TWELVE
Isobel ran into Harper as her older sister was leaving Dante’s room.
“What happened?” she demanded. Harper’s text message had merely said: Shay and Petrov are off the roster. Fight in hotel bar.
Harper sighed. “Dante and I walked into the bar on the tail end of an argument. Bren and Remy were pulling the two of them apart, and then it was full-scale omertà.” Mob code of silence. “As far as we can tell, no one filmed it, though there were a few civilians in the vicinity.”
Isobel knotted her hands into fists. “We know Shay’s a loudmouthed blowhard. He probably started this. Whatever this is.” She looked over Harper’s shoulder at Dante’s closed door. “I need to talk to Dante. He can’t suspend Petrov, not after all the work he put in. We need him on the ice.”
Harper grimaced. “Our GM wants to set an example. Zero tolerance. And neither of us holds out much hope of this not getting out and back to the commissioner.”
The NHL loved the fights on the ice—the big ratings proved it—but anything that might tarnish the rep of the league outside of the officially approved violence was a big no-no.
“This is total bullshit, Harper. Vadim has to play.”
Blood boiling, Isobel moved forward, their GM her goal, only to have her sister grip her elbow and steer her away toward the elevator. That petite stature hid the strength of an Amazon.
“Let’s see how it looks tomorrow,” Harper said. “If no footage goes up overnight on TMZ, then we’ll have a better case for getting him reinstated.”
Isobel had to concede that Harper might have a point. She’d always been savvy about tricky situations like these. “What did Remy say happened?”
“That it was just a spat over who was playing on the first line tomorrow.”
“And you believe that?”
Harper shrugged.
“For God’s sake, Harper, what’s the point of having a hockey player boyfriend if he can’t give you the inside track?”
“You know how they are, the bro code and all that. And to be honest, I’d rather Remy kept those relationships intact. The team has to know that everything team related goes in the man vault and that Remy won’t be spilling the beans during nightly pillow talk. Of course, I have my suspicions. Knowing how Shay feels about women running the team, I’m guessing he probably made some crack about you, and Vadim came to your defense.”
Isobel could feel her face flushing. Sure she wanted to know the origins of their fight, but not if it meant finding out she was the reason. “That’s ridiculous. Vadim would never risk his place on the team over a dumb insult to me. It means everything to him to be back in play.”
Harper pressed the elevator button. “Sometimes men don’t always think about what’s best for them.” A not-unsubtle reference to Remy’s uncharacteristic pounding of an opposing team’s player during a game less than two months ago. All in defense of his woman when the bighearted Cajun found out this piece-of-shit player had once hit Harper.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and Petrov?”
Isobel crossed her arms. Uncrossed them because that looked defensive. Then recrossed them because she should have stuck with her first instinct.
“There’s nothing going on.”
“How well did you know him before?”
Blessedly, the elevator arrived and opened, but alas, no occupants appeared to postpone this awkward conversation.
“Not that well.” Which was true. “Dad wanted me to practice with the team before I headed to college, and he was there that summer for a few weeks.”
“And?” They stepped inside, and Isobel pressed the button for the next floor, where they were both staying.
“And nothing. I went to Harvard. He signed a contract with the KHL.” After he popped my cherry and dear old Dad made sure he couldn’t work in the USA. “And now he’s here. On the team. And should be playing.”
They got off at their floor and walked toward their rooms. Harper’s door came first.
“Isobel, a man defending you is very seductive. Believe me, I understand.”
“You don’t even know that’s what it is.”
Harper looked pitying. “Remy didn’t say it, but he didn’t not say it, either. And your defense of Vadim seems to be more than just the defense of a coach.”
Isobel’s heart knocked around her chest, checking in for visits with all the other organs. Harper’s holier-than-thou attitude was really too much. “It’s okay for you to get involved with a player, but the rest of us have to act like saints?”
Agh, shut it! She didn’t want to get involved with Vadim. She didn’t—hell, she had no idea what she wanted.
Wrong. Right this second, she wanted him to explain why he had put everything he—they—had worked for in jeopardy. It wasn’t the first time, either. There was that near fight with Shay in the Empty Net two weeks ago, which Harper and Dante obviously didn’t know about. Omertà, indeed.
“It’s different for you, Isobel,” Harper said with compassion, which made Isobel fidget. “Your position is more precarious because the coaches have such a big say in who gets to play. If you want to be taken seriously in this business, as a coach in this business, don’t get involved with Petrov.”
She shoved her key card into the door lock. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Let’s pray that your player’s fists aren’t all over the news.”
With that, she closed the door behind her, leaving a fuming Isobel on the other side. Only she wasn’t entirely sure whom she was mad at.
Isobel marched down the hallway of the Hyatt’s sixteenth floor until she reached the door at the end. Fist up, she pulled her punch at the last moment, letting her knuckles fall with a light rap instead of a hard knock. Discretion was required. Come to think of it, why the hell was Vadim on this floor anyway? The rest of the team and staff were on eleven and twelve.
She didn’t have time to dwell on that because a chorus of yapping barks greeted her knock before the door was opened by a dark-haired beauty dressed as a schoolgirl.
Or what a horny businessman might imagine as his schoolgirl fantasy. The pleated skirt of her Catholic school uniform showed way more skin than the nuns could possibly allow, and she may as well have abandoned her striped tie for all the actual tying it was doing.
Isobel flicked a glance at the door number again.
“I think I have the wrong—”
The woman squealed really, really loudly. She lunged for Isobel and with a surprisingly strong grip, dragged her into the room.
“You’re Isobel Chase!”
“Uh, yep. That’s me.”
She slammed the door shut. “I’m a huge fan!”
“Of what?”
“Of you!” She shook her head in disbelief. Right there with ya.
The woman opened her mouth again and Isobel braced for more exclamation points, but whatever she was about to say was replaced by ferocious barking. A toast-colored Pomeranian stepped between them, protecting his owner. Pretty funny, really. Poms always thought they were much larger than their actual size, and this one obviously considered himself to be a Great Dane.
“Gordie Howe! Isobel’s not a threat.” The woman bent and picked up the dog, named after one of the most successful hockey players to ever grace the ice. Calling a cute, yappy pom after Gordie was its own sort of genius.
Before Isobel could comment, the greeter was back to talking Isobel’s ear off.
“Oh my God, that goal you scored to knock out Mother Russia in the semifinals in Sochi—wow!” She leaned in, secrets in a pair of mischievous blue eyes. “Yeah. Traitor. That’s me.”
Isobel pinned on a smile. After all, isn’t that what you do when a crazy person likes you? Confused because Loco Chick was (a) dressed like a schoolgirl, (b) speaking in an American accent, yet (c) referring to Mother Russia, Isobel was at a loss as to how to proceed.
Oh right. “Is Vadim around?”
A voice boomed from far away—super far away, actually, because Isobel now noticed they were in a very luxurious suite. Vadim Petrov might be a vodka-fronting, underwear-hawking, hockey-playing superstar, but the Rebels org was sure as shit not paying for this upgrade.
“Mia!” Followed by a stream of Russian that sounded angry, but then streams of Russian invariably sounded angry. Except when they included hot, sexy panting against a woman’s very receptive ear.
He emerged, wearing low-slung black sweatpants, a hot glower, and nothing else. As if she wasn’t already pissed enough at him.
He held a phone away from his ear. “Why are you still here, Mia? Alexei is expecting you down in the lobby.” On seeing Isobel, his frown deepened. “Ah, I am in trouble.”
“Damn straight, Russian.”
He said something to the young woman in his native tongue.
She rolled her eyes. “English, bro. You know I don’t understand that BS.”
Bro? He’d never mentioned a sister, and there was nothing in his files, but Isobel saw the resemblance now. Aristocratic cheekbones, startling blue eyes, and a runway model–tall frame. God help the men of New York.
His sister—Mia—divided a look between them, revealing one more way they were alike: a stubborn set to her chin. “I’d like to stay and talk to Isobel.”
“It’s eleven o’clock at night, and you have school tomorrow. Now say good-bye.” With another unintelligible mutter into his phone, he hung up.
“I’m Mia, by the way,” his sister, who Isobel was now realizing was an actual schoolgirl, said to Isobel. “Mia Wa—” With a nervous lip bite, she shot a glance at Vadim. On seeing his mouth hitch in a half smile and the decline of his head in a regal nod, she turned back to Isobel, her chin raised in—pride? “Mia Wallace. It’s so great to meet you. Honestly.”
Isobel’s body prickled with awareness. That name—why did she know it?
“Wait. Mia Wallace? Hockey phenom Mia Wallace?”
A blush suffused her features, making her appear younger, and she smiled shyly. “I play.” Her bashful glance slid to her brother. “Nowhere near as good as Vadim, of course.”
Everyone in hockey had heard of Mia Wallace, touted as the next big thing. She was the full package, already being scouted by NCAA (though that was technically against the rules because she was too young at sixteen), the women’s league, and companies for big sponsorships. She also had a backstory the media loved: a cancer diagnosis from which she’d rebounded just over a year ago. This girl was one tough cookie.
Mia squeezed Isobel’s arm. “We are so excited Vadim’s going to be playing again. He said he has you to thank.”
“He did, did he?”
“Oh yeah. He’s your biggest fan. After me.”
Vadim’s scowl pronounced him to be most definitely not Isobel’s biggest fan. “Mia, Alexei is waiting.”
“ ’Kay, I’ll see you at the game tomorrow.”
Oh dear. That sounded like she didn’t know about his suspension. Maybe Isobel could soften the blow a little. “If you’re going to the game, you could hang in the visitors’ box with us. If you’d like.”
The girl looked like every wish she’d ever had was coming true tonight. “Really? Vadim, can I?”
“If Isobel has invited you, of course you can. But only if you leave now and get some sleep. Your mother—” He snatched back the words. “Time to go, Mia.”
Placing the dog down, the girl rolled her eyes and threw her arms around Vadim’s neck, murmuring something that melted the ice in his eyes. Then Mia gave Isobel the same treatment. Not knowing what to do with this hug from a stranger, Isobel patted the girl on the shoulder, all while Vadim stared at the two of them intently.
“Say bye-bye, Gordie Howe!” Mia picked up the dog.
“Good-bye and good riddance, little-dog-with-big-shits,” Vadim deadpanned.
Mia laughed her head off. “I’ll text you tomorrow, bro! See ya, Isobel!” And then she was gone, with the puppy yapping the exit music.
Isobel couldn’t help her smile. “So that’s where all the Petrov personality ended up.”
Pride ruled his expression. “She is . . . spirited.”
“She adores you, and the feeling’s obviously mutual.”
Vadim threaded his arms over his chest. “This is relatively new for us. We only connected a short time ago.”
There was a story here. “I’ve heard of her, but I didn’t know she was related to you.”
“Neither did I,” he said bitterly. “My mother chose not to notify my father that he had another child. She moved to New York after she left us and only informed me of Mia’s existence after he died eighteen months ago.”
Wow, that sucked—and it clearly still stung Vadim. Pain radiated off him in waves. But she knew him well enough to recognize her pity would go unappreciated, so she skirted the edges of the problem. “I’m surprised her connection to you hasn’t gotten out.”
“It is for her protection. With her talent and youth, she is under a lot of pressure. If the media knows of her relationship to me, it may affect her performance. I think that you, of all people, understand this.”
She did. Because she was the daughter of an NHL legend, the media had been relentless about her future from the moment she hit puberty and started skating rings around grown men. To be honest, the real pressure had come from her father, and she had to admit there were times when she would have gladly gone incognito. A few weeks without the Chase name would have done wonders for her sanity as a teenager.
“Should I be concerned why my coach is visiting me in my hotel room late at night?”
“You know why I’m here, Vadim. What the hell were you thinking? A fight? In public? With Shay?”
Through her outburst, he stood stock-still in those erotically thin sweats that shaped everything and somehow drew more attention to his assets than if he’d been naked. The trim waist, narrow hips, muscular thighs. Yeah, yeah, she’d deliberately skipped over that all-important area, because if she gave it a moment’s thought, she was going to get trapped in his dick-sand. But thinking about not going there was the one thing guaranteed to turn her eyes into magnets. Perhaps a quick glance to prove her mettle . . .
No fair! The drape of the cotton was like a perfect kiss to that intriguing bulge. Was that a cock at rest or was something more interesting going on there?
She refocused. This is not why you are here. You are here because all the work you put in was for nothing.
While the energy between them zip-zap-zinged, Vadim watched her carefully. He seemed to be holding himself at bay, that jaguar on his shoulder a fitting proxy, his fists on his hips in the least casual arms akimbo she’d ever seen. Every muscle in his body strained, and not for the first time, Isobel wondered what it would be like to have this fully mature beast—not the callow youth of before—take her hard.
“You’ve been cut from tomorrow’s game. Maybe more games.”
“It was worth it.”
He had not just said that. She threw up her hands, glad to have another outlet for the inappropriate lust rippling through every nerve ending.
“You’d better tell me what started this, because I swear to God, Vadim—”
“What? You’ll tickle it out of me?”
She blinked. What a weird, funny, distinctly un-Vadim thing to say.
“Don’t get cute with me!”
He sighed, back to his default setting of all drama. “Isobel, you should leave now. We both know that we do not do well together in small spaces.”
She cast a theatrical look around the room. “Looks like you’ve got a big enough space right now. Big enough for your giant ego and your dumb muscles and your huge dick!” Don’t talk about his dick. His big, beautiful . . . “You’d better not be expecting the team to pay for this.”
He moved toward her, bringing with him that giant ego and dumb muscles and huge, ahem—she stepped back until her butt met the door.
He placed a hand on the frame beside her cheek. “It would be best if you leave.”
“Not until I get an explanation. I can’t go to Coach and Moretti to get you reinstated without all the facts.”
“I was involved in a fight. I am out of the game. Those are the facts.”
“Just like that? No way. We’ve worked damn hard to get you fit for play, and I sure as hell am not going to accept this. Start at the beginning.”
“The beginning, Bella?” Ruefulness and amusement crossbred on his face. “As is so often the case, it began with a girl. The most fearless girl I have ever met. Skates like the wind, shoots like a sniper, swears like a Russian sailor.”
“Sounds like fucking trouble.”
And that sounded like fucking flirting. Stop flirting with your player.
Before he could make some flirty comment back—though flirting wasn’t really in Vadim’s wheelhouse—she tried to refocus on why she was here. Not because of his chest, or those tattoos, or that freshly showered man scent now tearing down every brick in her walls.
She thought of Harper’s warning. If you want to be taken seriously in this business, as a coach in this business, don’t get involved with Petrov.
Discuss “coach” things. “What did Shay say to set you off?”
“What makes you think he said anything? Perhaps I started it.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He looked thoughtful. “I told him he would get his place back on the line if he worked hard.”
She sighed, relieved.
“After he accused me of sleeping my way onto the roster.”
She pushed back against his oh-my-God-those-pecs-are-unreal chest, needing space to haul air into her lungs. “He accused you of what?”
“It means nothing. If my personal coach were a man, Shay would think of some other insult. Because you are a woman, this is the best the fool can come up with.”
“So you were defending my honor?”
“Actually, Isobel, I was defending my own.” His mouth lifted in a self-deprecating curve, and it broke something open inside of her. Something she hadn’t realized was better busted than cobbled together. “But the defense of yours was a natural by-product.”
Oh, this guy. She knew what he was doing. Trying to put her off so she wouldn’t feel all gooey that he’d come to her defense. It wasn’t working. Her internal organs were a liquefied mess.
As for her vagina? She may as well just get it stamped Property of Vadim Petrov.
“What about the first fight, Vadim? At the Empty Net a few weeks ago? Were you defending your honor then?”
A storm swept across his face. “What do you know of this?”
“Just that you had to be restrained from punching him out. What the hell is going on with you two?”
“As I said, he is a man with idiotic opinions.”
Agreed. “I don’t like you getting into fights, not when we’re so close.” She meant close to putting him back to where he belonged: on the ice before a crowd of twenty thousand screaming fans. But the words hung between them, as heavy as the sexual tension she was drowning in.
Close enough to touch, to kiss, to feel.
Everything.
And that’s what she wanted. Her sister’s caution tried to sound its harsh siren again, but it was overridden by something else Harper had said:
A man defending you is very seductive.
It was, and it wasn’t something Isobel was used to. Not needing anyone was how she’d been raised. Isobel had spent her life following her father’s blueprint.
Your gender is meaningless. You’re as strong as any man on the ice. You don’t need to rely on anyone for a damn thing, especially boys. They’ll only get in your way.
Being groomed for independence was all well and good, but sometimes riding this train solo could be so, so lonely. The solace of Vadim standing up for her, of being there for her even though she hadn’t asked for it, crashed through her.
The physical evidence of his chivalry was darkening with every passing moment. She reached out to touch the bruise on his jaw. “Gotta take care of this pretty face, Russian.”
“I would rather carry this badge.” He leaned into her hand, accepting her comfort. His eyes closed briefly on a gentle sigh, then reopened so fast she wondered if she’d imagined the moment. “This is dangerous, Isobel. If someone saw you come in here, it would not be good.”
“I’m just a coach going down on my player like a ton of bricks.”
“Going down? My English is not perfect, but I believe the phrase is ‘coming down.’ ” His mouth dropped to her lips, and his eyelids fell to half-mast. Meanwhile, something else was rising to full mast. “Or maybe you mean what you said?”
She tried that on for size in her head. I’m just a coach going down on my player. It sounded so wrong, just right, and everything in between.
He was practically on top of her now, his erection pressed against her belly. Yet his words still tried to contradict the biological imperative that had both their bodies in its grip.
“Bella, if you don’t leave now—”
She kissed him before he could finish that ridiculous sentence.