So Over You

by Kate Meader

  Isobel shot a look at Harper. She’d always assumed Harper would fight tooth and nail to become sole owner of the team. Since when had she considered that the two of them might jointly run operations?

  Dante shook his head, a rueful smile creasing his handsome features. “So now I’m part of the inner circle.” It sounded like he’d rather have been left outside in ignorant bliss. “Who else knows?”

  Isobel turned to Harper. “Have you told Remy?”

  “Last night. I didn’t tell him sooner because . . . well, because.”

  Because she didn’t want to use the will’s stipulation to force him to stay with her. A month ago, Remy had a chance to trade out to a team with a better shot at making it to the postseason. Telling him about the “play-offs or bust” requirement would have muddled his decision, throwing pity for Harper’s predicament into the mix. She would never trust that he’d remained because he loved her.

  Dante nodded. “Anyone else in the org? Other players? I’ve noticed Violet is pretty close to some of them.” His disapproval was obvious.

  “She knows better,” Isobel said quickly. “We don’t want it getting out, and the players don’t need the extra pressure. The only other person who knows is Kenneth Bailey.” The Rebels’ lawyer.

  Dante pushed off from the desk and walked to the window.

  With Dante’s back to them, Isobel turned to Harper for a check-in on how she thought the conversation might be going. Harper’s head was cocked as she blatantly ogled their GM.

  Stop it, Isobel frowned.

  You stop it, Harper frowned right back.

  That made them both giggle, which drew Dante’s querying look.

  “Uh, sorry,” she muttered. “Just nervous.” And concerned we might have a suit for sexual harassment as well as breach of contract on our hands.

  “I did wonder at some of your decisions before I came on board. They seemed rather rash.”

  Harper placed her coffee cup and saucer on the desk. “We needed to hit the ground running. Throwing everything at it and bringing on a veteran like Remy, particularly as the team was rudderless for a while, was the best strategy.”

  “St. James seems to be in better shape,” Dante said, referring to their team captain, Bren, who was coming off a rehab stint for alcoholism that had left the team bereft of strong leadership for a while. “I’d have a case for saying this materially changes the terms of my contract.”

  “Or you could see it as the challenge it is,” Isobel said. “Whatever happens, your contract is good for three years. Any new owner would have to buy it out, so you’re not going to be disadvantaged financially.”

  “That’s not really the point, is it, Isobel?”

  No, it wasn’t. If they didn’t do well, and he was kicked to the curb by a new owner, it would be harder for him to move laterally to another organization. Not without a solid season behind him. They’d effectively tied his career to the fortunes of the team.

  Welcome to the world of pro sports management.

  “If you need time to think about it . . .” Harper trailed off.

  As he viewed his surroundings, Isobel would have given her left tit to know what was going on inside that handsome head of his. She imagined him taking in the corner office, thrilling at his achievement in rising so far—and cursing the Chase sisters for throwing this wrench in the works.

  After several interminable seconds, he faced them, his mouth set in determination. “Looks like I’m an honorary Chase for the next four months.”

  Phew!

  They chitchatted about tomorrow’s home game against Dallas, the tension of the earlier conversation dissipating with every minute they discussed this sport they each loved in a different way. As they made to leave, Dante called Isobel back. “Could I have a word?”

  Harper smiled at them both, said her good-byes, and left.

  Dante’s demeanor was all business. “Why weren’t you with Petrov this morning before the team practice? Too busy recovering from a Vesna hangover?”

  Either the man had spies on the staff or he read TMZ on his way to work.

  “He had a late night, so I let him sleep in,” she lied. “Extra practice starts tomorrow.” At his cutting look, she added, “Let me take care of Petrov in my way. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but athletes are sensitive and need careful handling. Russians, especially.” Vadim, especially. “Pushing him will only make him dig his skates in.”

  Dante held her gaze for a long beat. “I know you want a full-time coaching job with a pro team, Isobel. With this team. We’re making history here, but there’s only so much change we can inflict on the team and fans in one year.”

  Sure, breaking glass ceilings all over the place was totally awesome, but Isobel had to wonder if she’d shot her own ambitions in the foot by agreeing to hire someone with so much on the line as their GM.

  “In other words, the history-making quota for this year has been fulfilled?”

  Dante smiled in sympathy. “In a manner of speaking. When I came on board, you knew my requirements. I understand that as one-third owner of the team, you’re technically my boss, but I won’t bow to internal pressure to make you a regular coach. However, if you can turn Petrov’s game around, then that’d put you in pole position for a full-time gig next season.” He sighed heavily. “If I’d been here in January, I wouldn’t have brought him on. He’s temperamental. Mercurial. But you and your sisters made that call—among others—and I have to work with it. Petrov’s slowed down since his knee injury last year. He needs a lot of work to get him up to speed on the ice, and I think you can do it. This isn’t a pity appointment, Isobel. It’s a vital compromise.”

  She understood. She’d spent much of her life understanding.

  Dante pulled out a pocket watch from his pin-striped vest. It should have screamed “pretentious,” but instead it yelled “hot.” The guy was really too much. “I want daily updates. I’ll leave it to you to figure out a schedule that works around regular practice and games.”

  “Not to mention his numerous sponsorship commitments and nightclub appearances.”

  For the first time, Dante looked animated. “He’ll certainly bring in a different kind of fan.”

  “Women with big . . . signs.”

  He chuckled. “What’s a hockey game without glitter-covered marriage proposals and offers to incubate a star player’s spawn held up against the Plexi? Some of his fans may be proof that evolution can go in reverse, but as long as they’re putting their money where their über fandom is, then we’ll take it.”

  Higher revenues meant more funds to spend on better players, which led to results and championships and butts in seats, thus feeding the hamster wheel of NHL success. She just hoped the Chase sisters would be around to see their hard work come to fruition.

  “I can remake him a star on the ice as well as on billboards,” she said.

  “I know, Isobel. I have every faith in you.”

  If only the Russian felt the same way.

  Vadim straightened his spine and ignored the pain in his knee. It wouldn’t do to have his new teammates think today’s practice had been tough on him. There was a time when he could have gone for hours, running drills, taking shots, pounding the ice. Such a time would come again. Until then, he would put his best skate forward and ensure that no one saw his elderly-man winces.

  Twenty-seven years old and already in decline.

  “Where y’at, man?”

  Vadim looked up from his spot on the bench to find Remy DuPre, one of the Rebels’ centers, looming over him. He cast a glance left, then right before answering with, “I am here. In the locker room.”

  DuPre laughed. “Sorry, Petrov, I meant how ya doin’? That’s just how we say it back in my hometown. You were skating pretty hard out there.”

  Vadim assessed the man before him. Tall, but then most hockey players were. Thirty-five years old, but he held himself well for a man of his age. Most important was the fact that he was in a
relationship with Harper Chase, the oldest of the Chase sisters. The headlines had died down during the last month, but Vadim had to wonder at the judgment of any man who would place himself in such a position with a woman. Sleeping with the woman who paid his salary and controlled his career? Not the most strategic of moves.

  After a few days in Chicago, Vadim was still trying to work out the team dynamic. DuPre acted like the captain, though that official honor belonged to Bren St. James, a dour Scotsman who would give a gulag commander a run for his money. There didn’t appear to be any tension between DuPre and St. James; their command of the team was close to co-rule.

  “I’m fine,” Vadim said, squaring his shoulders. “I expected the practice would go longer. That’s how it was in Quebec.”

  “Oh yeah?” DuPre sat on the bench and started to unlace his skates. “Guess we decided to take it easy on ya, seein’ as how it’s your first week and all.”

  Easy? Sure they did. They were testing his limits, how far to push him, whether he needed special handling because he was fighting his way back to full fitness. This was good. Vadim didn’t miss his old team, where in truth he was not used to the best of his abilities. When trading him in, Coach Calhoun had said they planned to use him on the left wing. Usually, right-handers such as Vadim were invariably placed on the right, but Coach and the team had recognized that his natural fit was his off side. Such intuition gave Vadim confidence that the Rebels knew what they were doing—at least in the coaching arena.

  As for the rest of the Rebels organization . . . a team owned and run by women. Vadim had no problem with women running things, though he would prefer they did not fraternize off the ice, especially in his world of clubs and girls. He had invited his new teammates to the Vesna vodka PR event, as it was the sociable thing to do, and apparently Cade Burnett, the Texan defenseman, was friendly with Violet, the youngest Chase daughter. Vadim had known he would run into Isobel eventually, but he had not expected the judgment in her moss-colored eyes or the snark on her crimson lips. This was not the innocent adoration of before, a fresh virgin looking to be schooled in the ways of desire. This was . . . different.

  Mostly, he had not expected his body’s reaction to being so close to her after all these years. Theirs had been a teenage infatuation, a singular blend of uncontrollable hormones, fortunate proximity, and the knowledge that her father would not have approved. If it had not ended so abruptly, it would have fizzled quickly. Why, all these years later, would this woman—the source of such frustration, the one who had thwarted his career—make his body hard and greedy?

  After last night’s sparring at the club, he had left agitated and alone. That buzz he felt talking to Isobel had sizzled through his veins, keeping him awake and, much to his annoyance, horny. There was no good reason why Isobel Chase should turn him on in any way. Once, she tempted him, yes, but his tastes had changed.

  He had not slept well, the pain in his knee bothersome. Not because he had allowed a few women to perch on it so he could fulfill his obligations to his sponsor! But at the end of the day, it liked to remind him of his failure. In the mornings, too. After slipping in and out of a restless sleep, he had hauled his body to the shower, hoping the steam would loosen it up. It took longer than he expected and delayed the start of his day.

  Slight unease panged his chest at not showing up for Isobel’s “special” practice session this morning. But if she thought he was blowing her off, it would not be the worst message to send. Five minutes in her presence, and she was sneaking under his skin again. Insidious, immature, infuriating Isobel. He was doing her a service, really. Any extended time with her would likely result in him throttling the minx.

  His cell phone buzzed with a message from Mia.

  Are you off IR yet?

  Injury reserve. He ignored his sister’s text. A mistake, as silence brought a torrent of questions.

  Are you getting enough sleep?

  Is the pain in your knee sharp or more like an ache?

  Did you hook up with that blonde at the club last night? Or the skanky redhead? The TMZ footage was kind of grainy.

  Chyort! His thumbs hovered over his phone in threat, though apparently not enough of one to make the messages stop.

  Looks like they have cooties. All of them.

  Then: Czar of Pleasure. LOL.

  He groaned at the silly nickname. A woman had told a story to the gutter press about his prowess between the sheets, and a legend was born. He didn’t recall this woman—if he had slept with a tenth of the women who claimed to have slept with him, he would probably be on his syphilitic deathbed—but he accepted the name because, why not?

  “You’re in demand, Petrov,” Remy said with a grin as the texts continued to vomit onto his screen.

  “My sister. She’s a pain in my ass.”

  Remy looked sympathetic. “Got four of ’em myself. Worst affliction known to man.”

  Vadim wouldn’t phrase it quite so dramatically. “She is young, and we don’t know each other well. A recent connection.” Not for the first time, the reason behind this sent his blood into a boil.

  Remy rubbed the unshaven scruff on his chin. “Sounds complicated. I’m here to be your priest, should you need it.”

  Leon Shay, a left-winger like Vadim, strode out of the shower and into the locker room as naked as a babe. Not that Vadim minded—at this point, he’d seen more naked men than women—but there was something about the way Shay swaggered about with his swinging dick that bothered him. Territory marking, undoubtedly, given that Vadim was faster and had been brought in to shore up the left side. There was room for them both, but the better Vadim played, the less ice time Shay would get.

  Which is probably why this ass placed a foot up on the bench with his cock at Vadim’s eye level. On a derisive sniff, he swiped at his legs with a towel.

  Catching Vadim’s eye, Remy quirked his lips, affirming this was not Vadim’s imagination. A minute later, Remy headed into the shower while Vadim answered his sister’s text: I am in practice. So should you be.

  “Gotta be careful around him,” Shay said, pulling deodorant out of his gym bag.

  Vadim arced his gaze over the locker room and, realizing that there was no one else here, peered up at Shay.

  “Careful?”

  “He’s banging Harper Chase, so he may as well be spying on the team.”

  Ah. Looked like he had discovered the team’s malcontent. Every locker room suffered one. Vadim waited for more on this rather entertaining brand of paranoia.

  “Women running a hockey team.” Shay shook his head at what he evidently thought was a great personal insult. “Just be careful what you say, because there’s a direct line from here to Chase Manor.”

  Vadim found this both highly amusing and likely beneficial for future gamesmanship.

  “If you refrain from treasonous statements, then you have nothing to worry about.”

  Shay stopped in the act of pulling his briefs on. “That’s not how it works outside of Russia, Petrov. Here in the good ole US of A, we like to think our speech is not regulated or restricted in any way. And you know what else? Fuck me if Isobel Chase isn’t angling for a coaching spot. Putting a fox in the henhouse, that’s what that is.”

  “Are you saying this locker room is like a henhouse? Filled with hens?”

  “It’s a metaphor, Petrov. A metaphor for trouble.”

  Vadim pretended to consider this lesson in the English idiom. “Da. Trouble.”

  The team whiner regarded Vadim with suspicion, trying to determine if he was being made fun of. Vadim kept his expression perfectly vacant, not unlike a pose for one of his underwear photo shoots.

  Encouraged by the silence, Shay continued his grumbling. “Women thinking they can run and coach men’s hockey. And now a fag for a GM—”

  He cut off as Cade Burnett strode into the locker room, wearing a towel and a wide grin. Vadim liked the cheerful Texan, who was having a good season.

  “Petrov
, trainer’s ready for you,” Burnett said.

  About time. Vadim could have insisted his knee injury required he go first for the postpractice rubdown, but unlike these soft Americans, he was fine with waiting. Even if the stiffness in his knee would produce the kind of pain he’d need his best poker face to endure.

  As for what else he might need a poker face, Vadim knew he’d have to watch Leon Shay carefully. Inside, his blood boiled at the notion this man thought Isobel could not coach men’s hockey. She was a champion! So perhaps Vadim had hinted as much to Isobel herself last night, but her gender was not why he had a problem with her as a coach. With their complicated history, the present would become only more tangled if they were to spend time together.

  His life was already far too knotty to indulge her ambition.

  He stood, relieved that his knee elected not to betray him at this moment.

  Shay pointed at him. “Just remember what I said, Petrov. Watch who you talk to.”

  Yes, Shay. Yes, I will.

  Isobel headed toward the locker room at the Rebels’ practice facility, determined to have it out with the uncooperative Mr. Petrov. Turning a corner, she bumped into a tower of unyielding muscle, fronted by a snarl that had her almost recoiling. But that had nothing on how Isobel’s name on Leon Shay’s lips skeeved her the hell out.

  “Miz Chase.”

  Yep, shower for one. Dry off. Then another.

  “Shay.”

  This guy hadn’t exactly welcomed the ownership changes at the top. He was built in the mold of her father, a man’s man with distinct tendencies toward assholery. While Shay never came right out and complained, his position was clear: women should not be running hockey teams. Now he blocked her path, actually and figuratively.

  “Got places to be,” she said, and while she could have gone around him, she elected to wait until he moved around her. Better keep that intimidation shit for the ice, dickhead.

  With one last sneer, he rounded her and walked away.