Page 61 of Wicked Serve

“Yeah,” I say. “But I’ve settled into the McKee system by now.”

“You’re all my dad talks about,” she says. She kisses Cooper’s cheek. “Well, both of you. He’s going to be so sad when you’re in the NHL.”

“The Sharks still hold your rights, yes?” Richard asks.

“Yes, sir. But they haven’t come to collect yet.”

Isabelle stiffens slightly, even though she’s talking to Mia. I haven’t told her about my deal with Grandfather, and if I tried, I don’t think she’d understand. How could she, with a family that goes out to dinner together to celebrate wins?

“And what does your grandfather think of this?” Richard asks. “I’ve met him a few times. I’ve gotten the sense that sports aren’t exactly within his... scope of interest.”

“You’re not far off the mark,” I admit.

“Your mother certainly seemed proud, when I ran into her the other day,” Sandra says.

I blink. I’m sure Sandra talks about Isabelle and her brothers all the time, but I’m a constant reminder of the part of my mother’s life that she wishes she could forget. I can’t imagine her casually bringing me up in conversation.

“I’m so glad that the summer worked out for Izzy,” Sandra continues. “The business your mother built after her divorce—but I’m sure you don’t want to talk about that.”

“It’s fine. I was thirteen.”

“I’ve had four thirteen-year-olds. It’s not an easy age.”

“Mom,” Isabelle says. Her fingers find mine again.

I squeeze hers, grateful for the support, even if she doesn’t know the whole picture. My mother might’ve been able to seamlessly fall back into the world she grew up in—a world Isabelle shares a slice of—but I don’t have that option. Even next year, working whatever job Grandfather thinks will suit me, I’ll be an outsider. You can bring a cat in from the cold and give it a bed, but that doesn’t do anything about the claws.

“It’s a shame that your father’s NHL career wasn’t longer,” Richard says. “I know plenty of men who didn’t get what they deserved from their sport. It can be brutal.”

“He preferred the KHL anyway.” I haven’t had to fall back on that lie in a while. I’m not sure how much of a lie it is anymore, anyway. The last call we had, he told me to visit him for ????? ???, the New Year, since I didn’t make plans to see him over Thanksgiving break. I felt like punching something after I hung up, panic clawing at my throat.

“And you have no interest in going back?”

Cooper snorts. “Dad, he’s ranked higher than me. His talents would be wasted in the KHL.”

“You know we basically have the same rank. And I have no intentions of setting foot in Russia again.” A moment passes, and then I realize what I just said. Fuck. “I mean, I was born here. I did live in Russia for a long time, but my home is here now.”

I cover Isabelle’s hand with my own, nails digging into her jeans. She turns to me, under the guise of listening, but I catch the worry in her expression. There and gone in a blink. My breath hitches. I’m breaching a space I don’t belong in, no matter how friendly her parents are or how easy things have become with Cooper. I’m the piece that doesn’t fit, and if Isabelle hasn’t started to realize that before, she definitely will now.

“Do you think in Russian?” Mia asks, tilting her head to the side. “If you were young when you moved there?”

“Usually. Sometimes English slips in, or German.”

“German?” Isabelle says.

“Thanks to an overly enthusiastic tutor at my first American school. My grandfather—” I stop, feeling my face flush. “He assumed I wouldn’t be able to speak English fluently, when I arrived. The tutor was pleasantly surprised, and taught me German instead.”

I don’t know why I just admitted that; I’d nearly forgotten about it until now. There’s a beat, and then—

“Cooper failed French,” Sebastian says with a grin. “Twice.”

Cooper sighs, long-suffering. “Why write the words like that if you don’t pronounce half the letters?”

“I think Jean would be able to answer that question better,” I say.

“He does speak French? Prick. He pretended not to when I needed help with my homework.”

The tension in my chest eases. When did it become this easy? Homework in the team lounge, trash-talking during video games, drawing up drills for the guys to work on, and now this, dinner with Cooper’s family. Dinner with Isabelle’s family. Part of me wants to wrench my hand away from hers. But another part—a louder part—wishes I could kiss her here, at the table. She deserves that, and moreover, I want it.

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