TWENTY-EIGHT
Vadim sat on the bench, tying his skates. He put a double knot in one, then looped the end through and triple knotted it. It was unnecessary, but he had been doing it since his KHL days. Hockey players were a superstitious lot.
Dante appeared in the locker room and moved through quietly, speaking a few words to each player. Sometimes he gave a short speech, but before an important game—against a tough opponent, a longtime rival—he preferred to float, aware of the tensions and not wishing to add to them. Tonight was their last shot, the final game in the regular season. Lose now and be ready with the refrain of failed seasons everywhere: there’s always next year.
The big speech was left to Remy, whose gift for rousing the troops was incomparable.
“Well, mes amis, I could say it’s just like any other game but it’s not, n’est-ce pas?”
“Hell, no,” Burnett said, shaking his head.
“I know it’s been tough the last few years. This year has looked a whole lot better. But anyone who thinks we gave it a good shot and better luck next time had better rethink that position. Because this could still happen. We could still happen.”
Murmurs of assent greeted this statement.
Remy looked around, his gaze touching every player in the room. “Now, not to pile on the pressure, but this is my last season in the NHL.”
“No way, Jinx!”
“Fuck me, you’re kidding!”
“Lazy fuckin’ bastard.”
This last observation was from Bren St. James, who, by the looks of that crooked half smile, was not surprised at his friend’s announcement.
Remy let loose a big grin. “Win or lose, I’m retiring to cook, get fat, and make babies.”
Huge guffaws all around tempered the tension. It was no secret that the Cajun craved a family life on retirement and that his jambalaya was a thing of beauty.
“You’ve probably heard this rumor that I’m considered the unluckiest guy in the NHL. When I was traded to this piece-of-shit team, I thought it was just another sign I was cursed. But then a few things happened. We won a few games. We gathered some confidence under our skates. We started to play better. I—” He shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “Well, my life sure changed a whole lot.”
Remy was a man in love, with everything to play for. This, Vadim could appreciate, even if the object of his particular affections was unable to see his point of view. Fine. His anger would power his performance tonight, though this is what he had said for the last two games. Games they had lost.
Remy was still talking. “You all know I had a chance to leave a few months ago. I stayed. I’m here. And now we’re here on the cusp of something we haven’t seen for over fifteen years. A play-off spot. We can do it. We will do it. Bon chance, mes amis. Laissez-nous patiner.” Let’s skate.
They moved out, heading for the tunnel. Just outside the door, Vadim’s heart hammered triple time at the sight of a dark ponytail belonging to a stubborn head bent toward one of the trainers.
Close together, Isobel and Kelly discussed something on her iPad. Always with her charts and assessments. She raised her eyes just as he walked by. He saw something soft in there, something he could work with. She did not hate him completely, and this knowledge was like a bird soaring in his chest.
“Whore,” he heard in a loud mutter behind him.
Vadim closed his eyes briefly. Shay, you have chosen the wrong night to test me.
He turned and fisted the asshole’s jersey, yielding a satisfying yelp of pain. Leon Shay was dressed, but he had not been playing well and would likely not make a shift tonight. Less ice time fueled doubts and dimmed confidence—a vicious cycle. But these doubts did not change the man’s personality, which was as ugly as it had been on the first day Vadim met him seven weeks ago.
“What did I tell you about speaking, Shay?”
“Screw you, Petrov! Everyone knows you’ve got your spot because of your history with one of the team’s owners.”
All the players had stopped now. Isobel watched, her color rising, her eyes alive with concern.
Cade stepped in. “Shay, you’d best apologize.”
“Fuck that! I’m not saying anything that isn’t true. She might not be banging him now, but she sure as hell banged him all those years ago.” Shay glared at Vadim’s woman, and then dared to speak to her. “Should we take a number, Coach Chase? Make sure you rate us on all aspects of our performance?”
“Shut up, Shay,” Cade spat out with a guilty look at Isobel.
Coach Calhoun moved in, pretty quickly for a man of his lumbering bulk. “Get out on the ice. Now!”
When no one moved, Isobel took a step forward, only to be checked with a hand on her arm by Kelly. Vadim knew it was harmless—he knew his Bella would not have moved on so quickly—but he still saw only a red blur in front of his face.
His fist clenched. He raised it, but in half a heartbeat, found it covered by Isobel’s hand.
“Don’t, Vadim. Tonight’s too important.”
“Do not protect him. He has wanted this for a long time.”
But before they could come to blows, both Dante and Bren stepped in, ensuring that Vadim would have to go through several hundred pounds of pure muscle before his fist connected with its ultimate destination: Shay’s jaw.
Luck was on this dúrak’s side today.
Dante divided a look between the two men. “Anyone care to explain?”
No one was inclined to answer.
Coach Calhoun spoke up. “Petrov, Shay, if either of you would like to continue this conversation, then consider yourselves on an indefinite suspension that will extend into next season. That’s not to say it won’t already be happening, of course. We are in an all-or-nothing game situation, and you shitheads want to put all that in jeopardy over what?” He flicked a glance to the what in the room: Isobel herself. Returning his disgusted attention to the entire team, he yelled, “Get out for warm-up now!”
“A word, if you don’t mind, Coach Chase,” Dante said to Isobel.
The team headed out, except for Vadim. He couldn’t leave Isobel, not after what Shay had said.
“Bella.” He grasped her arm and pulled her aside, making it clear that they had a deeper relationship than player-coach. He no longer cared.
“Does everyone know about what happened between us years ago?” She lowered her voice, though this was pointless. “And now?”
“The before . . . yes, they know. The now, they may have guessed.” The perceptive stares of Dante and Kelly affirmed this.
She balled her fists and held them to her temples. “How did they know about before?” She waved a hand at him. “Because the only other person who knew was Violet. And you.”
“I was not the one who overheard your conversation with your sister. It was Shay. That is the source of our enmity, among other things.”
“So he told you and—”
“Cade, Erik, and Ford.”
She shook her head in resignation. “Well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose. It’s just one more shit brick in this giant, steaming wall of shit.”
“I’ll fix this with Moretti. You won’t lose your job—”
Her expression was all pity for him. “Vadim, stop trying to protect me. Stop trying to fix my life. In fact, just quit while you’re behind.”
And then she left him, with him feeling lower than a dog.
What a dumbass she’d been. She had assumed that when Vad and Shay had clashed previously, it was all innuendo and trash talking, but apparently it was her own big mouth that had set this in motion. Now her inability to keep her greedy mitts off a player she was coaching had washed her up, once and for all.
Dante stood at the door to the locker room. On catching her eye, he pushed it open and jerked his chin. “Let’s talk.”
Kelly placed a hand on her arm. “Isobel, are you okay?”
She smiled at him, this kind man who had always been far too nice for her. “I’m fine, Kelly. Thanks, and—I’m sorry.”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand, his nod speaking his thoughts. They weren’t a couple, but she had intimated that they might be one day, which was less than classy of her.
She walked into the locker room, her heart in her stomach. She respected Dante and she didn’t want to disappoint him.
“If it’s any consolation,” she started, “we’re not together anymore.” It was certainly no consolation to her.
“You want a full-time coaching position, Isobel,” he said as he paced the locker room with hands on hips. “You want the men to respect you. But how the hell can you get that if you’re playing favorites? It’s bad enough Harper’s with DuPre.”
“Oh really?” Harper walked in, twitching her nose at the aroma unique to locker rooms. “We really don’t need your judgmental commentary, Dante. I think you’ll agree that my relationship with Remy has brought a lot of positive media attention to the team.”
Dante rubbed his chin. “This isn’t a soap opera, Harper. This is a professional sports franchise that’s in danger of collapsing under the weight of its owners’ egos.”
Harper caught Isobel’s eye. “Did he just call us fat?”
Isobel battled a smile. She had never loved Harper more than she did right this minute, but she couldn’t let big sis fight her battles.
“Dante,” Isobel said. “Believe me when I say I didn’t want this to happen. I made a mistake and I’m fully prepared to accept the consequences. Effective immediately, I’m resigning my consultant position and I won’t be throwing my hat into the ring for a coaching job.”
“Isobel, take a moment to think about this,” Harper said.
“I have. Dante’s right. I’ll never get the players’ respect after this. And once it gets out, which it will, I’ll have a hard time getting respect from any organization at the pro level.”
Dante looked uncomfortable, as if his wish had been granted, but the genie had a rotten case of BO.
“Dante, you don’t want to do this,” Harper said, unexpected steel in her voice. They stared at each other for a good five seconds, an entire conversation conducted under Isobel’s nose. And then the oddest thing occurred.
Dante blinked first.
“We don’t need to make the decision now,” he said quietly, but there was no missing the strain of anger in it.
Mind made up, Isobel held out her hand. “Thanks for giving me a chance.”
He stared at it for a second, then shook it. “You did great work with Petrov, Isobel. You’re the reason we have a shot at the play-offs.”
She knew that. She’d find comfort in it later.
With one last glare at Harper, he left to head up to the owners’ box. They still had a game to win for that wild card spot.
Harper fisted her hips and paced a few steps. “Iz, are you sure? We could force Dante’s hand here. Believe me, he’s got a few skeletons knocking around in the closet with those Armani suits.”
Isobel smiled grimly at her sister. “I’m not going to play dirty, Harper. That’s more your style. Dante is right. Hell, you warned me, and I still went ahead anyway. As for the coaching, I’ve been trying to force a square peg into a round hole. I don’t fit.”
Harper looked hurt, but then her expression softened. “You want to know my proudest moment?”
Oh, God. They were doing this now? “Acquiring Remy DuPre?”
Harper snorted. “No, it was the night my baby sister won silver at the Games.”
“You watched?”
“Of course I watched! Dad couldn’t go because he’d broken his ankle—”
“What the hell was he doing up on that roof anyway?”
She waved a hand. “There was no telling him what to do. So I went over to his place to watch the final with him. He’d just broken up with his latest girlfriend. Remember Cassie-Casey-Callie—”
“Caliope.”
“That’s right, Caliope! He was all by himself. And maybe I wanted to punish myself a little.”
Isobel grasped her sister’s hand. “I know it hurt.” No need to explain aloud what “it” was. She meant Clifford’s obvious preference for Isobel over Harper, his dismissal of Harper’s ambitions, his failure to support her after a Rebels player had punched her in this very locker room.
Violet was right. The guy was a complete asshole.
“I think we were both hurt in different ways. He expected so much of you, Isobel, while expecting nothing of me. Equally heavy burdens. But that night, when you sank that first goal against Canada—wow! Dad couldn’t jump so I jumped for him. For you.”
Isobel would have loved to see that. Instead, Harper had kept this to herself, for her own reasons. They’d wasted so much time.
“Then I went back to being a jealous shrew,” Harper added, tongue firmly in cheek. She sighed, her eyes soft and shiny. “But, Isobel, if this is what you want, coaching, the Rebels—we’ll make it happen. I’ll make it happen.”
Isobel believed her, but it wasn’t what she wanted. Not like this. She had to stay through the play-offs, assuming they got there. Then . . . who knew?
No Games. No pros. No coaching.
No Vadim.
Oh, that hurt like a mother. “I’ll be okay, Harper,” she lied. “We’ll be okay.”