TWENTY-THREE
“Chica, you look hot!”
Isobel handed off her coat to the cloakroom attendant at the Drake Hotel, site of the Hockey for Everyone fund-raiser, and faced Violet, who was shrugging off her jacket.
“I do a lot with this foundation, so I don’t want to look like I just crawled out of a sweaty gym bag.”
Violet passed off her coat and ran a hand through her hair, to which she had recently added purple streaks. With her gleaming skin, emerald eyes, and floral tattoos on her upper arms, she looked so sexy in a red shift dress and thigh-high boots. Dominatrix chic. Isobel didn’t look sexy in the slightest, let alone hot, but she was mildly pleased at how this green dress matched her eyes and draped over her body, giving her curves that were previously nonexistent. With the kitten heels, she wasn’t too tall—though Vadim would always be taller no matter how high her heels.
“The Russian’s going to think you’re totally bangin’.”
Isobel grimaced. “I’m trying to cool that off.” And doing a fantastic job by nagging the guy to talk about his deep, dark problems. Go, me!
“Ladies, lookin’ fine.”
They turned to see Cade, Erik, and Bren walking in, rocking smart suits with ties. Even though the guys wore suits on game days, there was still something about seeing a big hunk of brawn all dressed up that got a girl’s senses a-tingling.
Cade, complimenter in chief, kissed Vi on the cheek and then pulled Isobel in for a hug. “Off the clock, Coach, so just accept my affection.”
Isobel laughed. “If I must. You ready to flash those pearly whites for the children, Alamo?” One of the fun parts of the evening was a bachelor auction with the single players. According to Felicia in Rebels’ PR, anticipation was at a fever pitch, especially as the team had six games left in the regular season and was on the cusp of making the play-offs. Charity events always raised the profile for the team, and getting the Rebels behind this one was great for their image.
Cade grinned big. “As long as some cougar doesn’t expect me to put out on the first date, we should be good.”
Violet was eyeing Bren, who was doing his utmost to ignore her. “Should we expect to see you on the block, Highlander?”
He scowled. “Doubt anyone would be interested.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Violet said, all mischief. “I think I’ll set conditions for my bid. I’d like to see you in a kilt on our date.”
Bren raised his scruffily bearded chin—almost a play-offs beard, which was definitely tempting fate—and held Violet’s gaze. His eyes ran a disapproving arc over her hair, then a not-so-disapproving arc over her body. “Not bloody likely, Ms. Vasquez.”
Her smile was slow, all flirtation. “I bet I could get you to wear one by the time the season is over.”
“How much is this foolish bet worth to you?” His Scottish brogue sounded like he’d just dropped in from a Sean Connery sound-alike convention.
“Hundred bucks,” Violet said.
Bren spoke low, husky. “I don’t need the money, but I’ll think of something in kind.”
That made Violet blush. The tension prickling between the two could have charged every iPhone present. Playing with fire, this girl.
Oblivious to the mating ritual, Erik said, “Let’s go in. I bet they have good canapés.” Their goalie was obsessed with finding his next meal.
Cade held an elbow out for Violet and his other for Isobel. “Yes, I can handle you both, ladies.”
Giggling like schoolgirls, they took the offered arms and walked into the ballroom, which was already jam-packed. No immediate sign of Vadim, however. While Isobel had mentioned it to him a couple of weeks ago, she hadn’t brought it up since. But she wanted to see him, especially as she felt foolish for inserting her Clifford issues into her heart-to-heart with him about his father.
Everyone drifted toward the bar, but Isobel broke away, needing to check her phone. Coach Lindhoff was due to call any day now with news of whether she’d made the team. The restrooms were as good a place as any for privacy, but her phone screen remained frustratingly blank.
On her way out, she stopped short at a surprising sight at the end of the corridor: Cade and Dante, engaged in what looked like a heated conversation.
Well, engaged wasn’t quite right. Cade’s usually easygoing expression was a mask of intensity as he leaned intimately close to Dante. The Rebels’ GM was listening closely, not saying a word. Until something Cade uttered had him responding with a palm flat on Cade’s chest.
The Texan jerked back clumsily, his back crashing against the wall. It shocked her. Isobel would never have thought him homophobic, but it was as if Dante’s touch repulsed him.
Dante stood back, giving Cade space to leave, which he took like a bat out of hell. Alone, Dante did the oddest thing—he touched the wall where Cade’s back had leaned, then curled his hand into a fist. On a deep breath, he raised his gaze and locked it with Isobel’s. The flash of pain on his face faded, but not quickly enough. Didn’t she feel quite the voyeur.
“Isobel.”
“Oh, hey there.” Let’s just pretend I didn’t witness whatever the hell that was. “Surprised to see you here,” she said, moving forward.
“I’m up for anything that makes the organization look good,” he said with a smile. He really had the most gorgeous smile, even when forced. “And I hear you’re being honored with an award.”
The foundation wanted to give her a token for her efforts. All nonsense, really. “Oh, that.”
“No need to underplay it. I know you work hard with those kids, just as I know you did a great job with Petrov. And I understand your skills are already in demand. I’ll have to talk to Coach Calhoun and the rest of the staff, but I think it’s safe to say you’ll have a full-time position next season.”
Isobel nodded, her throat tightening. Two of the Rebels’ defensemen—Cade and Kazinksy—had asked her if she would work with them on their skating skills now that her methods had proven successful. A full-time coaching position; plan B achieved.
But plan A was still a possibility.
“Not worried we’re bucking the status quo too much, Dante?”
“I think the Rebels are just living up to their name. Nothing succeeds like success. In the end, that’s all anyone cares about.” He frowned. “I thought you’d be happier.”
“Still adjusting to the new world order.”
Evidently distracted, he merely nodded. His phone went off in his hand. “Excuse me.” He moved farther down the corridor to answer it.
She left him there, pondering how we always want what we cannot have. Dante appeared to have a crush—or something—on Cade, who as far as Isobel knew was about as het as they came. Nothing but heartbreak down that road.
Back in the ballroom, she did the rounds like a politician. Harper, wearing a strapless black and silver sheath, was doing the same on the other side, and they met in the middle.
“Ever get sick of pretending Dad was awesome?” Harper asked with a fake grin.
“Hey, if the name gets us butts in seats and extra green for the kids.”
“Yeah, I know.” Harper smiled, for real this time, and grasped Isobel’s arms. “You look gorgeous, Iz. Absolutely stunning.”
Isobel tamped down on the part of her psyche that had always craved her sister’s approval. “Just doing my part for the Chase name.”
“What do you think the old coot would say if he could see us now?”
Isobel had no idea. He had been a great player, a good coach, a bad husband, and a demanding father, but she would never claim to have understood him.
She hazarded a guess. “He’d say he knew we could do it all along.”
Harper laughed. “He would! God, he was such a know-it-all asshole.”
“Minou, you talkin’ about me behind my back again?” Remy’s lips grazed Harper’s shoulder. Apparently he had a thing for her shoulders; odes had been composed, according to Harper.
“Well, I see Mac Farnum trying to catch my eye,” Isobel said, and smiled her excuses as she went to meet the foundation head. Five minutes later, she had extracted herself from Mac’s orbit—he’d been trying to persuade her to give his grandson personal coaching lessons—and was skirting the edge of the stage when she felt a tug on her arm. Foxy-fast, she was shanghaied and dragged behind a curtain.
Six feet five inches of built-for-pleasure Russian held her immobile.
“Vadim!”
He pressed two fingers to her lips. “Shush, Bella. Do you want to alert the world?”
She rolled her eyes. “You could have just walked up and said hello out in the open.”
“Then I wouldn’t have been able to do this.” His mouth sought hers, all sweet hunger and sensual rawness. Her lips parted to give him access. The sweep of his tongue, a luxury she couldn’t afford, was divine. She took it anyway because she’d missed him.
Lust. Not a good foundation. But it certainly filled the horny cracks.
“You look like an angel, Bella. A beautiful green angel.”
She clamped her lips shut. Vadim’s usually excellent command of the English language sometimes clashed with his absolute sincerity.
“What’s so funny?”
“A beautiful green angel sounds like an environmental activist.”
He winked. Winked! “We have done good things for the environment, you and I. Sharing showers.”
She gave a solemn nod. “I accept this important role.”
Smiling, he coasted his hands over her hips and molded them to her ass. “I wish you to do something for me. As I will be unable to spend any time with you this evening because when I’m next to you, my cock has a mind of its own, you will have to give me your panties.”
She swallowed. “My panties?”
“Yes, your panties.”
“You can’t be close to me because of your raging erection, so I’m to give you my panties. Not seeing the logic here, Vad.”
“This is why the USA is a failing superpower. You do not make the necessary connections.”
Never get involved with a Russian. “Enlighten me.”
“If your panties are in my pocket, I will know that you are suffering as much as I. Without that slip of fabric between your thighs, your senses will be heightened.” Each word was a seductive thrust of temptation. “That sensitive little pussy of yours will feel naked. It will get wet. It will think about why and will know that I carry your panties around in my pocket.”
Her head fell against his shoulder, her breathing quick and shallow. Oh, God, what was he thinking, saying all these wicked, delicious things?
He wasn’t finished. “Perhaps I will finger them. Perhaps I will slip away to a quiet corner so I can bury my nose in them and smell you.”
Jesus. “Okay, I get the connections.”
His tongue traced the shell of her ear. “I’m not sure you do. Perhaps I will take myself in hand and wrap your panties around my cock while I jerk off. I will have to put my fist in my mouth to muffle the sound of your name on my lips.”
Stop don’t stop. “You’d better dry-clean those puppies before you give ’em back.”
He laughed, a rasp of appreciation against her ear, then he gave the sensitive lobe a gentle nip. “Panties. Now, Bella.”
Feeling heavy with sensation, she looked over her shoulder. All clear. “I need to hold your arm.”
“Better you hold my shoulders.” He fell to his knees, his hands on the backs of her calves. “I like to see you in dresses, Bella. You have beautiful legs.” His hands trailed to the backs of her thighs, and she ransacked her mind, trying to remember what she was wearing.
Something old and gray?
Something new and sexy?
All would be revealed! He hooked a finger in the elastic and pulled. As the panties cleared her thighs, she glanced down. Thank the lingerie gods. A black silk bikini from Addison’s collection.
They pooled at her ankles. She lifted a kitten-heeled foot, but he held it down. “Wait.”
With his palms roving inside her thighs, he moved back up, up, up, until—oh, God—both thumbs stroked her.
She swooned.
“You are wet, Bella.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and everything she adored about him reflected back at her in those crystalline blues.
With eyes never leaving hers, he lifted her skirt. One inch. Two. Total, wicked exposure. His tongue gave one solitary swipe of pleasure over her dripping center. He knelt back on his haunches, his face in ecstasy.
Then he picked up the panties, stood, and put them in his pocket. One lascivious lick along his lower lip completed the torture.
“Are you okay?” he asked, as if what had happened had not just happened.
“No,” she managed to croak out.
“Good.”
He drew back the curtain and sent her out into the crowd.
For five thousand dollars a table, one would expect the food to be better. But then that was probably the point—spend as little on the food as possible so that all the funds could go to charity.
Before the meal, Vadim had mingled with the crowd, signing autographs and fending off women who said he would be their first choice during the bachelor auction later. He didn’t care about the auction, but he would do it for Isobel. During this time, whenever their eyes met, he patted his coat pocket and watched her blush.
Damn, she was beautiful with that color infusing her creamy skin. The taste of her still coated his mouth, and it had taken a Herculean effort on his part to stop after one lick. Tonight they would find a hotel, because when you had relatives in town, it put an unbearable crimp in your sex life.
“Not gonna eat the chicken, Vaddy?” Erik, who had the appetite of a woolly mammoth, eyed Vadim’s barely touched meal. Their goaltender had already eaten Cade’s, not that the usually amiable Texan noticed or cared. He was in a strangely foul mood tonight, barely grunting when spoken to.
Vadim pushed his plate toward Erik. “It’s all yours.”
“Awesome!”
Bren was on his other side, a finger tracing the rim of his water glass, his expression contemplative.
“Okay, there, Captain?”
“Yeah. Just not a big fan of these kinds of events. Reminds me of my ex. She was big on parties and glitz.”
“How are your girls?” Bren had two beautiful daughters who visited once a month from Atlanta for a few days. It was hard on him to be separated from them.
Bren’s face brightened. “Amazing. Though my youngest doesn’t really like her mom’s new boyfriend. Says he’s a Philistine.”
“That’s a big word. How old is your youngest?”
“Almost nine,” he said proudly. “Smart as a whip, and she doesn’t suffer fools gladly. My ex is shacking up with Drew Cassidy. You heard of him?”
The wide receiver for the Atlanta NFL team. “Your wife has a type, then.”
“Ex-wife. And yeah, she does. But she likes a once-a-week athlete versus the NHL schedule. The girls want to live with me, but I’d have to find a nanny, and how is that any better than what they’ve got now?”
Some women were not cut out to be mothers. “A nanny might be an improvement.”
Bren smiled knowingly. “Heard your mom’s in town, along with your sister.”
Vadim sought out Isobel, two tables over. “Yes, it’s not the most ideal situation.”
“It never is. So, you and Isobel, huh?”
“What?” His protective instincts surged. “She is my—” Mine. “—my coach.”
The Scot rubbed his beard. “Sure she is.”
Denial was on the tip of his tongue, but he was saved from having to do so when someone tapped the microphone. A white-haired man on the stage thanked them for their attendance and launched into a spiel about the charity.
“We’ve raised over $420,000 for Hockey for Everyone tonight, including one single donation of $100,000 from the Rebels’ Vadim Petrov.” The crowd erupted in appreciation while Erik elbowed him in the ribs.
“Good work, Vaddy!”
The rest of the table congratulated him, but when Vadim caught Bren’s eye, he saw sly humor.
“Yeah, good work, Vaddy,” the Scotsman said softly.
Unable to resist, Vadim looked over to Isobel, who had an eyebrow raised and a smile on her face. This charity meant a lot to her, so of course he would help, especially as he had wealth beyond what he earned on the ice. One hundred thousand dollars was a drop in the bucket of his millions, but he didn’t want to overdo it in case people would gossip. Which is why he had asked that his name not be mentioned.
In for a ruble . . . He stood to accept the applause and shouted out, “The rest of my teammates will match my donation.” The players might be here to mingle and lend some star power, but there was no reason why they shouldn’t also put their hands in their pockets. They could well afford it.
The room broke into louder applause, even his teammates, who shook their heads at his audaciousness in volunteering their hard-earned cash.
“I will pay out for any of you who are cheapskates,” he said as he retook his seat.
“Before we start the fun with the bachelor auction,” the man on the stage said, prompting several women near the bar to scream their appreciation, “we’d like to take a moment to honor one of Hockey for Everyone’s founding members and an unstinting advocate for the cause of bringing hockey and sports to anyone who wants to play. First, let’s give you a brief recap of her great career.”
A video started up, beginning with footage of Isobel playing as a five-year-old, fearless even then while her father passed pucks to her. Her childhood and teen exploits on the ice were well documented, and the rest Vadim knew because once he had met her, he’d followed every step of her professional life: the glory in NCAA, the silver medal in the Games, the one and only night fulfilling her dream as a hockey pro.
While everyone watched the screen, he watched her as the lights flickered over her face with each milestone. The winning goal against Russia in the semifinals in Sochi (the one time he had actually cheered against his country) right up until the first few minutes of the game in Buffalo.
He had stood in the stands that night, covered with a winter cap, seeking and embracing anonymity. It was her night, and he didn’t want to take away from that.
Lightning fast, she feints left and whips by the Montreal defender, her skates on fire, the puck hers to command. She’s already scored two goals and her team, the Buffalo Betties, is ahead by one. With four minutes left to the second period, another goal would place them in a commanding position. The first win in the new National Women’s Hockey League will likely be hers.
The goaltender spreads, filling the crease, leaving no gaps, except Isobel sees a chink of light. Her hockey IQ is nothing short of phenomenal. She passes left to her winger, moves into position, and when the puck is back on her blade, snipers to the top shelf. A drive of beauty, it will win the game, though she won’t be on the ice when the final buzzer sounds.
This was where the highlight reel ended, but Vadim’s brain picked up the next frames of that fateful night two years ago. Each move, stride, and hit was stamped into his memory.
A minute after that beautiful goal, she’s checked hard by a defender and falls to the unforgiving ice. Her helmet slips off—she’s always liked to wear it loose—and an opposing player is unable to brake in time.
A skate slices through Isobel’s skull like it’s the softest butter.
Blood pools on the ice, and I know. I know this is not a typical rink injury. I know this will end her career.
Possibly her life.
The crowd shoots to its collective feet, everyone in a horrified hush as her teammates and game officials huddle around her.
Too long. She’s been down too long.
I start out of my seat, pushing past the rubbernecking crowd, my mind racing as fast as my heart. If it’s a minor injury, they will bring her through the tunnel, back to the locker rooms, but if it’s as bad as I suspect, she will be in an ambulance before I can make it to the arena’s back area . . .
“You all right, Petrov?”
Vadim took a moment to haul himself back to the present. Bren was eyeing him as if he’d been speaking in his sleep.
“Ya ne znayu.” I do not know.
Thankfully, this video recap ended before the worst moment of her life. But just like him, she was thinking about it. Stark paleness blanked her face as she headed up to the stage. He knew it was the one moment uppermost in her mind.
The moment she lost it all.