“She is at the office reviewing new prospects.”
“Rebels or Athenas?”
“Both. My wife keeps her fingers in a lot of pies.”
Isobel Chase-Petrov, Vadim’s wife of many years, was a co-owner of the Chicago Rebels and the Athenas—the last one, she molded from clay and ice to become a powerhouse in the women’s game. I didn’t know her well, but over the years I had become close to Vadim. I considered him a mentor, but more than that.
He had saved my father’s life.
You might think hockey players are wealthy—and they are—but Vadim Petrov’s wealth was in a different league, mostly inherited from his father, one of the old school Russian oligarchs. Vadim had invested his fortune well: restaurants, sports franchises, vineyards, even a racehorse. With his sister, Mia, he also donated a substantial portion to charitable causes.
His family’s connection to the old regime had helped me when I needed it. My journalist father had been convicted of extremism in Russia because he dared to lead an anti-corruption crusade through the newspaper where he worked. I had been trying my best to get his case appealed, and even though I’d followed all their rules, nothing was happening. Until Vadim intervened. It wasn’t resolved immediately—the wheels of injustice turn more slowly than the wheels of their opposite—but after a year of back-channel discussion and hefty bribery, my father was released from the death trap prison where he had been incarcerated. Then he was smuggled out of the country. I owed it all to the man before me.
“I saw your picture on a magazine cover at the airport.”
Vadim used to model more—the joke was that hockey was his side hustle—but now he just did the odd gig when it pleased him.
“Why should these youngsters get all the sponsorships?”
“Because they need the money and you already have enough?”
He scoffed. “It is not about money. My wife likes to see me fulfilling my potential.”
“As a supermodel?”
“You said super. Not I.” He grinned that pirate’s smile. “I donate my fees to good causes. If a product needs a certain look or cachet, of course they will come to the best.”
The man was vain, but he was also satisfied. He had built a good life with his wife. No kids, but he doted on his nieces and nephews.
He dropped some scrambled eggs, studded with tomatoes, feta, and thyme, onto my plate. I buttered a slice of toast, and we ate while chatting about the upcoming season and the team’s current dynamic. Once done, he took a good look at me.
“How is Sasha?” Vadim was one of the people in whom I had confided about my father’s medical condition.
“He thinks the FSB are watching him. The doctors have said such paranoid delusions are to be expected, but it worries me.”
He nodded. “You would worry about him anyway. But thankfully you have the resources to care for him. It would not be good for him in Russia.”
“Yes, I know. I will always be grateful, Vadim.”
He waved it off. “What use are connections if you do not use them? And I know you worry about him now and how his mental sharpness has deteriorated. But think of what you have given him—twelve good years in a free country. Safety, security, and seeing you happy.”
This was true. He would have died in that prison, though if he understood what was happening to him now, he might have preferred it. Losing his mind in pieces was not what he would have wished for his final years.
“So you have a nurse with him during the day?” At my nod, he leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter. “And how do you spend your time?”
“Gym, running.” Scheming.
I had a date with Lauren tonight, though she wouldn’t call it that. She could resist, but the lure of Arkady Volkov was too bright. I should have been annoyed that I had to bribe her with a future superstar to spend time with me, but we had to use the tools at our disposal.
“You need to practice with us.” Vadim hit the ice a couple of times a week with his old teammates, Remy DuPre and Bren St. James. It would be good to skate with legends, if only to take my mind off everything for a moment.
Especially off her.
“Perhaps.”
“They start at six a.m., Alexei.” That was Isobel, who had just walked into the kitchen. She kissed her husband warmly, then leaned in to buss my cheek. “Good to see you.”
“And you. Have you mapped out the team rosters for next year?”
