TWENTY-NINE
The mood in the owners’ box was somber, each of the Chase sisters lost in her thoughts. Their future as the only woman-owned NHL franchise was on thin ice. (Bam!) Anything less than a win tonight would finish the team’s season and their rule of the Rebels with it.
Isobel’s phone buzzed with a message from Mia in New York.
What’s wrong with him? It’s like he’s forgotten how to play hockey.
Halfway through the second period, the Rebels were down two-zero. Nothing was connecting, their moves sloppy, the pressure getting to them.
Mia had texted Isobel yesterday to say that Vadim visited them in New York and had reconciled with his mother. It did her heart good to know he’d made strides in their relationship, and Isobel was hopeful this would free up his game.
Not so far. One of her U-12s would be more effective than Vadim Petrov on that ice. He just couldn’t seem to get it together. None of them could. It was like Vadim was the bellwether, and as Petrov goes, so goes the team.
She slid a glance toward her sisters. Harper had a death grip on the armrest, while Violet was staring at Dante, her expression unreadable. He caught her looking and held up his hands in a gesture of what? Isobel wondered what was going on between those two.
Dante turned to Isobel. “Look, I’m going to voice something that no one else apparently has the guts to say aloud. You need to go down there and tell your boyfriend to get his stick out of his ass and start earning the shit ton of money we are paying him.”
“He’s not my—he’s not the only player on the ice, Dante.”
“No, but he’s the only one playing like he’s stuck in a fucking Siberian labor camp. He’s a mood player. Always has been. And right now, he’s in a bad mood.”
This was true—and he wasn’t the only one. Everyone was staring at her with doomsday expressions.
“What the hell am I supposed to do about it?”
Dante threw his hands up, displaying a lot more Italianness than his buttoned-up persona would have hinted at. “Oh, I don’t know. Be his coach.”
“I quit, remember?”
“I unaccept your resignation.”
“This can’t be fixed with coaching.”
Violet snorted. “Yeah, why should he listen to you anyway? You don’t have two brain cells to rub together.” This snarky statement focused the attention of the box’s participants on the baby in the family. “Well, she doesn’t. Probably hit with too many pucks like all those idiots out there.”
Harper and Dante shared a Mom and Dad are curious glance. “What’s going on here?” Harper asked.
“Nothing,” both Isobel and Violet muttered, like the eight-year-olds they’d reverted to, before returning to ignoring each other.
Harper smiled thinly at Dante. “Do you mind giving us a minute?”
“If it fixes the Shitfest on Ice, then not at all.”
He stepped outside, leaving Harper to divide a look between her two younger sisters. “What’s happened?”
Neither of them said a word.
“One of you had better speak, or I’m going to start emptying all the wine from the owners’ box bar in the sink, starting with Violet’s favorite Malbec.”
Violet pointed at Isobel. “This crazy bitch tried out for the Games and is mad at Vadim because he threatened to shame Team USA in the media if they let her play.”
Harper’s mouth fell open. “Really? Did you actually make the team?”
“I would have. Except for Vadim sticking his big Russian nose in and talking to Coach Lindhoff.”
“I’m sorry, Isobel,” Harper said, touching her arm. “That must have really hurt.”
“It—it did.”
Violet shook her head, a sneer on her lips. “You people. This sport has brainwashed you into thinking your lives are nothing without it. How can you be okay with this, Harper? She could have died.”
“This is her life, Vi.”
Isobel’s chest filled with gratitude. Harper was nothing but a boatload of surprises lately. “Thank you.”
“And Vadim really should have tried to persuade her without talking to the coach behind her back.”
“Yes, he should have,” Isobel agreed, not that she was persuadable, but Harper was checking all the right boxes. This is how family supports each other, Violet.
“Not that it would have made a damn bit of difference, because she’s always been stuck in the same cycle as me, wanting Dad’s approval.”
“Exactly—wait, what?” Isobel stared at Harper. “That’s not what this is about. I’m playing hockey for me. Sure, Dad would have wanted me to take any chance I could, but that’s not the issue here.”
“What is the issue, Iz?” Violet asked with enough sarcasm to fell an elephant.
“The issue is Vadim thinking he can call the shots about my life and career. I know neither of you think that’s kosher!”
Harper crossed her arms. “I think there are extenuating circumstances, Isobel. This man saw you crash on that ice. He saw that blade hit your skull, the blood pooling around your head.” Harper seemed to shiver, her cheeks draining of all color, and her next words were barely above a whisper. “He saw you almost die.”
Isobel shifted in her seat. Examined her nails. Sniffed. “On TV.”
Harper shook her head. “Not on TV. He was in the arena with everyone else. That’s not easy to forget, especially for a man in love.”
No, no, that wasn’t true. It didn’t happen like that. When she asked him if he’d seen the game, his answer was one of distance. He’d never said he was there in the flesh.
Something lurched in her chest. Unlocked in her brain. Still, her mind refused to go the distance. “He—he wasn’t there. He would have told me. Later.”
Harper continued as if Isobel hadn’t spoken. “I’d never seen Dad so upset. The man wanted to murder everyone—the doctors, the nurses, the coaches. And Vadim. He was there in the emergency room right after the accident, and then the next day he came to see you. Dad ran into him in your room.” She looked off in the distance, her mind returning to that horrific time. “I arrived to find Dad telling him to beat it. It was pretty clear there was bad blood between them.”
Isobel had thought she’d imagined that. Imagined him.
Bella, I am here. Wake up.
Only one person called her Bella. Only one person. Vadim had come to see her in the hospital.
“Did you talk to him back then? To Vadim?”
Harper inhaled deeply, thinking back to this other lifetime. “Not the second time I saw him, but the first night—right after we found out you were going to be okay, but you were still in a medically induced coma—he approached me in the waiting room. It was pretty crazy with all the press and your teammates, but Vadim was there, the Russian stare of doom cutting through it all. He came up to me and asked, ‘She will live?’ I mean, super dramatic. I nodded, and it was like this tiny sliver of misery dropped off him. But he still looked . . .” She hesitated.
Isobel’s heart was beating triple time. “He still looked what?”
“Like he was suffering. Like he was deeply wounded, but I put it down to his being, y’know, Russian. Then I saw him one more time the next day in your room when Dad was threatening to sic security on him.”
“He was at the game,” Isobel said, not wanting to dare credit his presence to anything more than a passing interest, but knowing it was more. This was Vadim. The man was too passionate for passing interests. “Oh, God.”
She stood and headed for the window that looked out over the rink, empty now during the last break. Her stomach was spinning, her head in a fog of confusion. Inevitably, her fingers reached for her scar like a talisman.
It had ruined her life. Built her up. Brought her here.
To him.
“He came to see me play and then—then—I heard him while I was under. He spoke to me.” Lately she’d been dreaming about it, dismissing it as inconsequential when she would wake. She turned back to her sisters. “I thought it was my imagination, but, Harper, he was there.”
Harper nodded, her eyes glossy. “I thought you knew. When we traded him in, I assumed you two had history, but you were being a total pro. Ignoring it in typical Chase fashion.”
Violet stepped in and gripped Isobel’s arms. “I know you’re scared of what you’re feeling for him. That he’ll turn out like Clifford or every other hockey douche bag, but you can’t assume they’re all the same.”
No. Vadim Petrov was a man without equal. But that didn’t excuse his most recent behavior, did it? And how would she get over her resentment at this and her jealousy over everything else?
“He screwed up my chance to win gold.”
Harper squeezed her hand. “He did it because he loves you. And if I’d known about it, I would have done the exact same thing. Because I love you, too.” Wet eyed, she divided an intent look between Isobel and Violet, stopping on the most recent addition to this crazy fucking family. “After your cancer diagnosis, you decided that you’d take control from here on out. Live life on your own terms. The year of the V, right?” On getting Violet’s nod, she went on. “And it took me a while to figure out that letting Dad run my ambitions down along with one bad experience with an ex should not be enough to keep me in a rut. I had to break this cycle and become the captain of my own fate. We all do.
“You’re probably not going to play competitively again, Isobel. Neither are you going to be a coach for the Rebels. In fact, after tonight, the Rebels as we know it might be no more. Times are turbulent, and it’s tough to figure out where you fit in. But I’ll tell you where you belong. Here, with us.” She shot a glance at Violet, who was suddenly finding a thread on the carpet fascinating. “And that goes for you, too, Vasquez. Even if we lose the game tonight and the Rebels’ strings are no longer ours to pull, this shouldn’t be what drives us apart. Not when it’s brought us together.”
Violet sniffed. “You fucking bitch, Harper. I’m only sticking around this hellhole if you get me a photo of Remy’s dick for my files. And not a sleepy peen shot, either.”
They all laughed, grateful for anything to cut through the tension.
Reminded of her cavalier disregard for her sister’s feelings, Isobel threw her arms around Violet. “I’m sorry I scared you. I wasn’t thinking of how this would affect anyone else. I didn’t realize that we’d reached this point.” Where her sisters and one steel-eyed Russian meant more to her than going for gold.
Her younger sister hugged her back. “You pull a stunt again like that, and I will cut you.”
Isobel could only nod at one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her.
“So let me get this straight.” Violet held up her hand and started a count. “In prehistoric times, Petrov took your virginity and ‘forgot’ to give you an orgasm.”
Harper’s mouth dropped open. “Uh, what?”
“Try to keep up, Harper.” Violet continued, “He got chased off the property by Cliffie-boy wielding a hockey stick. Then a few years later, he shows up at your big game and sneaks into your hospital room to coma-stalk you even though he knows the maniac with the stick is probably looking to finish the ass-whuppin’. Two months ago, he’s traded in, finally makes up for the lost orgasms big time, but then shoots himself in the dick by going behind your back and ruining your chance at golden glory.” She punctuated the recap with a smartass grin. “Have I missed anything?”
Isobel gave a teary-eyed nod of acknowledgment of how crazy it all was.
“He’s kind of dramatic.”
“You couldn’t make this shit up. Hell, Dante’s not wrong. This family is a soap opera looking for a daytime network slot.”
Harper gave Isobel a wobbly smile. “I think you have somewhere to be, sis.”
Oh boy. There came a time in every girl’s life when she needed to take a leap of faith. Isobel had always thought there would be ice under her feet when she landed. Not this time. This time, she was jumping into the air, but her fall would be broken—she hoped—by the arms of a man.
Vadim Petrov, czar of her heart.
Hell, the third period would be starting any minute. “I wish we had a closet of knee pads up here,” she said as she headed toward the door.
“Why?” Violet asked.
“Because when a girl has to grovel, she likes to do it with protection.”