SEVEN
Isobel looked out over the crowd of eager faces in her U-12s group, each masked behind a visor. The Hockey for Everyone foundation was a charity that focused on inspiring interest in the sport in disadvantaged youth. Hockey wasn’t cheap, between the club dues, the gear, and the money to fund trips to play other teams. Getting kids involved at a young age without shifting a considerable burden to their parents was what this was all about. Isobel gave her time to the foundation as a consultant and came in and coached once a week at the hockey club in Bridgeport on Chicago’s South Side.
It sure was nice to hang with pupils who cared for her opinion.
Once baseball season started, she’d likely lose them to warmer weather, but giving them a chance to do something that fostered physical exercise, teamwork, and competitive spirit was worth any amount of her time.
“Today we’re going to work on penalty shots. Miguel, you good with starting in goal?”
The bright-eyed twelve-year-old skated a couple of feet forward. With the extra padding of goalie gear, he was practically swimming in it, but he’d stood out when she first started with the group. Small for his age, he’d picked up skating like a natural and knew all about net coverage from every angle.
“Yes, Coach Chase.”
She liked the sound of that. “Now head on over to the goal. Marcus?” She sought one of her other goalies, a kid who had hated the idea of being a goaltender when he started. When she’d explained that the goalie was the most important player, he came around. “Marcus, after ten shots on goal, you’ll switch out with Miguel. The rest of you will line up and hit the puck after I drop it on the line.”
“Even the defenders?” This question came from Jessica, one of three girls in the club. Isobel was hopeful they could recruit more, but for now Jess, Natasha, and Gabriella were representing the girls.
“Yep, even the defenders. You never know when you’ll have a shot, so you need to practice as well.”
Isobel skated to the line while the kids formed a line a few feet back. Once Miguel was set up in goal, she dropped the first puck and skated out of the way. Natasha glided up and gave it a tap. Too weak, and Miguel had no problem deflecting it. During the first round of fifteen shots—the number of kids in class today—Isobel watched, noting each player’s attempt and how it might improve. On the second round, she offered observations. Harder. Aim for the five-hole. Try a feint.
By the time twenty minutes of penalty drills were over, each of them had scored at least twice. It did her heart good to see the joy on their faces as that puck slid below the tender’s body.
“Okay, that was great, guys. Everyone help with picking up the pucks and then go hit the locker rooms.”
As Isobel gathered pucks, Gabby skated over with Natasha. They nudged each other, clearly building up to say something.
“What’s up, ladies?”
“We were wondering . . .” Natasha started, and looked to Gabby for help.
“Do you know Vadim Petrov?” Gabby blushed, and then launched into giggles, which set Natasha off into her own gigglefest.
“Yeah, I do. In fact, I’m giving him a few lessons right now.”
“You’re his coach?” Gabby’s eyes widened in admiration, and Isobel felt a little warm bathing in it. “Is he as cute close up as he is in the underwear commercials?”
More cute. A hundred times more cute. Not only that, but every time I’m with him, I revert to your age. Since when did twelve-year-olds have crushes on dangerous, unsuitable men like Vadim Petrov?
“Sorry to burst your bubble, guys, but a lot of that is airbrushing. In fact, he’s got wrinkles. Pimples, too.”
The girls’ faces crumpled in disappointment. Get used to it, ladies. Men will do nothing but. A couple of the boys hovered nearby, listening in, and now Jordan, one of her centers, skated closer.
“So he’s okay with a woman coach?” There was a touch of challenge in it.
“Well, Jordan, he’s okay with a coach. I don’t think the fact I’m a woman has anything to do with it.”
“Do you think he might be able to visit?” Gabby asked, her eyes bright with visions of hot, albeit wrinkled and pimpled, Russians. “It’d be great to have a real hockey player showing us some stuff.”
Chopped liver right here, apparently.
“I’ll see what I can do. Now off you go, your parents will be waiting.”
The kids skated off, bubbling with excitement that a “real” player might make an appearance. Le sigh. She sat on the bench, trying not to resent Vadim or Moretti or her injury, thinking about what the hell she was doing with her life. A few minutes passed and a new group of kids came on the ice, the thirteen- to fourteen-year-olds in the bantam class. She looked up as a big set of thighs entered her field of vision.
“Hey, Isobel.”
“Hey, Jax. How’s it going?”
“Not bad.” The older kids’ coach, Jackson Callaghan, brother of Rebels right-winger Ford, once had a promising career laid out before him. A car crash over ten years ago ended his dream, but in the last few months he’d taken over as the head coach for the junior club. “How’s my dickhead of a brother doing?”
“Pretty good. Holding the first line together.”
Jax gave a subtle chin nod to the bench beside her. She displayed her palm, and he took a seat.
“So, other than running a pro hockey team and teaching Petrov how not to be a Russian asshole, what are you up to these days?”
She laughed. She didn’t know Jax all that well, but she liked his blunt approach.
“Just assessing all my options. Jobs. Men. Sandwiches.”
“Oh yeah? Got some good stuff in the works?”
“Chicken and cheddar from Potbelly’s. Then I’m thinking college coaching or back to the minors.”
He nodded, then jerked upright and shouted out to a couple of boys on the far side of the rink. “No checking during warm-up!” The troublemakers parted and headed back into innocuous figure eights.
Jax sat again. “How’s the fund-raiser coming along?”
In a few weeks, they would host a glitzy gala to funnel more money into the Hockey for Everyone coffers. They chatted a little about it, but Isobel’s mind was still stuck on her various career dilemmas. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“If you had a chance to play pro, even if it was just one night, would you take it?”
“Without hesitation.”
“Even if it meant you risked reinjury or worse?”
“I’d skate toward that faster than my kids inhale Gino’s deep-dish.” He cocked his head. “You got another shot, Isobel?”
“Maybe.”
He stood and did a quick pirouette on his skates to face her. “What did Gretzky say? You miss a hundred percent of the shots you never take.”
Yep, that’s what he’d said. The Great One could always be relied upon to steer a girl true.
Vadim held the phone up to his ear, determined to listen closely and read between the lines.
“Hello,” a sleepy, sexy voice said. A little Gallic irritation in it, too.
“Bonjour, kotyonok. You are still asleep?”
“Vadim,” she replied in that French purr he had adored for a week while Marceline was in Quebec for business late last year. “It’s 6 a.m. in Paris. Of course I’m still asleep.”
He heard her fumble and then the telltale click and expelling of smoke. She had hid her habit in Quebec, but there had always been that faint trace in her hair, on her clothes. Not like Isobel, who smelled like flowers.
He shook his head, conscious of his mission.
“I hope this isn’t a bad time.” He didn’t really care, but that was her cue for her to remove herself to privacy if she had someone in her bed.
“It is never a bad time for you, Vadim. I have a flight to London in four hours, which should give us plenty of time to—”
“Not today, kotyonok,” he said with a grimace. “I am calling to ask you something. It is . . . delicate.”
“Mon Dieu, you have some disease!”
“No, not at all.” He always used condoms. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps a woman—Isobel—did not get the full impact because he was encased in rubber. Or perhaps he was grasping at straws.
There was nothing for it but to spit it out.
“When we were together, did you come?”
A slight hesitancy. “Did I—what?”
“Orgasm, Marceline. I believed you did, but I wanted to be sure.”
Silence.
“Marceline?”
“Oui, Vadim, I am still here.” Her voice was now tinged with Continental amusement. “I am trying to understand. Are you writing a memoir?”
He sighed. This was the reaction of the two women he had already called tonight. Everyone wanted to understand his rationale. Was it not a perfectly valid query?
“No. I am just doing some research . . . on behalf of a friend.”
“Hmm.”
He hurried on. “I have my own techniques and I wondered if there was something you liked that I could tell him.” Nothing had ever sounded more stupid exiting his mouth.
He heard her sharp intake of breath as she dragged on the cigarette. “Vadim, our time together was wonderful. But sometimes a woman is too tired and it makes things easier, non?”
“Makes what easier?”
“The male hurt feelings. Their egos, so fragile.”
She talked about men as if he wasn’t a member of this sensitive species who needed to be shielded from realities. He could interpret this as an insult or as a sneaky French way of giving him the information he wanted. Knowing Marceline, it was both.
“And when a woman is tired?” he prompted.
“Or not in the mood or feeling pressured to perform for any number of reasons, she must decide if her lover’s sulking is something she wants to endure.”
Vadim’s head pounded. He wished he hadn’t called. He wished he hadn’t heard a word about that conversation from Shay. He wished he’d never slept with Iso—no, he didn’t wish that. Of all the things he wished for, that was not one of them.
“So you would fake an orgasm to avoid a man’s pouting.”
She laughed, low and cruel.
“I have, but not with you, Vadim. We had a wonderful time together in Quebec, n’est-ce pas? I will be in Chicago for business soon. Perhaps we can get together?”
“Sure.” His mind was trying to wrap itself around what she had just said. Why tell him the secret thoughts of women and orgasms if this didn’t apply to him? Was she speaking in hypotheticals or trying to hint that his sexual skills were subpar? Yet she wanted to see him again—and he knew she wouldn’t be visiting so he could act as tour guide around the Windy City.
On balance, he had to conclude that he’d delivered the orgasms she was looking for. Vadim Petrov didn’t have a problem. Other men had problems—and some women, too, if Marceline’s catalog of excuses on behalf of the sisterhood was to be believed.
“I should let you get ready for your flight, Marceline. Au revoir, kotyonok, and merci.”
He ended the call, assured that he had absolutely nothing to worry about.