“Think your folks will get remarried?”
The mere mention of her parents made Delilah want to run into her room and pull the covers over her head. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“Of course you care,” Jason rebutted softly. “They’re your parents.”
“They’re insane.”
“Well, yeah. But they’re still your parents.”
“Is Eric banging Brandi now?” Delilah blurted, unable to help herself. She had to know.
Jason grimaced. “I’m not sure it’s gotten to that point yet,” he said carefully. “Right now, he’s just comforting her.”
Delilah snorted. “I’ll bet. They deserve each other.”
“You won’t hear me argue. He’s been leaving nasty messages on my cell phone in the hopes I’ll mess up on the ice.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know: ‘So and so from such and such paper says you’ll probably be traded after this season.’ Crap like that.”
“Well, don’t listen to him.”
“I don’t. But it still worms its way into your brain, you know?”
Delilah nodded. They hadn’t had an actual conversation like this in months. It was nice to be talking to him about something other than Stanley, even if the topic was Eric.
Delilah rose, her hand still resting on Stanley’s head. “Where are you off to again?” She knew where he was going, but pretending she didn’t made her sound busy, so busy she couldn’t keep the simplest facts about him straight in her head.
“Florida,” said Jason. “We beat them in the first two, and if we win the next two, we go on to the second round.”
“Are you excited?”
“We’ve got a long way to go yet,” Jason said cautiously. “But we could win the Cup. I mean, we have as much of a chance as anybody.”
Delilah was touched by the sense she had that he was backing off from being boastful. Maybe he missed talking to her, too.
“Well,” she said, “you know I’ll take good care of Stan.”
“I know that.” Their gazes locked, then Jason looked away. He seemed at a loss for words. Delilah felt the same way. She wanted to keep talking to him but wasn’t sure there was much beyond hockey, Stan, and Eric. Then she realized.
“How are your parents?”
Jason looked distinctly uncomfortable. “They’re fine.”
“Good.” Was it possible Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell now hated her for breaking up with their son? She supposed she couldn’t blame them, though the thought made her sad.
“Please tell them I asked about them. If that’s okay. I mean if it’s not okay I understand, but if it is okay—”
“I’ll tell them,” Jason promised.
“Thank you.”
Stanley, seemingly bored, gave a big yawn and lay down right atop Delilah’s feet.
“Sorry to interfere with your naptime, pal,” Jason quipped as he looked down at him affectionately. His expression was almost apologetic as he regarded Delilah. “I better get going. I have a plane to catch.”
“Right.”
“You have my cell number and everything in case—”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then.” He leaned over and patted Stanley on the back. “Be good, big guy.” He looked at Delilah. “Wish me luck. The Blades, I mean.”
“Good luck,” said Delilah, trying to read the expression in his big, brown eyes. Sad? Uneasy? Wistful? She pretended for a moment that he was a dog, and it became clear.
Wistful.
“ We wanted you to be the first to know: we’re going to get remarried down at the condo in Delray.”
Delilah knew she was supposed to react with excitement to her parents’ announcement, but she found it hard to muster sufficient enthusiasm, especially when they’d turned up at her apartment unannounced. Despite the sun and warm late spring temperatures, her mother was wearing an ankle-length raincoat to keep dog hair at bay, while her father appeared dressed for a different season entirely, in tan bermuda shorts and black socks with sandals. She’d give them credit for one thing: they both seemed happy. For now.
“You’ll come, right, pussycat?” her father asked hopefully.
“I guess,” said Delilah, keeping an eye on Stanley. He’d been acting strangely for the past half hour or so since she’d fed him, pacing restlessly. When she’d command him to lie down, he couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position. If it kept up, she was going to call the vet.
“Look what your father gave me.” Mitzi proudly wiggled the fingers of her left hand under Delilah’s nose, showing off a sapphire ring the size of a gumball.
Delilah nodded distractedly. “Nice.”
Mitzi dropped her hand. “I’m not sensing much enthusiasm here.”
“Mom, what do you want me to say? I’m happy for the two of you. I just don’t believe it’ll last.”
“It will,” her father assured her, looking mildly disgusted when Stanley let out a room-clearing burp. “This time we’re doing it right: intensive counseling, anger management, the whole shebang.”
“The therapist gave us foam bats to hit each other with when we get angry,” Mitzi added. “It’s very cutting-edge.”
“That’s nice, Mom.”
Delilah got up and went to Stanley, who was breathing heavily. “It’s okay, boy. I just need to check something.” As gently as she could, she turned Stanley onto his left side and felt his belly. It was swollen. Delilah sprang to her feet.
“I have to call the vet,” she said, hurrying to the phone. As she’d predicted, when she explained Stanley’s symptoms over the phone, the veterinary hospital told her to bring him in right away.
Delilah was frantic, searching wildly for her keys. “I have to go.”
“Whaaaat?” said her mother.
Delilah pointed at Stanley. “He might have bloat. It’s when a dog’s stomach twists and cuts off the blood supply. It could be fatal.” She grabbed her purse. “What car did you come in?” she asked her parents.
“The caddy,” her father answered apprehensively.
“Good. You’re going to help me get Stanley into the car and drive me to the animal hospital.”
Her mother made a face like she was sucking lemons. “That thing isn’t going in the caddy! It has a white leather interior!”
“He might be dying!” Delilah yelled. “Now shut your yap and help me out here!”
Her mother turned to her father. “Do you hear the way she talks to me, her own mother?”
Sy patted Mitzi’s arm consolingly. “Later, cupcake. Our little girl needs help.”
“I wish I had my bat,” Delilah’s mother growled under her breath.
Delilah fetched two bath towels, looping one under Stanley’s belly behind his hind legs, and the other behind his front legs. “On the count of three,” she commanded her father. “One, two, three.” Together she and her father heaved Stanley to his feet.
“Go down to the car, start it, and open the back doors,” Delilah commanded her mother. “We’ll follow.”
Too shell-shocked to protest, Mitzi hurried out of the apartment as Delilah and her father painstakingly carried Stanley downstairs in the makeshift sling. Stanley was limp, his breathing heavy, his eyes dazed.
“You’re going to be fine,” Delilah promised him over and over again. “You’re going to be fine.”
She had to believe that or she’d lose her mind.
“Oh my God! Check your messages!” Delilah shouted into her cell phone. This was the fourth time she’d called Jason and left a message. The staff at the vet hospital were waiting for Stanley when Delilah arrived. They immediately put him on a gurney and whisked him off for X-rays, the results of which Delilah was now waiting for.
“Sugar, calm down.” Her father put his arm around her. “I’m sure everything will be okay.”
“I hope so,” Delilah whispered through watery eyes. Her mother had chosen to remain behind at the apartment. Delilah could picture her now, s
itting in the middle of Delilah’s living room with her raincoat on, stiffening if one of Delilah’s three dogs even came near to sniff her. Delilah couldn’t worry about that now. Her primary concern was Stanley.
She looked at her father. “How’s your back?” By the time they’d carried Stanley downstairs and deposited him in the car, her father was bent over in two.
“How much does that damn dog weigh?” her father groused.
“One fifty, easy.”
“If I wind up in a truss, I’ll know who to blame.”
Delilah said nothing, but she was so tense she feared she might split her skin. What was taking Dr. Shearer so long to take an X-ray?
“You don’t have to stay,” she told her father, feeling guilty for what she’d put him through.
“How would you get home?”
“Cab.”
Her father patted her shoulder. “No. I’ll stay.”
Delilah swallowed back tears. “Thank you.” A minute later, Dr. Shearer appeared in the waiting room, her expression grim as she approached Delilah.
“It’s not good,” she said. “His stomach is twisted. He needs surgery immediately.”
“But”—Delilah’s mind was spinning out of control—“he’s not my dog.”
“If we wait, he could die.”
“Operate,” Delilah said without hesitation. “I know it’s what his owner would want. Operate.”
Dr. Shearer nodded and disappeared. Weeping, Delilah once again pulled out her cell phone and left a message for Jason. “It’s Delilah. It’s about Stanley. Call me.” That’s all she could manage before she dissolved into sobs.
“You gave a vet I don’t even know permission to operate on my dog without asking me?!”
Waiting for Delilah to answer, Jason couldn’t believe she had the nerve to be glaring at him. The Blades had done great on the road, routing Florida in three to sweep into the second round. He was in a great mood until he came to Delilah’s to pick up Stanley, only to discover his best friend in the universe had undergone major surgery.
“Let’s try this again.” Delilah’s eyes were bright with fury. “I left you multiple messages on your cell about Stanley. Multiple! But for some idiotic reason, you never bothered to check your phone! The vet told me Stan needed surgery right away or he might die. What was I supposed to do? Hope you’d call me back in time? You’ve got some nerve taking that attitude with me! I saved Stanley’s life!”
Jason pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Part of the reason he’d been able to focus and perform so well on the ice was precisely because he’d taken care to keep his cell turned off to avoid Eric’s twisted little messages.
“Go on,” Delilah urged heatedly. “Check your messages now.”
Jason punched in the code to retrieve his messages and listened. There were three or four from Eric, all designed to mess with his mind. But there were also multiple messages from Delilah, each increasingly more frantic, the last one ending with, “Stan had the surgery, he came through it great, I’ll tell you all about it when you get back to New York.” She’d been weeping when she left that message.
Ashamed, Jason turned off his phone and thrust it back into his pocket. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about ‘I’m sorry,’ followed by ‘Thank you’?” Delilah snapped.
“I’m sorry,” Jason said humbly. His thoughts were coming so fast he couldn’t keep up with them. “When did all this happen?”
“Thursday. The day after you left. Stan was fine on Wednesday. Thursday he was listless, burping, and bloated. That’s when I knew. I called my vet, and she told me to get him in immediately.”
An image of Stan came to Jason’s mind, and along with it, a feeling like someone was sitting on Jason’s chest, making it hard to breathe. The thought of Stanley ill, in pain, was unendurable. And incomprehensible. He was Stanley. Invincible. Things like this weren’t allowed to happen to those Jason loved, goddammit. It was totally unacceptable.
Shaken, Jason sat down on the couch beside Delilah. “And you’re sure he’s okay?”
“He’s doing great,” Delilah assured him, compassion returning to her voice. “They did what’s called a gastropexy: it’s where they sew the stomach to the lining of the abdominal wall to insure it doesn’t twist.”
“And this . . .” Jason’s voice cracked. “He won’t die?”
“He won’t die. He might get bloated again, but it can’t kill him.”
“Can I go see him? Now?”
Delilah squeezed his hand. “It’s not like a human hospital, Jason. They don’t have visiting hours. I spoke with them this morning, and they said he was doing well. If his vitals are good overnight, they’ll release him tomorrow.”
Jason put his head in his hands. “I have practice tomorrow!” he howled in agony.
“It’s okay. I’ll go get him and bring him back here. It’s not a problem.”
“How are you going to do that?” Jason scoffed.
“One of Marcus’s friends is letting me borrow his SUV. Marcus can help me get him in and out of the car.”
Jason jerked up his head. “Fuck it! I’m blowing off practice! Screw Ty Gallagher if he wants to bench me or fire me, just fuck it!”
“Listen to me.” Delilah’s voice was stern as she put her hand on his arm. “I can take care of this. There’s no reason for you to jeopardize your career by doing something stupid and impulsive, all right? Stanley should probably stay here with me anyway, so I can keep an eye on him while he’s recuperating. It’s not a big deal.”
Jason blinked hard, trying to fight back tears. “I let him down, Delilah. I wasn’t there for him when he needed me.”
“You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
“That’s not good enough.”
Emotion rippled through him as he looked into her sweet, beautiful face. It wasn’t only Stanley he’d let down. He’d let Delilah down, too, in so many ways. Sending Eric in his stead the first time they were invited for brunch at her mom’s . . . getting on her case after taking her to dinner with his friends at Dante’s . . . not understanding—not wanting to understand—the intricacies and demands of running her own business . . . blindsiding her on Christmas Day. And now this, having the balls to read her the riot act without stopping first to get the details. If it wasn’t so fucking pathetic, he’d let himself cry and beg for her forgiveness. Instead, he lifted her to her feet and embraced her.
“Thank you,” he whispered, loving the feel of her in his arms again but knowing he had no right to it—was, in fact, nowhere near worthy of it. “Thank you for saving my boy’s life.”
“You’re welcome,” said Delilah. Her gaze and voice were resolute as she looked up at him. “Stanley’s going to be fine.”
“And what about you?” Jason asked. “Are you fine?”
“I’m always fine,” said Delilah with a sad smile as she slipped out of his embrace. “Now go home and get some rest.”
CHAPTER 27
“ Jesus Christ! We sucked.”
No one disputed David Hewson’s observation as the Blades filed into the locker room following game two of the Cup playoffs against Detroit. They’d lost the first game by just one goal, but they were sure they’d rebound tonight in the second. They didn’t. If anything, they played worse, their equilibrium completely out of whack. They were now facing a major ball-busting fact: if they didn’t win the next game, they were probably toast.
Exhausted, Jason pulled his sweater over his head and began untying his shoulder pads. He couldn’t figure out what had changed their momentum. Beating Florida in the first round had been a cinch. Ditto winning the semis against Jersey; Jason had taken great pleasure in wiping the ice with Eric game after game, not once letting his brother’s usual on-ice antics goad him into some stupid move that could hurt the team. Even battling Boston for the Eastern Conference series looked relatively painless from where he was sitting now, despite going all the way to six games.
&nb
sp; He glanced around the locker room; everyone looked completely demoralized. Ty talked all the time about being driven, being hungry, about wanting the Cup so badly it was all you thought about. Jason thought he had finally reached that place. He thought his teammates were there, too. But judging from tonight’s performance, they were all falling short of the mark.
Ty let them know it. Never one for hand-holding or sugar-coating, their beloved but hard-assed coach told them they’d best get their shit together for the next game or else. He told them their play had embarrassed them. That none of them deserved to be playing for New York. Jason knew he was trying to get them mad as a way of firing them up, but judging from the dejected faces around him, it seemed to be having the opposite effect. They looked like a room of sweat-drenched zombies.
David Hewson vigorously toweled his head. “You know, I just realized something: I haven’t puked before these last two games.”
“That’s true,” said Tully Webster. “Hewsie always pukes before he plays. I wonder if not puking fucked things up for us.”
Barry Fontaine nodded knowingly. “It could have.”
Doogie Malone shook his head in despair as he pointed at his locker. “My autographed picture of Heidi Klum. I gave it to my cousin three days ago when he was visiting.”
“And I shaved last week,” Ulf Torkelson confessed quietly, rubbing his smooth chin.
Michael Dante looked exasperated as he began removing his thigh pads. “Guys, forget the woo-woo crap, okay? What we need to be concentrating on is our level of play.”
“Play, yes,” Ulf agreed cautiously, “but also things to bring luck.”
David Hewson studied Michael with curiosity. “You saying you don’t do anything special to insure good mojo, Cap?”
“Of course I do,” said Michael, putting his wedding ring back on and twisting it three times. “But mojo alone isn’t going to help us.”
“It can’t hurt us,” Denny O’Malley pointed out.
Tully Webster wore an earnest expression as he jumped up on a bench in the middle of the locker room. “I think everyone needs to remember about all the stuff they’ve done in the past to bring good luck—and then do it.” He looked at David. “If that means sticking your finger down your throat before a game, bro, then that’s what you’ve gotta do.”
Chasing Stanley Page 30
