Page 108 of Wicked Serve

I make a face as the sharp liquid hits my tongue. It should be chilled, not room temperature. I might not drink it very often, but I abide by that rule.

All the same, the liquid warms my chest. In Russia, drinking isn’t a problem unless you’re doing it alone. That, my father did plenty. I wonder if he still does, or if he actually grew up once we left. It’s probably too much to hope for, because he’s never said so, but I can’t be sure.

“What did you say?” Cooper asks.

“To our friendship.”

“Aw, Abney,” he says, putting his hand over his heart. “I’m flattered.”

“Technically, he should have left the bottle.”

“Well, we’re being good athletes.”

“As long as you know that I could drink you under the table,” I say, knocking my boot against his.

“We’ll have to test that sometime. I come from Irish stock, you know.”

I look away, clearing my throat. Time to jump, if I’m going to do it at all. “My dad is a piece of shit, Coop.”

The amusement slips off his face. “Oh.”

“This scar isn’t because of a skate to the face.” I shiver, remembering the moment Dad threw the glass. “It was him.”

I brace myself for disgust or discomfort, but it doesn’t come. Without missing a beat, he waves to the bartender.

“Fuck being a good athlete. We need the bottle for this.”

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.

---