Chapter 51
Nikolai
“You washed it, right?” Isabelle says, catching the sweater I toss at her. “Not everyone loves sweat as much as you.”
“Who do you take me for?” I lean against her bedroom door with a grin. I should be at the rink already, preparing for the
game, but I wanted to see the look on Isabelle’s face when I gave her my jersey.
“A possessive bastard,” she replies, smirking as she pulls the sweater over her head.
It’s a home jersey, the one I’ve lived in for most of the season, at least until the collar got ripped a few games ago. I
figured she’d like the lived-in quality, and by the way she sniffs it, I know I knocked it out of the park.
“What do you think?” she adds, twirling around in front of the full-length mirror on the wall. She fluffs her hair, letting
it fall tantalizingly over one shoulder as she winks.
Hockey sweaters aren’t known for their high-end nature, but in a matter of seconds, she’s pulled off an outfit that has me
groaning. The tight leggings, the diamonds glittering in her earlobes and the hollow of her throat, and especially the tall
black boots, all come together to create a picture of goddamn perfection. Seeing her dressed like this in the crowd tonight
will give me an extra push of motivation.
“On second thought, what about wearing a paper bag to the game?”
She rolls her eyes. “Babe.”
I fist my hands in the familiar fabric, kissing her deeply. The sight of it—the jersey I’ve fought in and sweat in and even bled in—on her body is enough to make my cock twitch.
Scratch the motivation. I’m going to have to limit the number of times I let myself look at her during the game if I want
to play at all. Maybe only before periods. Or in between shifts. Fucking hell, purple is a good look on her. I love the sight
of her in her own uniform, but something hits different with my name across her back.
Isabelle Abney doesn’t sound bad at all. I’m sure as hell not entertaining the thought of Isabelle Volkov .
But that’s what it would be, no matter what we called it. If we went there one day, I’d be tying her to all of me, past included.
I stiffen at the thought. I nearly step back, but I’m against the door with nowhere to go, and she smells like orange and
lemon, and frankly, it’s all too tempting to force it out of my mind and kiss her once more.
She hums happily, deepening the kiss as her hands loop around my neck.
“I have something for you, too,” she says.
“Oh yeah?”
“I know you don’t normally wear anything on your wrists during games, but I thought you might like it.”
She unwinds herself from me, reaching for a small bag on her desk. I shake the bag, making her smile, before pulling out a
black leather bracelet.
“If you hate it, I can return it,” she says quickly. “Or if it’ll mess up your vibe, you don’t have to wear it. But there’s
no metal, so it should be safe for you to wear while you play. If you want, I mean.”
I slip it onto my left wrist. “I love it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” I turn my wrist around, admiring it. It’s understated but elegant, and above all, comfortable. “Thank you. I’ll wear it to the game.”
She puts her hands over her face, peeking through her fingers. “I hope I didn’t just give you bad luck.”
“Please,” I scoff. “You’re good luck, you know that.”
I back her against the bedroom door, hands playing with the hem of the jersey. She shivers as I skim my fingertips up her
sides.
The next time I’m inside her, she’s going to be wearing this. I won’t have it any other way. I’d love to devour her now, but
the anticipation will give me an edge during the game. It never hurts to play starved.
Doesn’t hurt to play with your girlfriend’s mark on you, either.
“You should get to the rink,” she says breathlessly.
“One more thing.” I reach into my back pocket, pulling out the flyer I grabbed from the community bulletin board outside Lark’s
last weekend. I swear I can still feel the hangover that resulted from Cooper and I accidentally getting shit-faced on the
most expensive vodka in the bar. Worth it to watch him curse out my dad in a creative string of expletives. “I thought maybe...”
She stares down at the flyer. “Nik.”
“You’d be good at it.”
“A high school volleyball club volunteer? Really?”
“The girls from the high school love whenever you come into the ice cream store. You’d be awesome at it. I thought this could
be a way to keep volleyball going without worrying about spring league.”
“I’m not worrying about spring league,” she says, crumpling the flyer and tossing it onto her desk. “I’m worrying about the wedding, because
I’d like your mother to hire me again this summer.”
“She will.”
“I don’t want her to give it to me because we’re dating.”
“It wouldn’t be that. You did really well last summer. She’ll want you back no matter what.”
“Still.” She sighs, frowning at the balled-up flyer. “I want my family to see it, too. Volleyball is just... it’s different,
now.”
“Promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I just did.”
“Really think about it.” I know she spoke with her parents about volleyball—which I’m glad about—and they reached their own
understanding, but I’ve seen what she’s like when she plays. The end of the road isn’t here, even if she truly wants to shift
her focus to her potential future career.
With each game I play, the closer I come to the end of my hockey career. I feel the weight of it whenever I skate onto the
ice, especially now, with the end of the regular season in sight. We’ll make the playoffs for sure, but that doesn’t take
away the pain. I don’t want Isabelle to lose volleyball a second earlier than necessary.
“Maybe,” she says, reaching around me to open her door. She shoves me into the hallway. “Go steal some pucks for me.”
In the seats, she’s all I see.
Like that first game, but so much better, because she’s mine. My jersey on her body, and my name that she’s cheering, although
her brother gets a few shouts as well. I manage to put her out of my mind each shift, because I have a job to do, but when
I’m on the bench—and okay, for the two minutes I spend in the box, I didn’t get away with that tripping call like I’d been
hoping—I can’t help but stare. That’s what she gets for sitting front row at the blue line. She’s with the whole group: Penny,
Victoria, Mickey’s date, Micah’s girlfriend, Evan’s boyfriend, the other partners of my teammates. After this win—even if
we’re down by a goal right now, this is ending in a victory, I can feel it—we’re going to meet up at Lark’s.
If I can manage to share Isabelle for even a second longer tonight, that is.
I all but collapse onto the bench when my latest shift finally ends, sucking wind and wincing; the extra twenty seconds felt
like torture. I pull off my helmet and slick my hair back.
Something catches the corner of my eye. Not Isabelle. A man.
I nearly drop the helmet.
“Good effort, Kolya,” someone says, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
I whirl around. “What?”
“I said good effort, Abney,” Coach Ryder says. He frowns. “You okay, son?”
I wet my lips, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder. It couldn’t have been Dad. He still hasn’t told me when he’s coming
to visit, and if I know anything about him, it’s that he can’t resist making everything about himself. He won’t slink in halfway
through a game. He’ll charm his way into the locker room. He’ll force me into a big production, all in the name of fathers
and sons.
Kolya. Jesus. I need to get my head on straight.
“I’m fine. That shift was just a little long.”
Ryder nods. “Drink some Gatorade.”
When I risk another look at the stands, I breathe a sigh of relief. Not Dad. Just a random guy with an angular face and intense
eyes. I crumple the empty paper cup, my gaze finding Isabelle in the crowd once more. The squeeze of my lungs eases at the
sight of her laughing with Victoria. I adjust the bracelet she gave me, making sure it’s safe underneath my glove.
Then I race onto the ice and do it all over again.