Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1)

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  She’d promised herself that she would watch the whole game, but again and again, she found herself only watching Emile. And it was amazing—the way he contorted himself, rising to his feet and dropping to the ice on his knees or into full splits, and back up again, in a fraction of a second.

  It was, well . . . arousing. What would it be like to press him against her in all his sweaty glory? The realist in her laughed at the thought. That might sound sexy, but it was sure to be a mood killer.

  She waited until the Sound had skated off the ice to start making the long, long way down from the next-to-the-highest row in the arena.

  Buying the ticket had been humbling. She’d been feeling so good about sticking to her guns about paying her own way and finding such a good price online. But then she’d realized she had to have a credit card to purchase it—something she’d taken for granted for years. It was a dilemma. She could wait and take her chances at the door, but what if the ticket was too expensive, if she could even get one? There was no getting out of going. She’d promised Emile, and also, Gabriella had called and made arrangements for them to ride together since the traffic and parking could be difficult.

  So she’d waited until Emile returned home from morning skate and his meetings and asked to borrow his credit card.

  She’d been fully prepared to have a fight on her hands about reimbursing him, and she’d been all right with that. She could win a fight. But when she’d counted out the bills and held them out to him, he’d only closed his eyes and sighed. “Ma chérie, if I argue, will I win?”

  “No. But you might win later tonight if you don’t.”

  That had gotten a smile out of him, though not much of one. But he’d folded the money and put it in his pocket. And then she’d had to ask to use his laptop so she could print out the ticket.

  At moments like that—when she couldn’t be completely independent—she still felt frustrated and furious with Cameron, but not so overwhelmed. She was going to be all right.

  Somewhere along the way, her mind had stopped going immediately to, “I must get on my feet and get a job.” She had a job. It wasn’t permanent, but it wasn’t bogus either, like she’d first thought. Emile worked hard every day, and he needed help. He’d rescued her at a time when she’d had no options, and she couldn’t just turn around and leave him now that the season was just starting.

  She felt useful; she was useful. Though she hadn’t planned it and she certainly hadn’t been ready to talk about what Cameron had done, she’d told her family just this afternoon that she was working as a personal assistant to a pro hockey player. She hadn’t said who and they hadn’t asked. Like most Southerners, they didn’t know much about hockey and a name would mean nothing to them, but they’d probably assumed it was one of Cameron’s clients. They were just happy she was doing something constructive. And so was she, even if it was out of desperation.

  Now, she was on her way to meet Gabriella at the main entrance—and there she was, wearing an authentic Emile Giroux jersey. Not a lot of women could get away with silver metallic leggings, but a lot of women weren’t six feet tall with legs up to their armpits and waist-length blond hair. Gabriella had urged Amy to come with her to the suite but hadn’t pushed when Amy had firmly declined.

  “You beat me here,” Amy greeted her.

  “You had farther to come than I did. Did you enjoy the game?”

  “I did, though I don’t understand a lot about hockey. I suppose that would have been one advantage of watching from the WAG suite. I might have learned something.” Amy followed Gabriella out the door.

  “Don’t count on it. And careful who you listen to.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have occasion to listen to any of them.”

  As they approached the parking garage, Gabriella said, “Just remember this: It’s organized chaos. The object of the game is to get the puck and put it in the goal. That’s it.”

  “Unless you’re Emile. Then it’s to keep the puck out of the goal.”

  Gabriella laughed and clicked open the locks on her BMW crossover. “He’s very, very good at it. He’s won the Vezina Trophy twice.”

  Amy climbed in the vehicle. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means he’s very, very good at defending that goal.” Gabriella started the car. “It’s a little chilly. You have a seat warmer and your own temperature control.”

  “I’m fine. This is a nice car.”

  “A birthday present from Emile. He’s very generous. He tried to buy Paul and Johanna a new house last year and couldn’t understand why they didn’t want a new one. And imagine that—not wanting to give up a house that’s been in your family for three generations, even if it isn’t grand. But he did update their kitchen.”

  “Sounds like my house,” Amy said. “Or the house I grew up in. I suppose it technically belongs to my grandparents, but we all live there together. It’s just an old farm house, though there’s plenty of room for all of us. But it could use a kitchen update.”

  “Don’t tell Emile,” Gabriella said, “unless you want your family blindsided by an architect and interior designer showing up at the front door ready to go to work. It would take me a long time to tell you what Johanna had to say to him about that.”

  “But ultimately, she let him have his way.”

  Gabriella nodded. “Most people do.” She put her hands on the steering wheel. “So. How about it? Are you hungry? Big Skate? The guys will be along in about an hour.”

  Amy laughed. “Is it open?”

  Gabriella wrinkled her nose and nodded. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “It’s just that Emile took me there one morning. He pounded on the door and made them open. Then he demanded eggs and bacon, even though they don’t serve breakfast.”

  Gabriella’s eyes went wide. “You’re kidding. That doesn’t sound at all like Emile.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. He’s certainly arrogant enough. And he’s plenty willing to spend money on people he loves, but he doesn’t go to that kind of trouble for anyone.” She put the car in reverse and began to back out. “Or, he never has.”

  • • •

  Good. She was here—in his regular booth seated across from Gabriella.

  He turned to Swifty. “You can sit beside my sister, but don’t touch her.” Swifty had taken his tie off and unbuttoned his shirt collar, but Emile was still tricked out like a show pony in a first class rodeo. Or would that be a horse show? He’d never been to either.

  “Why don’t you sit by her if you’re so worried about it? I’ll sit beside your personal assistant.”

  Like hell. What was wrong with him? He was cursing in his head in English, like an American Southerner. Gabriella slid out of the booth as soon as she saw them. She hugged Emile. “Tu étais formidable.”

  “I was wonderful, too,” Swifty said. “I know because four puck bunnies and a preschooler told me so.” And he winked at Amy—winked at her! And offered his hand. “Hi. I’m Bryant Taylor, aka Swifty. Number five. Chief Sound Ass Kicker.”

  Amy laughed like a music box and shook his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Emile maneuvered Swifty out of the way, unbuttoned his jacket just like that manners lady Johanna had sent him to had taught him, and slid into the booth beside Amy. “Do not say ass in front of the ladies. And you are not the chief ass kicker. That would be Thor.”

  Swifty threw his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves, settled in beside Gabriella, and put his arm on the back of the booth. “No. He is the Ultimate God of Make You Hurt. I’m just the Chief Ass Kicker.”

  Emile turned to Amy. “So, you watched tonight? Did you see me stop the puck and shoot it to Glaz? Then he scored on the breakaway. I got an assist. Goaltenders do not often get assists.”

  She nodded. “That’s great. How many goals have you scored?”

  Gabriella and Swifty laughed.

  “What?” Amy looked around wi
de-eyed. “Gabriella said you’d won that Verizon trophy thing twice. I thought you must have scored a lot of goals.”

  “Vezina,” he said. “And goaltenders do not score goals.” Though it had happened. Just not by him. “As a rule.”

  Gabriella reached across the table and squeezed Amy’s hand. “I love you. You have no idea how much.”

  There sure had been a lot of love talk tossed around today. He went to put his arm on the back of the booth, with a mind toward gradually sneaking it down around Amy’s shoulders.

  But she turned and gave him a death stare.

  Got it. I can do whatever I want to you in bed, but no public affection. Wouldn’t want to make people think we like each other.

  But there was no time to give that any energy. Just then, two girls in generic replica Sound sweaters approached the table—and giggled.

  “French Kiss! Swifty!” the redhead said. “Could we get a selfie with y’all?” Wasn’t it getting a little cold for shorts at night, even if they had kept their tans?

  Usually Emile enjoyed this kind of attention and was the first to jump to his feet and say yes. Refusing was not possible or appropriate, but tonight he was in no mood. Maybe it was because he could feel the warmth radiating from Amy, even if she wouldn’t let him touch her.

  “Sure can.” Swifty ambled to his feet. “Though why two lovelies like you would want to clutter up a picture with a couple of ugly old hockey players like us is light-years beyond my understanding.”

  Gabriella rolled her eyes at Amy like they were sharing a joke.

  “Yeah, right,” Amy muttered almost under her breath.

  The fan girls didn’t notice the exchange for their giggling. It was true that people said Swifty was the best looking of all the Sound players, but Emile did not like his sister and his . . . his . . . Amy making jokes about it.

  “Oui!” Emile quickly rose and buttoned his jacket. “You are very kind to notice us.” He tried to put extra enthusiasm in his voice to make up for his hesitancy.

  When the blonde pulled a selfie stick from her big bag with the writing on it, Amy gracefully slid out of the booth.

  “No need for that. I’ll be delighted to take your picture.”

  The girls cheerfully handed over their phones. “Could you get one for both of us?” the redhead asked.

  “Of course. I’ll take several so you can be sure to have a good one,” Amy said. “Okay.” She held up one of the phones. “Ladies in the middle, gentlemen on each side. Emile, put your arm around her.”

  What the hell? He’d gotten the death stare when he’d tried to put his arm around her, but she was pimping out his arm to this other woman? Great!

  “Yes,” Amy went on. “That’s good. Everyone lean in like you like each other. Say hat trick!”

  So, she knew what a hat trick was but not that a goaltender wasn’t expected to score goals?

  He wanted to run through the place turning over tables and pouring beer on people. But he only smiled and leaned his cheek against the top of the blonde’s head.

  He did not like feeling so angry. He didn’t understand it. But at least he didn’t want to hit anyone.

  But later—after many autographs, many photos, a rare steak, and more beer than he probably should have had, Emile and Amy returned home together, since Amy had ridden with Gabriella and his sister had opted to return to Beauford rather than spend the night.

  They had been quiet in the car—Emile, because he was still nursing his anger, and Amy, because . . . Who knew? Not him. He didn’t even know why he was angry or how long it would last.

  But he didn’t have to wonder long. As soon as they entered the condo, she caught him by the arm. He drew her to him—hesitantly, because he wasn’t certain she would allow it. But she did.

  “I like your sister,” she whispered, “but I’m glad she didn’t stay over, because if she had, I couldn’t do this here and now. She pushed him into the nearest chair, knelt before him, and reached for his zipper. “I seem to remember an episode this morning with you, me, and some yogurt.”

  Yes. He replayed it in his mind, which was probably what she intended—her writhing against his mouth and then her urging him to plunge into her and take his pleasure quickly, because there wasn’t much time and she was beyond satisfied.

  “Tu me rend si difficile.”

  “You were incredible tonight,” she said. “Just relax. You don’t have to do anything. For once, take. You don’t have to give anything.”

  And he didn’t. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and waited for her sweet mouth to close on him.

  He didn’t have to wait long. His anger was a distant memory.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I would like for you to go to a little party with me.”

  “What?” Amy looked up from where she was packing Emile’s bag. It was Wednesday, and the team was flying out on Thursday afternoon for three away games beginning in Anaheim on Friday and ending in San Jose on Sunday, with Los Angles in between on Saturday.

  “A party. Tonight. It is Sharon Orlov’s birthday on Saturday, and Mikhail is making a little party for her. Nothing very big. Just a few people at a restaurant. Maybe ten. It will not go late, since we fly out tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for asking, but no.” She counted out eight pairs of boxer shorts and began to roll them into compact little cylinders. It would be like stepping into that WAG suite all over again when she wasn’t a wife or girlfriend.

  He sighed and sat down on the bed. “I would like it if you would. I know you are shy about being around Noel, even though she would be nice to you. But I inquired. She and Glaz are not coming. Noel is at a quilt festival, and Glaz will be home with baby Anna Lillian.”

  He smiled. Bit his lip. Let his eyes sparkle. He wanted her to go—and a part of her wanted to.

  He must have sensed her wavering. “You would have a nice time. And this is a nice place. You have cooked so many good meals for me and made game days so much better. You should have someone cook for you. I know you worry for the cost of things, but this is a party. We are all invited as guests of Mikhail.”

  “Where is it?”

  “A place Mikhail says everyone is speaking of. The Butter Factory. Though that makes no sense to me. I thought a cow was a butter factory.”

  Well. That clinched it. She had no decision to make now. There was no way she could go there. “I can’t, Emile.” Cameron had taken her there once, back when he’d still been trying, which she understood now was back before he’d started wooing his new wife. “I don’t have anything to wear. It’s a jacket required, or at least jacket suggested, kind of place.” Nashville was casual, a boots and jeans kind of city. They wouldn’t turn someone away, but it just wasn’t the kind of place where one wore jeans and a sweater—especially for a birthday party.

  Emile looked confused. “I have jackets.”

  “I know you do. But I don’t.”

  He laughed. “Funny, Amy. Jackets required only means men. Not ladies.”

  Was he really that obtuse? “I know, Emile. But I don’t have the equivalent. I have the leggings and tunic I had when you took me in and the clothes that I have bought since—one pair of jeans, one pair of corduroy pants, two knit turtlenecks, a sweater, and a white button-down shirt.” She realized as she enumerated her wardrobe that she sounded as though she was poor-mouthing. “And I am very grateful to you that I have this job that allowed me to buy those things. I am only explaining that none of that is appropriate for the Butter Factory.”

  His face clouded. “Grateful to me? That you have these few things? I can buy you a dress . . . any dress you want. Or some kind of other outfit. I don’t know what. Some kind of fancy pants? With a jacket? Maybe with sparkles? That would be good for this restaurant that should be called Cow?”

  In that moment, it was almost impossible to not throw herself into his arms and stroke his adorable face. On second thought, why not do that? If she could lick him head to toe, she co
uld do that.

  Thinking he’d won, he smiled and brought her to sit on his lap. “So, is a good idea? To get an outfit for the party? It’s not noon yet. Plenty of time to shop.”

  She rose from his lap and pulled her hand from his. “No, Emile. I cannot let you buy me clothes.”

  “I don’t understand you. You only need these sparkle pants because of this party I want you to attend. You let me buy all manner of containers, labels, and such to put my drawers and closets in order.”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Then wear something of Gabriella’s. She does not mind. She likes you. She loves you. She said so.”

  “I know. And I appreciate that she was so generous before I got some clothes of my own. But her things don’t really fit me.” There was no point in even trying to explain to him why she could not get away with what a tall, ethereal beauty who should be strutting down a Paris runway could. “I am sorry. Really. But you don’t have to go alone. You must not feel that just because we . . . enjoy . . . each other that you can’t ask someone else to go.” As she said it, she realized how much she didn’t want that to happen. And that was a scary thought. It was a good thing he was leaving for four days. She’d have time to get her bearings back.

  He set that beautiful mouth in a hard line and crossed his arms over his chest. “If Cameron Snow had not taken all your things, would you have this dress? These sparkly pants?”

  “Well, I don’t believe I had any sparkly pants, but yes. I did have outfits appropriate for a party at the Butter Factory.”

  “Je méprise ce putain bâtard!”

  “Apart from proclaiming him a bastard, I don’t know what you said, but I agree.” And she did. She wanted to go to that birthday party, but not enough to let Emile buy her clothes.

  “I could advance you—”

  “No,” she cut him off. “I told you. I’m keeping up with my hours. You won’t owe me again until you get back from your road trip.” Anyway, she couldn’t afford to buy party clothes that she would wear once. She was going to need a winter coat soon—plus in a euphoric moment of wanting to surprise Emile by speaking French, she’d downloaded a Rosetta Stone subscription to her phone. It might have been unwise to spend the money, but she didn’t regret it, and she intended to use his time on the road to master at least a few phrases. He stood and ran his fingers through his hair. “You confound me. But I must go to stretch. I am meeting Swifty, Thor, and Mikhail.”