TWENTY
“You started without me?” Harper came click-clacking into the den at Chase Manor and threw herself onto the sofa. Heels off, hand grab for the wine, and— “No spare glass?”
Violet pressed pause on Dirty Dancing—the original, of course. Baby and the fam had just arrived at Kellerman’s Resort in the Catskills. Sexy shenanigans were on everyone’s dance card. “We thought you couldn’t make it.”
“Have I missed a single Awkward Sister Bonding Night yet?”
Isobel smiled. She had to admire how Harper had stepped up to the sister thing since they’d been thrown together six months ago. Not inheriting the team to run solo had been tough for her, but she handled it like a boss, making a real effort to broker their fractured sibling relationship. Now big sis hopped up and grabbed a wineglass from the sideboard.
“We’d understand if you wanted to spend more time with Remy,” Isobel said.
“Plenty of time for that.” Her swallow was audible. “I’m, uh, thinking of moving in with him.”
Violet and Isobel exchanged oh really glances. “That’s serious.”
“Too soon?” She poured the wine, and as she often did, answered her own question. “Maybe it is. But he wants to start trying for a baby and—”
“A baby?” Violet grabbed the bottle from Harper before she’d made it to half a glass. “You don’t need alcohol. It sounds like you’re already mentally impaired.”
“Vi . . .” Isobel warned.
“Come on. She knows him less than six months and they’re already trying to get preggers. That’s crazy!”
Harper looked amused at Violet’s overreaction. “Take it you’re not a fan of kids.”
“In exceedingly small doses, and I wouldn’t have thought you would be, either. When we get to the play-offs, we’ll have fulfilled the terms of the will. We—” She stopped. Self-corrected. “You don’t have to sell off, which means you are still running a professional hockey team, Harper. How are you going to be the bitch in the boardroom if you also have to be the babe in the bedroom and now the baby mama with a spare diaper in her Kate Spade purse?”
“Well, here’s my secret.” She leaned in, those green eyes they all shared sparkling. “Remy plans to retire at the end of the season and he’ll be staying home to change the diapers. It’s all he’s ever wanted since he was a little girl.”
Isobel felt a pang in her heart. How wonderful to have found someone so willing to step up to the plate like that. “That’s pretty hot.”
Violet clearly didn’t want to agree, but how could she not? “Remy with the BabyBjörn? Yeah, hotness at ovary-exploding levels.”
“So we have to start looking for another center,” Isobel mused.
Vi thumbed in her direction. “Always the team with this one.”
“We have to make the play-offs first,” Isobel said. “Twelve games to go, and with the way the standings are now, we need at least eight points to be assured of the wild card.”
Harper set her chin. “Ten points would be better, so we can straight up qualify and don’t even have to consider wild card. You think Petrov has it in him?”
“Physically, yes. Mentally? This business with his mom is distracting him.” Isobel had filled them both in on the latest Petrov drama. The news of how Mia and Vadim were related was also prompting questions, and Rebels’ PR was currently whipping up a statement for the media.
“What about this business with his coach?” Harper asked after taking a sip of her wine. “Is that distracting him?”
Isobel stiffened. After Vadim’s overreaction to her tryout news, there would be no returning to that well. Could the bastard be even a little bit pleased for her? Oh no. Heaven forbid anyone else draw focus from the mighty Vadim Petrov.
“We’re not—I mean, we did but—” She held up her hands. “We had some unfinished business from years ago and now it’s all tied up. The itch has been scratched.”
“Multiple times, I hope?” Violet asked, and when Isobel laughed her agreement, her younger sister nodded. “That’s my girl. So proud.”
“Hmm.”
Isobel hated when Harper did that. “Don’t, okay?”
“What? Remind you that itches have an annoying habit of staying, y’know, itchy? That’s what I said about Remy, and we all know how that turned out.”
As if there were any comparison. “Remy’s not like other hockey players. He’s not hanging at clubs. He’s not signing bare tits at the Empty Net. Not once have I seen him look at a puck bunny since he was traded in. The man has only ever had eyes for you.”
“Yeah, the minute he laid those Cajun peepers on you,” Violet chimed in, “he was all, ‘Me Remy, you Remy’s baby mama. Take my seed. Take it all!’ ”
Harper’s smugness wasn’t annoying at all. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m so not what he had in mind for his future, but once I figured out what I needed, I realized that Remy was the one. You know how you wake up, and you can’t remember what you were dreaming about? It’s there, just out of reach, so close but so far. I think I was dreaming about Remy all along. Then one day I woke up, the dream sharpened, and it all fell into place.”
That was strangely poetic from the usually plain-speaking Harper. Even Violet looked affected.
On the subject of dreams, a curious memory returned to gnaw at Isobel. Wake up, Bella. I am here—the words she’d thought she heard while she napped in Vadim’s arms and gave him a sleepy hand job. It was like something in a reverie, just like those brief moments when she and Vadim appeared to be on the same page.
Harper sipped her wine. “You’re right, though. Remy’s about as far from Cliff as any man could be.”
The weight of that statement loomed over Isobel’s head like a heavy object waiting to fall.
“Well, you won’t catch me falling for a hockey player,” she said defensively. “I’m not going to be that woman, waiting around, knowing he’s—just knowing.”
She caught Harper’s eye, expecting judgment, but saw only compassion. They had both experienced their father’s failures as a parent in different ways. Clifford thought Harper too weak to run the team and Isobel too strong to be wasting her time on coaching. Hockey’s not for pussies, Izzy. Only this year had the sisters found common ground, and ironically, it was Clifford Chase’s last will and testament that had forced them into a new understanding of what the other had suffered.
Violet, who had never met him, was definitely more circumspect on the subject of Clifford. And by circumspect, Isobel meant completely silent.
The youngest Chase poured more wine. “Things seem to be looking up, for sure. The team’s on a winning streak. Harper’s managed to snag a guy who actually wants to be a stay-at-home hottie. And now that Isobel’s hit it and quit it with Petrov, it means you won’t have to worry about conflicts of interest when you become a full-time coach.”
Right, when she became a full-time coach, the great compromise. As much as she enjoyed it, it didn’t fill her heart to overflowing like actual professional play and competition.
Don’t be a pussy, Izzy.
Should she tell them about the tryout? After Vadim’s overreaction—ooh, the man was impossible—sharing didn’t seem like such a good idea. They’d only fret.
She picked up the remote. “Enough chitchat. Let’s get lost in the glories of Swayze and the merengue.”
“You won!” Mia’s congratulations devolved into raspy coughs that sounded like a seal with a three-pack-a-day smoking habit. Lifting her head off her mother’s lap, she tried to sit up on the sofa in his living room.
“Do not get up.” Vadim knelt beside her and felt her forehead with his palm. “She is still hot.”
“Her temp went down one degree,” Victoria said. “I’ve been trying to get her to go to bed, but she insisted on waiting up for you.”
“Vad, you rocked it on the ice,” his sister sputtered. “Though you could have gone all the way with that second goal instead of laying it up for DuPre.” She coughed again. “Too generous.”
“There are plenty of goals to spread around. And these decisions made in the moment should not be second-guessed by armchair forwards, especially when they result in wins.”
She made a face, and in that moment she looked just like their father. Anger barreled through his veins at the woman who had denied the man the chance to meet his daughter.
Mia was too ill to notice his change of mood, but Victoria’s mouth thinned in discomfort. “Do you think Isobel might come to visit?” Mia asked.
“We shall see. For now, you must get your rest. Off to bed, pchyolka.”
“What does that mean?”
“Bee,” Victoria said, her eyes flashing. Always with the searching looks. “Little bee.”
Standing, he curved his arms under Mia’s body and lifted her close. “Because you are always buzzing around. On the ice, especially.” She was fast, possibly faster than Isobel had been in her prime. Not quite as strong yet, but she would get there.
Her forehead fell to his shoulder. “I’m glad people know.”
He carried her toward the guest room where she was staying, and though he suspected what she meant, he asked anyway. “Know what?”
“That we’re related. As soon as I found out, I wanted to tell the world. I was so proud to be your sister. But then when we met first, I was sick and I didn’t make a good impression.”
His heart ached in memory of her weakened state that first time he’d met her in the hospital in New York sixteen months ago. He had fought so many emotions that day: anger, regret, hate, all at Victoria. But as soon as he saw how ill Mia was, this beautiful girl who couldn’t help the decisions of her parents, he vowed to do everything in his power to cure her.
“You made a terrible first impression, sestrichka. But it’s understandably difficult to shine with the great Vadim Petrov in the room.”
Her soft giggle fluttered against his neck. At the door to her room, Victoria went ahead to turn down the bedcovers. He laid his sister down, and she curled up on her side while he placed the comforter over her.
“You saved my life, bro.”
“The flu is making you delirious.”
“I haven’t thanked you enough.”
He remained grave. “You have come to visit and brought your germs. This is gift enough.”
She groaned and he laughed, then dropped a kiss on her forehead to let her know he was teasing. “Go to sleep, and we’ll dissect my game choices tomorrow.”
“Night, Vad.”
“Good night, Mia.”
He left the room, his body itchy in a way it often was after a game. Adrenaline still rippled through him, but he’d left the arena quickly so he could tend to Mia—and avoid Isobel. Now that he’d seen his sister and ensured that she was safe, he wanted to blow off some steam. Fuck or fight.
As sinking his tension inside Isobel would not be possible until she came to her senses, he would have to satisfy his need with a fight.
Victoria emerged from the room, followed by the dog, and closed the door behind her. In silence they walked to the living room with the pup trotting quickly on his tiny legs to keep up.
“She’s getting better,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, her relief evident. “As soon as she can travel, I’ll take her home.”
“You would not leave her behind?”
Her face reddened, the jab having the desired effect. Pettiness pinched his chest. Why should he feel this way, caught in this no-man’s-land of suffering? All wrong. He refused to pander to her need to explain herself, because as soon as he asked, it would be a slippery road to accepting she’d had a good reason.
Bad mothers always have good reasons.
She sat on the sofa while he sat in the armchair farthest away. “How’s your knee?”
Neutral ground. This he could discuss. “Better.”
“Isobel seems to be good for you.”
“She is an excellent coach.”
“Only a coach?”
He scowled. “I am not discussing this with you.”
“Too old to take my advice?”
“Too old to take your bullshit.”
She smiled, and it sliced deeper than when she had looked wounded by his earlier jibe. “That’s fair,” she said. “I’m not exactly the best qualified when it comes to love.”
“No one said anything about love.” How typical. All women, even terrible mothers, apparently couldn’t help making assumptions. He had smiled at Isobel and showed concern that she was trying to kill herself; it must be love!
The silence expanded between them, and just when it felt like something would snap he felt a nudge at his leg. Gordie Howe. The silly dog likely sensed the tension and was seeking comfort. Needing something to occupy his hands and thoughts, Vadim picked up the ridiculous creature and settled it in his lap.
“He likes you,” Victoria said.
“He knows where his next meal is coming from.” Absently, he stroked the dog’s shiny coat and was strangely gratified to feel him relax. If only his own comfort could be bought so easily.
“You were always good with animals,” Victoria said softly. “Cats, dogs, even hamsters. Remember when you lost that horrible ball of vermin, and we had to turn the house upside down looking for it?”
“That horrible ball of vermin was Boris, my closest friend. He liked to sleep in warm, dark places.”
“Yes, and he liked to leave turd-shaped gifts. I threw out so many shoes.”
Good old Boris. Vadim found himself smiling against his will. He reached for the hardness inside him, but it was becoming more difficult to find.
Apparently encouraged, she spoke again, her voice now more animated. “What was the name of your dog again? The big, black mutt?”
“Fyodor.” He hadn’t thought of him in years. He might have been a mongrel, but he’d held himself like a king.
“Fyodor! He followed you everywhere.”
She was laughing now, confident she had found a way to break him down. He could feel himself slipping as memories inundated him from all sides in colorful, jagged pieces. One soared above the others: the swings in Maritime Victory Park in St. Petersburg.
Push higher, Mama.
That’s as high as it goes, pchyolka.
More, Mama. Don’t stop.
“Whatever happened to Fyodor?”
“Papa ran him over, backing up out of the garage.” Fyodor had liked to sleep under the car, though it made no sense, as it was warmer in the house. Poor mutt, another dumb animal who had sought comfort and paid the price.
“Oh,” she said quietly, the wind ripped from her sails. And yet again, that guilty pang checked his heart. She had liked Fyodor, always ready with a treat for him under the dinner table.
He could feel the storm rising again, the war dueling in his chest. She had no right to dredge up these memories or make him sorry for her. She had no rights at all.
“Let’s get something straight,” he said. “You’re here because of Mia, no other reason. So you can quit with the journeys down memory lane. We won’t be reminiscing about the good old days, so stop trying so hard. Just stop.”
He got up, placing Gordie Howe on the floor. The dog looked up at him expectantly, then switched his attention to the other person in the room, assessing his options. So fickle.
“Understood,” Victoria said, and instead of the hurt he expected to hear in her tone, something else rang clear. Something that sounded a little like victory.
Chyort! This woman thought she had gained some advantage over him, and while the power shift was subtle, he felt it as he left the room. He felt it in the gaze she transferred to her phone instead of to his departing back.
Gordie Howe, the traitor, remained with Victoria. Apparently the dumb pup knew who had eked out a win in this round.