So Over You

by Kate Meader

  Score one for Clifford Chase.

  No one had excited her on and off the ice the way the Russian had all those years ago. She was determined to have him. She was determined that he’d be the one to relieve her of her pesky virginity, consequences be damned.

  Catch me if you can, Vadim.

  She’d spent that summer driving Vadim wild. So strange to think there was a time when she had this power over him. Over any man, because whatever magic she once had, it was lost. And now the power she possessed was different, the power to make or break his career in the NHL.

  He needed her help. And he needed to get over the past so they could get on with the future.

  FOUR

  Not many experiences compared to hanging in the bathroom stall at a local bar with sweats around your ankles, listening to a brood of chickies drool over the man who made you a woman and did a pretty crappy job of it.

  “I can’t believe he’s even hotter close up.”

  “Gah, I know! Those cheekbones look like they were—”

  Forged over hell’s anvil? Carved by the devil’s scimitar?

  “Made for me to lick them!”

  Or that.

  The Empty Net was a local bar near the Rebels’ arena in Riverbrook, so it was a natural watering hole for anyone associated with the team. The guys liked it because they didn’t get hassled, though since the Rebels’ fortunes had improved this season, a few more puck bunnies had wandered in from their hutches to visit. The energy was different tonight, for sure. Usually the ambient noise was AC/DC, pinball pings, and bro banter, but tonight’s soundtrack was the clicking of heels, nails-on-a-chalkboard giggles, and “do you have a martini menu?”

  Russian hockey royalty was in the house—and it had brought an entourage.

  After leaving the bathroom and the gaggle busy adjusting their plumage for maximum impact, Isobel plopped down onto one of the bar stools farthest away from where Vadim and the rest of the team had set up court. None of them had spotted her, and she preferred to keep it that way. She didn’t usually spend much time here, but the team’s head trainer, Kelly Townsend, had sent her a text asking if she could meet up.

  Before she could order a drink, her phone screen lit up with a smiling face: Jen Grady, her former roomie at Harvard and now the captain of the Montreal Mavens. They caught up every few weeks.

  “Hey, Jenny-Benny, what’s up?”

  “Not much. How’s the noggin?”

  “Oh, still attached.” Isobel moved on quickly, as she always did whenever her injury came up. “I expect you must be busy getting ready for Worlds.” The Women’s World Hockey Championship was starting in a couple of weeks. Her heart clamped at the thought of how she was excluded.

  “Yeah, drills till I can drill no more. So a little birdie told me you’re goin’ at it with Petrov.”

  “What?”

  “You’re his personal coach. Nice work if you can get it, girl.”

  Her gaze wandered to the other side of the bar. If the woman wearing a vagina-length skirt—uh, in February—would only move a smidge . . .

  “Yeah, well, he’s a Russian pain in my ass who doesn’t appreciate when I’m trying to kick his.”

  “Hey, don’t kick that perfect ass too hard. We’ve all seen The Body Issue.”

  Apparently, Vadim Petrov’s flawless melons were destined to haunt her like the Ghost of Mistakes Past. “Airbrushed, my friend. Let me list his faults.”

  “Don’t! I’d rather live in ignorant, Petrov-is-perfect bliss.” She coughed slightly, changing the tone. “So Lindhoff was asking about you.”

  Stefan Lindhoff was the assistant coach for Team USA during Sochi and had just been appointed as head coach for the next Games in Pyeongchang, one year out.

  “He was wondering if you were going to try out for the Games,” Jen said. “Said he left a couple of messages for you.”

  He had, and she’d ignored them. “It’s been so busy here with the team and my love life. You wouldn’t believe how much action I’m not getting.”

  Jen laughed dutifully. “Look, I know the doctors told you to take it easy. You went through an unbelievably hard time after your injury, but did you ever think that maybe you have more competitive play left in you? Coach will likely use Worlds to fill most of the spots, but they’re still holding tryouts in Plymouth in a month. Coach wants to see you there. I want to see you there. If you think you’re ready, of course.”

  Ready? It was one thing to skate demonstration crossovers for unappreciative pros. Getting back out there in the hurly-burly of battle was another thing entirely.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll give him a call. Find out if he’s really interested or if you’re just projecting.”

  “You wound me, bitch.” Then, softer: “Think about it, Iz. We have silver, but let’s go for gold. One last shot.”

  On ending the call, Isobel considered Jen’s words. She’d assumed her playing career was over, but apparently a little flattery and the idea she might be wanted were powerful incentives. God only knew she wasn’t wanted by Vadim Petrov.

  Tina, one of the Empty Net bartenders, caught her eye. Beer would aid in her decision-making process.

  “Hey, T, how about a Blue Moon IPA?”

  “I got that,” she heard behind her.

  Kelly sat on the seat beside her, smelling freshly showered and wearing a blue button-down shirt tucked into dark wash jeans. His light brown hair was slicked back with hair product.

  “Oh, hey!” Isobel said, discombobulated at how well he cleaned up. She’d never seen him in anything but sweats. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Why? Because you’re paying my salary?”

  “No.” Yes. “Because I—” She stopped. Restarted. “I was going to make some feminist case for buying my own drinks.”

  “You can buy the next round,” he said. “I’m all for feminism where alcohol is concerned.”

  “Fair ’nough.”

  He ordered the same and waited until the glass was set before him, then raised it and clinked against hers. “To the Rebels.”

  She murmured her agreement and took a sip. “So what’s on your mind?”

  His brow crimped. Crap, that had sounded rude, jumping right into the fray like that. Small talk was so not her forte.

  “Well, I figured with you coaching Petrov, it might be good to draw up a plan so we’re all on the same page about his program.”

  Warmth infused Isobel. So far, the Rebels’ coaching staff had been cool toward her, understandable given her ownership credentials. But she’d been a well-respected coach before she was a franchise owner, and that was where her heart lay. Or at least where it had landed.

  One last shot, Iz.

  “That’d be great.”

  For the next thirty minutes they chatted about the player on the other side of the bar. It might seem odd, but really they were discussing him as an asset. A mass of muscles and tendons and bones. All his value lay in ensuring that his body and mind were in tip-top condition.

  So color Isobel surprised when halfway through the second round—which she had bought—Kelly let loose this gem: “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”

  A mouthful of beer went down the wrong way, and Kelly had to clap her on the back while she recovered.

  “Not terribly encouraging,” he said.

  “Sorry, it was just—did you ask me out on a date?” She thought about his hair product, his button-down shirt, and how nice he smelled. “Is this a date?”

  He held up his hands. “No! I’d never try to pull a fast one like that.”

  She gave him the once-over.

  “I mean . . . I put on a nice shirt. Best foot forward and all.”

  “Wish I’d gotten the memo,” she muttered, feeling extra unsexy in her sweats.

  “I’ve been watching you.” The hands went up again. “Not in a creepy way, but I’ve noticed you since you arrived a few months ago. I can see you’re in a tough position, wanting to have m
ore say in the coaching, but not wanting to step on any toes. I really admire you, Isobel, and all you’ve accomplished.”

  More flattery. Don’t let anyone ever tell you it wasn’t the ultimate aphrodisiac. Hell, she could see why Petrov banged every woman who told him “you’re the best, Vadim! The absolute best!”

  “You’d like to have dinner with me?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Slightly less than a resounding vote of confidence, but he was the first guy to show a genuine interest in her in forever. Didn’t couples meet at work all the time? Couples, you know, those people who shared similar interests, strove for common goals, had things to talk about at the end of their day. And he’d initiated it, so it wouldn’t look like she was using her boss persona to force an employee into dating her. It might be weird, but it also might be . . . perfect!

  Was she attracted to him? Almost as tall as her, he had nice normal hair and warm hazel eyes and he was clearly in shape. Not the bull shoulders of—do not go there—the athlete type she was used to meeting, but still toned and strong. His smile didn’t give her flutters exactly, but that kind of attraction was so overrated.

  She allowed herself to go there after all. She had thought sex would be awesome with the Czar of Pleasure, and look how that worked out. Fireworks happened to other people. She wanted a guy she could talk to.

  “Yes, let’s do dinner.” And then she laughed coquettishly to affirm her interest.

  He smiled. In response, her heart gave a little jump. Nothing earth-shattering, but enough to know she wasn’t completely denying herself the hearts-aflutter experience. She was sure of it.

  Standing, he kissed her on the cheek. “See you at work tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve got to go, but this has been really . . .”

  “Nice?”

  “Yeah.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “Nice.”

  Vadim wished he hadn’t come out tonight.

  Sure, the company was pleasant enough. The players were an enjoyable bunch, not afraid to poke fun or rake him across the coals, especially about his attractiveness to the opposite sex. Several women had positioned themselves kitty-corner to their table, throwing seductive glances his way. He had wondered aloud to his teammates why they didn’t approach, and Erik Jorgenson, their Swedish goalie, said that they rarely did. That in fact very few women frequented this bar at all.

  Vadim didn’t understand this. Hockey players were considered gods in Canada—there were hockey fans, and then there were French Canadian hockey fans—and all of Vadim’s non-ice time in Quebec had been spent holding women at arm’s length. It was tiring, but a necessary part of the job. Sometimes his arm slipped and let one or two through. These were the perks. They worked hard on the ice so they could play harder off it.

  “Looks like word’s out that the Czar of Pleasure is here,” Cade said.

  This again. If he was feeling more like himself, he would have raised his head and given one of the women—the pretty blonde with the high-pitched giggle and the rack that didn’t grow naturally—the nod to join them. But he was not feeling like himself. He was feeling irritated, and it was because of Isobel Chase.

  Insidious Isobel, yet again sneaking into his marrow. He refused to admit she might have a point about how his injury had affected his motion. Even if she did have a point—which she did not—how was he supposed to focus on skating drills when she was gliding around in those pants, stretched taut over her delicious curves? Coaches should not have heart-shaped asses! She had grown into her body, for sure. Now she was the complete package: grace, strength, sexiness, and a smart mouth he found infuriatingly attractive.

  And she expected him not to be distracted by these things.

  “Why don’t you give them the look?” Erik blew his fair hair out of his eyes and nudged Vadim, gesturing at the women huddled like a she-wolf pack at the bar.

  “The look?”

  “Yeah, the one from your underwear commercial,” Cade said. He lifted his chin and squinted while doing something odd with his lips.

  “What’s that?”

  “The look, dude. Like Zoolander but infused with Siberian charm.”

  “Dúrak,” Vadim muttered. Idiot.

  Ford Callaghan, the Rebels’ right-winger, who looked like a Viking, laughed. “Alamo, I think you just got insulted in Ruski.”

  The amiable Texan held up his fingers and started a count, then stopped in the middle of his left hand. “That’s eight languages now. Gotta love the internationalism of the National Hockey League.”

  Everyone laughed, even Vadim, who admired a man who didn’t easily take offense.

  Leon Shay approached the table, a bottle of beer in his hand. “Ladies,” he said as he took a seat. His eyes met Vadim’s, and something like a challenge passed between them. Interesting.

  “Well, would you look at that.” Cade shifted his gaze to the bar, inviting them all to follow. “Looks like Little Miss Coach has got herself a boyfriend.”

  Little Miss what? Isobel sat at the far end of the bar in the shadows. Vadim had not seen her walk in, but now he realized there was another entrance on the other side. How long had she been here? And what was this nonsense about a new boyfriend? It was only Kelly, the trainer.

  A laugh fluttered from her direction, soft, cock teasing, and instantly recognizable. Isobel laughed like that when she was flirting.

  Vadim’s chest contracted, catching up with the conclusion his balls had already made.

  “They are just work colleagues.”

  “No, something’s going on there,” Cade said. “She’s doing the lean.”

  “The lean?”

  Cade inclined his head until he was mere inches from Vadim’s nose. “The lean, my friend.”

  Vadim returned to looking at Isobel doing the lean. And laughing. Then Kelly leaned in—everyone was leaning—to kiss her. Only on the cheek, but that was surely unnecessary between work colleagues.

  “Perhaps they are just friends.” They are not just friends.

  “Nah, Kelly wants her,” Ford confirmed. All eyes turned to assess the bearer of this new piece of information. “He does. He asked me if she was dating anyone.”

  Shay took a slug of his beer. “Well, if she wants on the coaching staff, fucking her way in is as good a strategy as any.”

  The tightness in Vadim’s chest increased, and his hand white-knuckled the beer bottle. The others remained quiet, undoubtedly used to Shay’s grousing. Vadim was not yet used to it, so he asked, “What does that mean?”

  Shay rocked the neck of his bottle between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s no secret she wants a coaching position. She’s a team owner, so I suppose she could just appoint herself, but that looks shady. Having an in with the backroom boys is a better play. The long game.”

  “Or maybe she just likes him,” Ford said, grit in his tone. Vadim decided he liked Ford very much. “You’ve been sniping about the ownership since old man Chase died, Shay. You have to admit things have turned around since his daughters took over.”

  Shay made a noise of disgust. “Are you kidding me? What did they do? Made a few decent trades.” He tipped his bottle in deference to Ford, who’d been acquired five months ago, the start of the Rebels’ turnaround. But Remy DuPre’s trade was the true catalyst. Since his arrival, the team had steadily risen to fourth place in the division. A play-off spot was within reach.

  “So they spent money in the right place,” Shay grunted. “Christ, if there’s anything a woman’s good at, it’s spending money. But if they think landing us with a female coach is going to get us to the play-offs, then they must be overdosing on fuckin’ estrogen.”

  No one was inclined to disagree.

  Vadim’s chest felt like a band of hot steel was cinching it. He could not allow this commentary to go unchecked. “Isobel Chase is an excellent skating coach. I am honored to be working with her.”

  All eyes flew to him. Perhaps he had overstated it, b
ut when English is not your first language, the results were often more dramatic than intended.

  A few taut moments passed while everyone at the table chose a position.

  “They have a female gold-medalist ice skater working with the players in Boston,” Cade muttered. “Said it’s really improved their reaction times.”

  Ford shrugged. “Yeah, it’s pretty common these days.”

  “As consultants,” Shay spat out. “For people who need the extra attention.”

  The table’s temperature, which had previously been thawing, once more plunged toward the Arctic. That dig was meant for Vadim, but he would leave it for now. One day, Shay would be injured and would need the extra attention. Bog dal, bog vzyal. God gives, God takes away.

  However, Shay, as well as being a nasty piece of work, was also one of those people who didn’t know to quit while he was ahead, as his next statement proved.

  “If she can’t get in by fucking a trainer, I expect she’ll find a way with a player. Right, Petrov?”

  Kelly had left the bar, and Isobel was now standing. Perhaps they had some arrangement to leave separately. Vadim didn’t think that was a good idea, not if everyone knew of her ambitions to become a Rebels’ coach. Not if everyone thought she would spread her legs to do it.

  He would speak to her, but first, Vadim had to deal with this piece of garbage, Leon Shay. The moment ticked over, while out of the corner of his eye, Vadim watched Isobel heading toward the exit at the far end of the bar. She wore the same tight black pants of temptation as earlier—no wonder Kelly was all over her!

  Satisfied she was out of earshot, he turned to Shay. “What did you say?”

  He knew exactly what he’d said, or at minimum, what he had implied. He would give the man one chance to make amends.

  Shay was enjoying himself, his eyes sparkling with malevolence, his mouth twitching with the bullshit on the tip of his tongue. “She’s got multiple plays here. But maybe her easiest option would be to bang it out with the new Russian star. Worked for her sister and DuPre.”