by Lily Harlem
I didn’t really know what to expect from the night other than I would end up with Logan and that was all that really mattered. I just hoped the Vipers won, because that way, his aura would be dazzling and his mood would be buzzing.
I grinned at Giselle as the crowd chanted “why are we waiting?” two seconds after the team should have arrived on the ice. She’d driven us to the rink in her new convertible. We’d felt silly packing gloves and scarves on such a hot day, but now, with our breath misting in front of our faces and the rink air nipping our cheeks, we were glad of our extra layers.
“You’re going to recognize him in all his gear?” Giselle asked.
“He’s number fourteen,” I said. “He told me to look out for that.”
Giselle suddenly smiled and pointed down to the entrance of the tunnel. “Fergal’s over there, look.”
Standing at the end of the tunnel rubbing his hands together stood an older guy. He was tall and broad shouldered with silvery-white hair and was chatting to what looked like a coach. Fergal wore a beautifully cut suit and a red and white striped tie—the team colors. He was nodding and frowning, then all of a sudden grinned broadly at something the other man said. He wasn’t at all what I’d imagined when I’d pictured Giselle on their cream date.
“He looks nice,” I said, for want of a better word.
“He is nice, real nice.” I saw an unfamiliar sparkle in Giselle’s eyes. “And real generous in every way.”
He glanced our way and Giselle fluttered her fingers in a girly wave.
He nodded slightly and his mouth twitched. He was tanned, no doubt from villa weekends, and his teeth flashed white. He was a good-looking guy, chiseled jaw, straight nose, a few lines around his eyes but they only added to his appeal. Part of me gave a little sigh of relief that Giselle kept her standards high as well as her rates.
Suddenly the crowd erupted and the Orlando Vipers shot from the tunnel like a machine gun firing human bullets. Enormous speakers hanging from the ceiling blasted music into the cold air. Flags waved, fists punched upward and a giant screen on the scoreboard hanging down over the middle of the ice filled up with excited faces as a camera swung over the audience.
The home team wore predominantly white with red stripes on the legs and arms. Each player had their name and a number on their back. I spotted Brick first, whizzing over the ice, number eight, and then immediately after him came Logan, with fourteen stamped in big red numbers on his back and “Taylor” curved over his shoulder blades. His uniform made him look so big, he was big anyway but now he looked enormous with his shoulders padded out wider and an extra few inches taller because of his skates.
He wielded his stick in the air like a weapon, holding it high and proud as his blades shot over the ice. He hunched forward and did a complete lap in a matter of seconds with what looked like zero effort. The crowd went wild and in my ear the commentator on the radio jabbered excitedly about how good it was for the team to have their best forward back on the ice.
The goal camera zoomed in on Logan’s face. I snapped my eyes to the big screen and saw his blue eyes flash through the wire crisscross of his cage. They looked hard as the ice he played on and as determined and focused as when he was making love to me. My heart did a whole new kind of flip. Just over twenty-four hours of not seeing him had felt like a lifetime, and now, watching him get ready for action and hearing the crowd chanting, “Phoenix, Phoenix, Phoenix,” in time with a beating drum had my stomach somersaulting. I was flying on a mixture of pride, desperation and the desire for them all to disappear, vanish into thin air, so I could have him all to myself again.
But of course that wasn’t going to happen, at least not until war on ice had been waged.
The opposition skated out of another tunnel. Boos and hisses filled the arena. The away fans cheered and clapped for their team but the Orlando mob had numbers on their side and the New York Islanders kept their heads down and their faces fixed as they skated to their bench.
Within minutes, positions had been taken and the puck dropped. A frantic scramble ensued. The whiz of skates, the scraping of sticks and shouts from the crowd filled the nacho- and beer-flavored air.
Logan raced for the puck as it hit the far corner. A New York Islander went for it too. The other guy was closer, he got there first and hooked it into the curve of his stick, ready to pass it but Logan arrived a split second later, traveling full speed. Shoulders squared, he rammed the Islander into the board and stole the puck. The crowd roared and the boards shook as if a herd of elephants had collided with them. Three more blue shirts frantically chased toward Logan. But he was quick-witted as well as quick-moving. He looked up, spotted an opening toward Brick and slid the puck over the ice in a perfectly straight line.
Brick caught the small disk, spun and took a shot. He missed. The crowd groaned and held their heads in their hands, but no sooner had the goalie shot the puck back into play than Logan hit it home with one devastating slice of his stick.
The arena went wild as the back of the net punched out. Fans screamed and cheered and the camera once again panned their delighted faces, settling on a kid with “Phoenix” scrawled in black over his cheeks.
I jumped to my feet, clapping wildly. My insides bubbled with excitement as I watched Logan being slapped on the back by his teammates. A goal in the first five minutes of play would be so good for his aura.
“And it seems Phoenix has his mojo back,” the commentator shouted in my ear. “Mr. Gunner is going to be glad the week of R&R paid off.” He cleared his throat exaggeratedly and over the din of applause I heard him say, “If you know what I mean, folks.”
I stopped mid-clap and turned to Giselle. She was grinning. “Don’t worry,” she shouted after hearing the same comment through her earpiece. “No one will recognize you with your clothes on.”
“Not funny,” I shouted back over the frantic cheering. Despite my mortification at the memory of the photo, I couldn’t help feeling a little proud that I’d had a teeny tiny bit to do with rediscovering Logan “Phoenix” Taylor’s elusive mojo.
The puck hit the ice and once again the fast pace of the game had my head spinning. Things got dirty when five players all dug for the puck right in front of us. Two zipped off, having their own stick battle for the zooming disk, leaving the other three throwing punches and raining blows on one another. The ref didn’t notice but one of the linesmen did. He skated over and hovered on the edge of the scrap as if unwilling to dive in. The crowd around us went crazy, as though it was some kind of great treat to witness a glove-off fight.
I left them to it and watched the puck move toward Logan—again, he caught it on his stick effortlessly. A Hercules of a man with a black beard poking through his cage came from nowhere and shoved him against the boards. My fists clenched, worried, but I needn’t have been. Logan straightened and, with Brick hot on his tail, they chased after the ogre who’d stolen the puck. Two more New York players were dodged before Logan got to him and reclaimed it. He spun one-eighty but an Islander defender jammed his stick beneath Logan’s skates before he could skim back down the wing. Logan flew through the air. I gasped collectively with the crowd as he hit the deck. He skidded five, ten, fifteen feet with his arms outstretched. A man behind me leapt up and shouted over my head, “You hairy-sacked bastard, get the fuck off the ice if you can’t tell the difference between a puck and a skate.”
Logan came to a stop. A trainer raced across the ice as the ref blew the whistle long and hard. Logan clambered to his feet and the crowd cheered. He circled his left shoulder like a windmill, clutching the joint with his opposite glove and nodded at the trainer, who handed him a bottle of water, which he squirted through his mask into his mouth before tossing it at the bench.
Play resumed.
Immediately Brick rammed an opponent into the boards right in front of the ref. It was an ugly tackle and earned him a spell in the penalty box.
The crowd hurled abuse at the ref. “You suck!�
�� “Are you blind, where’s your seeing eye dog?”
Brick banged down on the bench, removed his helmet, spat on the floor, and from what I could read from his lips, the “f” word was the predominant adjective in the conversation he went on to have with himself.
The Plexiglas shook right in front of us and, startled, I spotted Logan’s face, red with effort, as he collided with a defender. Then he was gone, chasing after the puck and dodging Hercules. He zipped it straight to number eighteen and the Vipers scored again. The crowd went wild. The drumbeat pounded in my ears as the players celebrated by almost knocking down their scorer.
At the second break it was 2–0, the Vipers. The atmosphere was jubilant but tense and I could hardly eat the slice of pizza I bought from a nearby stand. I was so worried the opposition would come back and wreck Logan’s cleansed aura and rejuvenated mojo. I wanted to celebrate with him later, not commiserate, and I crossed my fingers in my gloves and my toes in my sneakers as I asked the heavens to make this a good, good night.
Luckily the Vipers came out strong for the third period and within minutes their captain, Rick “Ramrod” Lewis, scored a brilliant shot that left the opposition’s goalie in a heap of despair on the ice. Three-zip. But the Vipers loosened up, got cocky, and after a particularly violent tussle against the far wall, the Islander shot one right through the Vipers’ goalie’s legs. The crowd hissed. “Lucky shot, ass face,” hollered the man behind me, growing bolder as he downed yet another beer.
“Do you think it’s always this wild?” I shouted into Giselle’s ear.
“Yes, that’s why I don’t come when Fergal offers me tickets. I meet him afterward instead, much more civilized.”
“Well, thanks for coming with me,” I said, linking my arm with hers and squeezing.
“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.” She smiled and her red-glossed lips shone in the bright lights. “The way you light up every time you say the name ‘Logan’ has left me dying to meet the guy who’s transformed my heartbroken best friend back into a hot-blooded woman.”
“He does make me feel good,” I said. “Although…” I paused as a posse of players collided in front of us and ended up in a wild scramble of flying limbs and sticks. The whistle blew and the ref and both linesmen had to physically drag the players off one another. I spotted Logan right in the very center of the tussle, his fist flying toward an Islanders player whose knee was in his stomach. “Although I’m not sure how good he’s going to feel later,” I said worriedly.
“I’m sure you can kiss any hurts better and make him feel real good,” Giselle whispered into my ear, wincing as Brick hit Hercules way below the belt. “I’m going to stay overnight here at the hotel, but you can take the car back with Logan, have the apartment to yourself as long as you come and collect me tomorrow afternoon.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, of course.” She leaned her head farther in, conspiratorially. “And if you want any toys they’re in the cupboard in the spare room.”
“Giselle!”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re into.” She straightened and nodded at Logan whizzing to the far goal and plowing over a defender as though he were a weed. “But a guy with that much testosterone in his system is bound to have a few kinks lurking beneath the surface.”
I thought of our fun in the villa with handcuffs and butt plugs. Giselle was right, as we got more comfortable with each other we were going to experiment with other stuff. The thought sent a hot flush over my cold skin and lust pooled in my belly. I glanced at the huge clock. I could hardly wait for the game to be over.
Finally the last buzzer sounded and the final score was three to one in favor of the home team. The Viper fans celebrated wildly, cheering and clapping and waving flags. An alligator mascot circled the rink as the players lifted off their helmets and shot streams of water into their mouths. I searched out Logan at the same time the camera did and suddenly his flushed face filled the big screen right in front of us.
“And here’s the man they needed back in play,” the commentator jabbered in my ear. “And not one trip to the sin bin. This must be a record for Phoenix.”
Logan’s hair was damp and stuck in black licks around his temples. His eyes stared into the crowd unmoving as he nodded and shook hands with a teammate. I glanced back down at the ice. He was looking straight at me from the center circle. My breath hitched in my throat and my heart bounced off my breastbone. Our eyes connected and I was smiling before I even realized my lips had moved. The noise of the arena continued as did the radio chatter, but in my head the vast stadium was silent, there was only Logan and me in the whole place. In a crowd of thousands we still sought each other out as though there was a magnetic force between us, drawing us together.
One corner of his mouth tipped and then Brick slid up, spraying his lower legs with shards of ice and his attention snapped away as he was bear-hugged.
“Come on,” Giselle said. “Let’s get down to the locker room entrance before it gets crazy with everyone leaving.”
Before I had a chance to reply, an enormous, black-suited guy with a stern-looking face and dark shades appeared before us. “Ladies,” he said as he held out his arm like a barrier. He looked over our heads as he flicked his fingers toward the stairs.
“Here we go,” Giselle said, clutching her Gucci handbag. “Showtime.”
I reached for my bag, a small Walmart special, and followed Giselle. She seemed to know where she was going and as we headed down the steps into a brightly lit corridor, I was acutely aware of the huge bulk of muscle breathing down my neck like some sinister bodyguard.
Giselle was oblivious, tottering ahead, chin in air and hips rolling as if she owned the place. She slotted her tiny radio into her handbag and I did the same.
We reached the entrance to the locker room. The scent of sweat-damp bodies and ice mixed with blood hung in the air. My chest tightened as I watched a paramedic rush in with a big blue box and a serious expression. A coach whizzed out, shouting in French down his mobile phone, and then the door opened slowly, controlled, as though whoever was coming out wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere.
“Fergal,” Giselle simpered, locking her fingers under her chin and smiling demurely.
“Giselle, my dear, how nice of you to have made it.” He rested his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Well, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything, it was an amazing game.” She turned to me. “And I’d like you to meet Brooke Ambrose.”
Fergal scanned my face with his keen green eyes. “Of course, Brooke, what a delight to finally meet you.”
Giselle glanced over her shoulder then looked back at Fergal. “Would you like me to wait for you?”
He lifted a perfectly plucked brow and his attention was once again captivated by Giselle. “I was expecting you to, I have a late meeting regarding the Stanley Cup playoffs so I told Sheila I’d be staying over.”
Giselle tilted her lips and batted her eyelashes. “Excellent, in that case I’ll just go and freshen up, please excuse me.” She flicked her long auburn hair over her shoulder and turned. For a moment the only sound was her perfectly pitched heels echoing around the corridor.
“May I call you Brooke?” Fergal asked when she slipped from view.
“Yes, of course,” I said, tugging at my bottom lip.
“I’m glad to have caught up with you, we have a few matters to discuss.”
My heart lurched. My stomach rolled. This was the conversation I needed to have to realign my karmas and iron out my destiny. “Yes, absolutely,” I said. “Shall we?” I indicated the opposite end of the corridor to the one Giselle had disappeared down. It appeared deserted and I didn’t want to be overheard.
Fergal smiled as he gestured for me to lead the way.
I walked ahead, the corridor led to nothing more than a small recess with a door marked “Domestic Supplies”. I ducked into the gap so I was hidden from view, pressed my back
against the wall and pulled in a deep breath.
“You’ve done a great job,” Fergal said, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and rocking back on his leather heels. “Really I can’t thank you enough.”
I glanced over his shoulder. I wished he’d step in a bit so he wasn’t visible from the locker room door. “But there’s nothing to thank me—”
“Oh, but there is, my dear. Phoenix is a different man, he’s focused, on the ball, or should I say on the puck, and he’s in control of his temper. He’s back to the guy I spent several million dollars on.” Fergal grinned broadly, flashing his dazzlingly white teeth.
“No, but I—”
“I’m very grateful to you, Brooke. Giselle assured me you were up to the job and you’ve more than proved it. You really are a true professional.”
I heard shouts of goodbye and the locker room door slammed. I lowered my voice. “The thing is about the whole job bit—”
“If you give me your bank details I’ll make sure your fee is transferred first thing in the morning, my chief accountant will see to it personally.”
“But you don’t understand, Fergal, about the money, what I really want is—”
“We agreed on a price.” His brow furrowed and his jaw set, he folded his arms over his chest. “If you went above and beyond that’s not negotiable, when a price is agreed I won’t change my mind.”
“I don’t want anything extra, that’s what I’m trying to say.”
“Good, because I wasn’t going to give you anything more than the agreed one hundred thousand dollars, I think that’s perfectly acceptable for a week of services, don’t you, no matter how high class you are and how favorable the outcome has been?”
I glanced nervously over his shoulder again. High class. Services. “But…” My head was spinning. Where was Giselle when I needed her? “Logan and I, we did, but it wasn’t like that, we…” I paused as Fergal glanced at his silver watch. “Really I just want to say no, thanks but no thanks.”
