TWENTY-ONE
“Gather around, guys. Time to meet our special guests.”
Isobel watched as the faces of her juniors lit up when their guests came onto the ice. Seeing Ford Callaghan, Cade Burnett, and the mighty Vadim Petrov himself up close was a thrill for them. Normally, seeing the Russian would be a thrill for her, too. But they had left things in an odd place. At least it hadn’t affected his play. In the week since, they’d won two games at home and were about to head out to Vancouver tomorrow.
“Hey, Coach,” Burnett said to Isobel, and then to the group. “Got ourselves any future pros here?”
Half of the kids shot their hands up, and the rest looked like they wished they’d thought of it.
Isobel smiled. “Guys, you probably recognize these troublemakers, but I’ll introduce them all the same. The one with the funny accent is Cade ‘Alamo’ Burnett, the bulwark on the Rebels’ defense line.”
“Aw, you’re makin’ me blush.” He winked at Natasha, causing her to color furiously.
“And you’ve met this guy before,” Isobel said, gesturing to Ford. “The guy who looks like a marauding Viking is Coach Callaghan’s brother, Ford ‘Killer’ Callaghan. Currently the leading goal scorer in the Western Conference.”
Ford saluted them with the butt of his stick. “Team.”
“And last but not least, meet Rebels’ left-winger Vadim Petrov, no nickname necessary.”
“Except Czar of Pleas—”
“Ladies,” Isobel cut off Gabby, who was pumping out enough teenage hormones to knock Vadim over. Unfortunately the Russian was looking particularly hot today, not a wrinkle or pimple in sight. “Let’s remember these are our guests.”
The girls giggled like girls their age are wont to do. Vadim raised an eyebrow at Isobel, then held her gaze unerringly. She had no idea what to do with it, so she merely reddened to the point that she and Natasha were a matching set.
Moving on. “I thought maybe we’d play a couple of periods. How about we start with Captain Callaghan and Captain Petrov?” She looked at the Rebels players. “Okay?”
“Hell—I mean, heck yeah,” Ford said. “Might be my one shot at wearing a captain’s band.”
Vadim graced them with speech at last. “Perhaps we shall start with girls versus boys.”
The girls perked up, and Gabby spoke for the group. “But there’s only three of us girls.”
“There’s also your coach. Last time I checked, she is a girl.” Vadim assessed them. “What positions do you play?”
“Forward, center, and defender.”
“Marcus, you good with being goaltender for Captain Petrov’s team?” Isobel asked.
“Yes, Marcus, I need you on Team Petrov.”
Marcus gazed in wonder at Vadim, like he’d been chosen first by the most popular kid in school. All he could do was nod dumbly.
“Hey now, Ruski,” Callaghan said. “Pretty sure you’re trying to bamboozle me by picking the quickest players. Not to worry, we boys will take care of business. I need four good men and a goalie.”
With the teams set, the remaining players sat rinkside, where Cade would officiate. “But no swearing, Alamo, ’kay?” Isobel cautioned.
“Rebels’ honor, Coach Chase,” he drawled with a dirty grin.
They set the period to five minutes so the other kids would get a chance to play. As well as officiating, Cade kept up a running commentary throughout that had the kids on the bench in stitches.
“The Czar with the puck now and he passes to—what’s her name—Gabby?—I’m never gonna remember that. Let’s just call her Skittles. So Skittles rushes the zone, only to run into trouble with a dispossession by Tall Dude. Not bad on the stick-handling, TD. And now they’re on the break with Killer comin’ up the side for support. Quick pass and . . . and back to TD and . . . foiled by Team Petrov’s tender! The Crease Monster rules!”
Vadim and Ford were obviously operating at about 30 percent, given the youth of their teammates. Not once did they try to score themselves, always making sure to pass back to one of the younger players. After five minutes, the teams switched out with their classmates, Cade went in for Petrov, and Jackson Callaghan offered to referee the next period.
Which is how Isobel found herself sitting on the bench with Vadim.
“Hi,” she said softly.
“Hello.”
“How’s Mia?”
“Improving.”
Another pause. “Thanks for doing this. I thought maybe you weren’t talking to me.”
He kept his eyes on the rink, where Cade was still announcing the game, even while playing.
“Freckles with the puck . . . and now he sees an opening . . . but Alamo slaps it away . . .”
“I thought maybe I wasn’t talking to you, either.” Vadim turned slightly, eyes blazing. “I have not come around, Isobel. But then you don’t need me to, do you? You are your father’s daughter. The game will always come first.”
He had a point, but she also knew this: if she wanted to succeed, she couldn’t live in anyone’s shadow. Not her father’s. Not Harper’s. And certainly not Vadim Petrov’s.
“When is your tryout?” Each word sounded like it practically choked him.
“Saturday.” She nudged his shoulder. “Wish me luck.”
“The Girl with the Blazing Skates doesn’t need luck.” He stood and twisted to face her. “She needs her head examined.” And then he stormed out onto the ice.
On Saturday morning, Vadim walked into the kitchen, found Victoria cutting up fruit at the counter, and turned to walk out again.
“Vadim.”
He stopped, every muscle in his body straining with tension. Stay? Go? Punch the fridge door?
“I was about to take Mia some breakfast, then the kitchen is all yours. I have to walk Gordie Howe.”
On hearing his name, the stupid ball of fluff rubbed against Vadim’s legs and gave a little yip.
“I can walk him.”
She waved off his offer. “You played well last night. Mia was so excited to see you score that winning goal.”
Throwing all his emotion into the game in Vancouver seemed to be the best—the only—thing to do. His home no longer belonged to him. He felt oddly unmoored from his own life. And then there was Isobel, who wished to risk it all to get back this part of herself she claimed was missing. No helmet could protect her from the one bad check that could end her life. Infuriating woman!
Her tryout was today in Massachusetts, and guilt pinged him that he had not wished her well. But doing so would condone her choice. He refused to be a party to such madness.
He should call the coach and insist she be sent home. To him.
This was where she belonged, wrapped in his arms, taking naps on his sofa. Not wanting to be solo with his miserable thoughts, he edged back into the kitchen and approached the coffeemaker, only to have another scent invade his nostrils. Previously hidden from view by Victoria’s slim frame, a teapot sat on the counter, a canister of Russian Caravan beside it.
“You are making tea?”
His surprise teased her smile. “Of course. I drink it all the time. Your sister can’t start the day without it.”
Mesmerized, he watched as she went through the time-honored ritual. She poured a splash of the zavarka, or tea concentrate, into a cup from a small teapot that looked vaguely familiar, then added hot water and a spoonful of jam.
His heart thrummed violently. It was how he used to take it as a child, following the lead of his mother.
“You don’t drink tea anymore?” she asked. “Alexei had to dig this teapot out of storage for me.”
“When I moved to Canada, I got into the habit of drinking coffee.” He couldn’t avert his eyes from the spoon as she stirred the jam into it. “I am surprised you would take this piece of Russian culture back with you to America.”
“I wanted to . . . stay connected to that part of my life in some way.” She coughed slightly. “You used to like your tea with raspberry jam. I asked Alexei to buy a jar just in case.”
Irked at her transparent efforts to curry favor, he snapped, “Why are you making Mia breakfast anyway? She’s well enough to get up.” Well enough to travel, too, yet he was in no hurry to shove them out the door. He liked having Mia around, even if she came with the baggage of Victoria.
His mother smiled serenely, and the remembrance of how she used to grace him with that sunshine was a sharp, stabbing ray of light.
“I like to spoil her,” she said. “Soon she’ll be at college, and I won’t have a chance.”
Already close to college age and he had just found her. Would his sister still want to know him once she had made a life for herself elsewhere? That made him think of Isobel again, who was in such a hurry to leave him for the next world. These women.
“Where is Alexei?”
“He went to the store.” She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.
“What? Speak.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t parted company with him.”
Vadim leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. “He has always been loyal to my father.”
“Yes, but your father isn’t around anymore, and you are perfectly capable of looking after yourself.”
He eyed her speculatively. “It is good to have an assistant, one who will not gossip to the tabloids about my personal life. The last one I had simpered and made googly eyes at me all the time. And I do pay him well.”
Her blue eyes watched, searing him once more. “You seem upset.”
A stupid statement. His arched eyebrow let her know this.
“More so than just your usual annoyance with my presence,” she teased. How wonderful that she could joke about it. What progress they had made!
He shrugged. “Isobel has set out on her mission of self-destruction today.”
She mouthed ah. Back to stirring the tea. “Perhaps you should support her. Not everything has to be so black and white, does it?”
People in the wrong always said that. Vadim knew exactly who was right here.
Before he could argue his point, Victoria coughed hard, her hand reaching for the counter in support.
In a flash, he cupped her arms. “You are ill?”
“Just a sore throat. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You have the flu.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. Another day or two, and Mia will be well enough to travel.”
At which time Victoria would be worse. This was his life now, the family reunion that refused to end.
“Off to bed with your tea. I’ll take our invalid her breakfast.”
“Vadim, there’s no need. I have to walk Gordie Howe and—”
“I will walk the little dog with big shits. Do not argue with me. Why must all the women in my life argue with me?”
She smiled, a wobbly curve of her lips that appeared to come apart around the edges. The image she projected as he peered down at her was so frail, so vulnerable, almost deserving of his pity. Of his affection.
Only then did he realize that he was touching her for the first time in seventeen years. He dropped his hands.
Her expression clouded over. “I don’t want you to get sick.”
As if that was the reason he had recoiled.
“Go to bed. I will take care of everything.”