gretzky’s sake, woman. Snap out of it.
Luckily, she had a few things going for her to aid in this snap-out effort.
1. She’d seen plenty of perfect hockey player ass. Dammit, she was a professional, and this was just another one.
2. Petrov’s ass was old news. The guy had recently displayed it shamelessly in ESPN’s The Body Issue, so the world and its Aunt Cecily knew every curve and contour.
3. Most important and most relevant to this situation, she’d actually touched/stroked/squeezed this particular ass years ago, and frankly, she wasn’t looking to repeat.
Kelly Townsend, the team’s head trainer, raised his chin and acknowledged her presence with a smile. Of all the Rebels’ backroom staff, she liked Kelly the best, probably because he gave off a distinctly nonthreatening vibe. In a boy band, he’d be the guy who brought flowers for your mom and didn’t do any weird crotch-grabbing grinds during the song’s instrumental bridge. A Brandon, not a Dylan.
“Kelly, how long do you need?”
“All done.” Kelly smiled again, then opened his mouth to say something else. Instead, he turned to his patient. “Adductor feeling better, Vadim?”
A grunt from the Russian acknowledged it was. So that’s why his towel was doing such a terrible job of covering up his ass. Isobel had thought it a bit much for a knee rubdown. With a nod, Kelly left the room.
Vadim sat up, unfairly pulling the towel over his groin so she missed the main attraction. Had he changed in the intervening years? If anything, he had to have grown bigger, which was terrifying, because the boy had rocked a manaconda at nineteen. Dicks didn’t shrink with time, did they?
Note to self: Google “penis size changes with age.” For science.
“We need to talk.” As he futzed with the towel’s perfect positioning—get over yourself, Petrov, I don’t care!—she took a moment to note where else he might have changed. Definitely more tattoos. Some she recognized from before: that colorful babushka on his right forearm, the jaguar ready to pounce from his shoulder, symbols that held significance for him covering practically every inch of steely flesh. A new-to-her tat over his rib cage caught her attention. A set of skates in flames, Russian script entwined around it.
Then there were the abs. Jesus, you could grate Parm on those puppies. Peering up, he caught her burning stare, and his reaction was predictable.
Look all you want, but this is not for you.
Understood. She wouldn’t break any mirrors, but standing before him in Nike’s spring collection ensemble, her dark brown hair in a ponytail, her face free of makeup, she looked nothing like the razor-thin models Vadim was regularly photographed with coming out of clubs.
There was no reason why that should have entered her head, except that once he had told her she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Not that she needed his compliments. Eighteen-year-old girls desperate to have their cherry popped by gorgeous Russians are usually all in.
Now his expression made it clear she had no impact on him whatsoever, which was fine because she was here to do a job. A sexless, no-chemistry, so-what-if-you-took-my-virginity job.
She started with an easy one. “How are you feeling today?”
“Fine.”
“Oh, I thought maybe your knee was bothering you, and that was why you blew off practice.”
Cue the Russian ice stare of doom.
“With me,” she clarified.
“I don’t need it. I can work with the regular coaching staff.”
“We don’t have time for that. Thursday is the start of six days on the road and the coaches will be with the team. You’re on IR, so you’ll be staying here and working on your skills—or were you planning to run drills by yourself?”
He remained as silent as the grave, his big hands splayed on his towel-covered thighs. Everything about him strained taut. Muscles, body language, expression. But she didn’t trust it to remain that way. Vadim’s strength on the ice was his speed. No one transitioned quicker than him, a sleek cat that could uncoil and strike at any moment, just like that jaguar on his shoulder. She expected that was how it was now. Even at rest he was dangerous.
Speaking as a fellow athlete might be a better approach. “I know you’re worried about getting back to full strength. I’ve been there—”
“And you had to give up.”
Wow, that stung. She widened her eyes, fighting the tears pricking at her eyelids.
Since her injury two years ago during the inaugural National Women’s Hockey League game, she’d lost all faith in her abilities. Sure, she had healed with a speed that amazed her doctors. They’d never seen anyone with a fractured skull recover so quickly. But they had been adamant about her competitive future—or lack thereof. A fall, a rough check against the boards, hell, a slip stepping out of the shower, and she might not wake up again.
Thirty-seven minutes. Her time on pro ice. Knowing you were all washed up by the age of twenty-five was sobering, to say the least.
Her father hadn’t taken it well. Whereas any other parent would be trying to hold his kid back off the ice after she’d taken a skate blade to the head, Clifford had dismissed the doctors’ concerns.
I played with a fractured femur once, Izzy. Every player knows what they can handle. Trust your heart as much as your body.
She’d tried, for him as much as for herself. Training with her team, the Buffalo Betties—who only allowed her to skate after she signed a waiver absolving them of all liability—she had suffered a hip injury two months in. Now it flared up when she pushed herself too hard, the pain a signal that she was no longer cut out for pro play.
Those who can’t, coach.
Giving up her dream was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. So nice of this Russian jerk to rub her face in it.
“Yes, I did have to give up. But I have plenty of experience teaching, and I’ve put together a plan to get you back on track.”
She unearthed her iPad from her messenger bag and leaned against the massage table while it came to life. Damn, he smelled good. Why did the jerk have to smell so good?
She opened up her spreadsheet, each hour she planned to spend with him linked to a core set of skills they would focus on. Quickly, she whipped through the daily tasks: strength training, skating skills, knee exercises.
“I worked with two guys in Montreal last year and turned their recovery from a projected eight weeks to five.”
“Linberg and Costigan,” he murmured, close to her ear.
She drew back, surprised that one, they were so heart-stoppingly close, and two, he knew the players’ names on the minor league team she had worked with.
“Right.” She cleared her throat because he was staring at her now, all blue-eyed ferocity, his stance aggressive even though he was seated and hadn’t moved a muscle.
“I will not need eight weeks, Isobel. Or five.”
“No.” She tore her gaze away and focused on the iPad. “I’m thinking more like two. Three max, if we work hard but are careful not to overdo it. My job is to get you back in the rink in time for the big push.” The Rebels were at 28–20 win-loss right now with five losses in overtime. This left twenty-nine games in the regular season. “We need you in there for the last twenty games, Vadim.”
Looking up again, she found his eyes magnetized to her, his focus burning holes into her soul. What was it about Russians that amplified the simplest look to the nth degree?
“The conventional wisdom is that you and your sisters are lucky to have done this well, considering.”
“Considering we’re women?”
“Considering you’re coming off fifteen years of bad results. This year should be your rebuild, yet you have decided to trade aggressively and bring in players you would not normally acquire. Veterans at the end of their careers. Injured men who may spend the season on the bench. You are gambling, Isobel.”
They were. At first she’d thought it was some cruel joke her father was playing on Harper. Her older sister was supposed to inherit the team, and while Isobel felt invested in her father’s legacy, she hadn’t expected this role. Joint owner, on the spot, where her decisions affected whether the team stayed in the family or was sold off.
Isobel wondered if her father had wanted to give her purpose after her failed career. He had been so disappointed that she’d had to resort to coaching, not pleased at all that she had found a job in the minors. Fucking Canada, Izzy? Even now, she felt guilty that she had enjoyed the time outside his Eye of Sauron–like focus. But he had the last laugh when he drew her back into his orbit.
The requirements of the will stipulated that she had to attend every home game. Fine for Harper, and even for Violet, who didn’t seem to mind uprooting her life in Reno. But for Isobel, something had to give. The tensions between coaching in Montreal and having to be on site for the Rebels in Chicago were too demanding. She had quit her coaching gig two months ago.
Part of it was to force Harper’s hand. Let me be a Rebels coach. Let’s make this history you’re always talking about. But she realized that the job wasn’t going to be handed to her.
She turned back to Vadim, his accusation that she was gambling still hanging between them.
“We want to make a big splash our first year out.” He didn’t need to know about the pressure they were under. All he needed to know was that she—and she alone—could get him back to the face-off circle.
“This is how I remember you. Striving to be the best. Living with no fear. Back then, nothing could get in your way. The Girl with the Blazing Skates.”
That silly nickname he had given her would have sounded almost forgiving if that jibe about nothing getting in her way hadn’t canceled it out. But he was right about one thing: there had been a time when fear was meaningless. She’d felt invulnerable. Unbreakable. And now? She was a frightened, scarred little girl begging the man who had made her a woman to give her a chance.
“It’s a lot to ask, I know. Especially if you’ve never been coached by a woman before.”
He appeared to consider what she said; the air between them thickened and charged. Maybe he had a point. Maybe their past history would impede the mission.
“Playing the woman card is not necessary, Isobel. I will submit to your will on the practice rink. You have two weeks to get me back on competitive ice.”