by RJ Scott
“And as an aside, I received nothing but a glowing review from your lieutenant. That is also on your file. So I think Swanson has done you a favor here. Which brings me onto the next thing we need to discuss. Off the record, we know this is bullshit from him; he’s got a burr under his saddle about women firefighters, which I can’t understand.”
All Jo knew about Swanson was the normal firehouse gossip, which wasn’t complimentary and often involved cursing. According to anyone who had worked with him, he was a misogynistic asshole who ran his own firehouse with a combination of fear and old-rule heavy-handedness.
Askett continued after a particularly heavy sigh. “I wanted to warn you that he’ll be at this Christmas event you’re attending, and you should keep your wits about you.”
Jo went from concerned to confused in an instant. “Event, sir?”
The only one she knew about was the dinner that Dennison was organizing for the last night of rotation before their pre-Christmas down-time. That was just a drink at the bar; buy your own kind of thing. Not what she’d call an event.
“The annual Dragons fundraising Christmas party. Dragons hockey team. You know them?”
Jo nodded. She was friends with Kat; new friends, but friends nonetheless. She knew that the connection with the team was right there, given that her boyfriend played for the team. Then there was Alex; he was a hockey player for that team, the captain. But she wasn’t going to detail all that. Instead she stuck to facts.
“Lieutenant Dennison is a big fan, sir, and Kat is the girlfriend of one of the players.”
“Yes, yes,” Askett said. “It’s important we maintain a good working relationship between us and the team.” He trailed off, and she thought maybe he needed an answer to that one.
“Of course,” she offered; she’d learned enough at her mother’s knee as a kid to know that social networking was a good thing.
“And you know, part of our job is to foster links with local organizations, to spread educational awareness, that kind of thing.”
That sounded like he was trying to convince her of something. She understood the need to work hard on the firehouse being part of the community, and that included Sweetings Arena. The politics of it all went over her head.
“And you were the firefighter who pulled the team captain from the car.”
“Which is part of my job.”
“And he’s a hero.” Askett said the words carefully, like he was testing them out.
“He reacted to the situation and got the baby and father out,” she said.
Didn’t matter about the reasons why it was dangerous to get near a burning car. If a family was trapped, sometimes instinct overcame protocols. A lesson she was learning with every call. Not everything was black and white. She didn’t consider herself a hero of any kind; it was her job. But, Alex, for all his inappropriate kissing and teasing, was the definition of a hero.
“I want to apologize,” Askett added.
Now the confusion was right front and center. “Sir?”
“I want you to know that what I need to ask you is everything to do with you being a rookie, and nothing to do with you being a woman. In this job, the uniform is what matters, not the gender.” He stopped again and cleared his throat. “But we need you to do something you may not feel comfortable with.” He ducked his head, and she’d never seen that before; he looked almost embarrassed, and a flush spread on his face.
“What do you need me to do, sir?” Jo asked. The last thing she needed was a cozy chat with her captain about prejudice and the old guard. She needed the man back who told her to jump, and she needed to be the probie who asked how high. Seemed like he got the message. Gone was the sympathetic counselor, and in his place was her captain.
He continued. “The lieutenant wanted to ensure we had a presence at the event, the Dragons event, given they’re raising money for the firefighters charity, and we made the decision to send yourself and Mitchell. Bottom of the pile, I’m afraid, Glievens, and also the rescue thing.” The words were lost in the buzz in her head, but he was still talking. “…Swanson is in attendance as well.”
“Sir—”
He pulled himself together and looked at her sternly, interrupting what he likely expected to be a list of reasons why she didn’t need to attend a party. “No excuses, probie. You and Mitch, being the newest here, are the only ones free to go.”
He handed over a printed email. “This is for you. Details,” he pointed out, then added, “Watch out for Swanson. Wear a dress, make nice, get your photo taken with our local hero, don’t kill Swanson. Dismissed.”
“Sir,” she said, and left the room.
She was still dusty and sore from the last call, and aching from the one before it, which had involved her, a trapped cat, and a chimney. She didn’t much like cats in the first place, and Fluffy hadn’t much liked her, the scratches on her face testament to that fact. Damn thing had hissed and spit and generally showed great displeasure first at being wedged in the space, and then at being removed from said space.
“Okay?” Mitch asked from the alcove that held the photocopier. He’d been the probie before her, the prospect, the one who finally didn’t need to do all the shit she had to do. Well, except for having to attend this charity party thing. He had a permanent expression of relief on his face, tempered with a flash of guilt every time he saw her sweeping or cooking or, like that morning, climbing inside a chimney breast.
“Yeah,” she said, “the charity party.”
“You want me to pick you up?” Mitch asked. She didn’t see it as anything other than what it was, convenience. He was married with twins on their way and so in love that it made her envious. She wanted a man to look at her the way Mitch looked at his wife.
“I’m good,” she said. Part of her actually wanted to talk to Mitch about Swanson, but she knew Swanson was the tip of the iceberg, the old guard who didn’t think women should be firefighters. At the academy, there was nothing about how much was expected from the females in training, just about every firefighter earning their place. Still, Jo wasn’t stupid, and she worked damn hard to make up for her lack of height and bulk by being faster and stealthier.
Mitch glanced over her shoulder at Askett’s closed door. “Did he say what we needed to do? All he said to me was I should dress up, but no uniform, and get a lot of photos.”
“He said wear a dress and make nice. Get photos with the hero, that kind of thing.”
Mitchell picked up his photocopies and knocked them on the copier to straighten them. “It should be a good event; it’s like a Christmas party, only it’s really an excuse to raise money and auction some really cool things.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, and I heard some really intense shit goes down at these events.”
Okay, she’d bite. “What kind of shit?” she asked, even though a whole big part of her didn’t want to know. It was likely going to be a glitzy glamor event with hockey stars, photographers, and charity representatives; her idea of hell. She imagined drinks, and sex, and all the other things she’d heard hockey players got up to. Firefighters liked to gossip, and she listened to it all.
The firefighters there had a pool of tickets for Dragons games always at will-call, courtesy of Kat’s brother, Loki. Even though she was way down the ranks in terms of first dibs on them, she wasn’t sure she was interested anyway; sport wasn’t her thing. Hockey, in particular, she didn’t get. The other paramedic working with Kat, Alison Kayne—Ali to her friends, of whom she was one—had a theory about how bad it was to have all that testosterone in one tight space. All Jo could say to that was that she’d watched a game on TV but hadn’t been able to follow the puck.
She felt like she’d at least tried.
Mitch was still talking. “I heard last year the event was for a cancer charity, and it was at the captain’s place, and the police got called. Something about the pool and noise, and a car, I don’t know the full details, but I heard there was a call to
retrieve the car from the pool.”
Kill me now.
Thankfully, the alarm sounded and stopped Mitch in his stride, and he went from gossiping teenager to firefighter in one second. That was how it worked; drop everything, get dressed, get in the engine, fight the battle of the hour, get home and shed the skin.
The fire wasn’t life-threatening or big; a dumpster blaze behind a Starbucks was small-fry for engine forty-three. The lieutenant even used it as a training experience for her, asking Mitch to talk her through it and watching them both as the rest of the team stood back. By the time they arrived back, it was the end of shift, and she didn’t even bother to clean up at the firehouse.
The shower at home was heaven, and she stayed under until the water ran cool. Wrapped in a towel, she climbed onto her bed and picked up her Kindle. That was her happy place; sitting and reading, enough to forget and decompress.
Too often that moment was when grief hit her, when memories of losing her dad became too much to handle, but tonight she at least had Swanson, and the event, to think about. She was too wired to look at her Kindle, and she closed it after reading the same page at least three times. Huffing her annoyance, she lay back on the pillows and couldn’t help but focus on the kitchen and the gifts sitting there.
Her place wasn’t big, little more than a living room with sofa and kitchen, the bathroom, and a bedroom. She could see the kitchen counter from her bed, and the two items that sat there.
Mocking her.
A beautiful leather-bound journal, with dividers and a long silk length that she could use to bookmark a page. That had arrived on Monday, with a card expressing an apology in the most beautiful penmanship. No doubt whichever high-end shop had delivered it was responsible for the writing and the sentiment.
Although the name at the bottom was his name. Alexandre Simard. And he had signed it, because he’d added Simba and the number 25 in brackets. Just in case she wouldn’t know who it was, she guessed. And yes, she’d looked up what the 25 meant and found out it was the number he wore on his back when he played. Apparently it was connected to his brother, but she didn’t click any further, telling herself she didn’t want to know anything about the guy she’d taken to his knees.
He’d also included a card with a cell number on it.
She’d pushed the journal and the card back into the box they’d arrived in, ignored the sentiment and the number, and wondered why the hell he’d sent her a journal. Did she look like someone who kept a diary? Whoever had advised him to purchase that as an apology had been way off the mark. What about flowers? Or chocolates? Weren’t they the accepted gifts that people sent now?
Then on Thursday, the pen had arrived. A gorgeous and very expensive Mont Blanc pen. The red-and-gold coated fountain pen was still in its box, and she knew it was expensive because she’d looked it up on the internet. Over a thousand dollars of pen was in her kitchen next to the journal.
The note was clear. ‘I hope you know I’m sorry for what I did. My social skills are clearly lacking. I blame the enforced imprisonment. Hope you like using the pen in the journal when you’re studying.’ It was signed Alex, and for that gift there had been no mention of his nickname or his jersey number.
She decided to give everything to Kat to pass back to him.
There. Problem solved.
Chapter 5
Alex decided, after exactly twenty-three minutes of mingling, that this year’s event was way more civilized than last year’s at his place. At least it wasn’t likely that anyone’s car would end up in a pool. Mostly because Ryan’s house wasn’t a bachelor pad like his, and of course it helped that it didn’t even have a pool.
“Simba, we need to talk,” Loki snapped right next to him. He tugged at Alex’s arm and guided him into the kitchen, then through a set of double doors and into what he knew was a kind of storeroom. “Gooly’s pissed.”
The Dragons’ second line center was always pissed about something. It was that fire that made him so hot on the ice and in the locker room; impassioned and a team leader. Hence the A he wore on his chest.
Alex sighed. A pissed Gooly was never a good thing, and he felt the captain’s responsibility settling on his shoulders. Sometimes he’d just like one social event with the guys where he was Alex, instead of Alex-the-captain. “Where on the scale of pissed?”
“He’s talking completely in Russian,” Loki said. Loki was wide-eyed, and not much fazed his friend, but they both knew Gooly in full Russian-mode wasn’t going to end well.
“What’s happened? Last I saw him, he was texting his girlfriend! Jeez, did they break up?”
Alex had just wanted a quiet night tonight. Instead, the world and his wife wanted a photo with him, and he’d already spotted three journalists there, circling like sharks around chum. Topping it all, there were no TV timeouts in the game of socializing.
Loki leaned in. “Rumor hit twitter through the Russian player circle, that Vasiliev wants to move from the West Coast.”
The Russian players in the NHL had this freaky connection; seemed like nothing happened to one of them without the others knowing. But that wasn’t the first thing that hit him. Nope, that was the fact Gooly and Vasiliev were, in Gooly’s words, sworn enemies. And that was no understatement. They hated each other, chirped their way through entire matches, and both had majors in fighting each other. Whatever had happened had followed them to the US from the KHL, the Russian version of the NHL. Games where they were both featured always ended up in lots of insults and fighting in Russian that none of them, barring Semenov, understood.
And Semenov wouldn’t tell anyone what they said.
Not even his captain.
But it didn’t matter. Vasiliev wasn’t likely to come to the Dragons. They had their full contingent of forwards, and as a team, they were strong up front.
“I don’t get why Gooly is pissed about that.”
“There’s more to the rumors,” Loki murmured. “That he’s talked to the Bruins and to us.”
“What kind of— You’re fucking joking. The Dragons management want him?”
Fuck, he already had to deal with Rafferty and Ryan arguing on the same team. Why would they add warring Russians to the mix?
Loki shrugged. “Rumors are that Vasiliev is on management’s buy list.”
“Where did these rumors start?” Alex asked. His fingers itched to get onto Twitter.
“Semenov found it; it’s all in fucking Russian. Look, Alex, we can’t think about this too much. We need to defuse Gooly, but think about it, the Rafferty/Ryan thing worked for the best.”
“What Rafferty/Ryan thing?” Ryan said from the door. He was carrying three beers, and he passed two over.
“Not drinking,” Alex muttered, and relinquished his beer to Loki, who lined it up next to the other one. Seemed like Loki was making the most of their off days.
“I say again,” Ryan began, “What—”
“Russian circle rumors,” Loki interrupted. “Vasiliev is being offered out like a sacrificial lamb, with his team looking to free cap space.”
Ryan looked from Alex to Loki. “What? Why would that worry us?” Then it seemed to hit Ryan. “The Dragons want him? But what about Gooly? You remember what happened in the last game we played against Vasiliev.”
Alex sat down on the nearest chair. Yes, he recalled very well the two Russians dropping gloves during a power play and going at it right in front of net. Alex had literally had to sit on Gooly to calm him the hell down.
“Just because Vasiliev is available and the Dragons want him doesn’t mean it will actually happen,” Alex said. Shit, what if the Dragons did want him? What would the Dragons management be willing to lose to bring on the fiery left-wing?
“If they do, we’ll find a way to manage,” Ryan said. “It worked with me and Rafferty,” he added as he drank his beer. “I mean, I realize now that Raff’s not a complete asshole, and he’s a good D on the power play. Maybe the same thing will happen with Gooly a
nd Vasiliev if worst comes to worst and we take him.”
“Captain?” Another voice at the door, this time Drago with a disgruntled Gooly in tow. A lesser man would have quailed at Gooly’s frown.
Gooly cursed in Russian, and all Alex could make out was syllables that sounded suspiciously like Vasiliev’s name. Given that the whole sentence was spat out with Gooly’s famed cursing ability, Alex began to see the start of another problem.
“I’ll talk to Coach,” he reassured Gooly.
“What about?” Drago asked, the goalie looking confused.
Loki answered. “Fucking management won’t leave the team alone to steady ourselves,” he snapped. “Vasiliev has indicated he wants to move, rumor machine has him wanting into the Dragons.”
Gooly muttered again.
“Well, shit,” Drago said. Then he placed an arm across Gooly’s back. “Let’s go, big guy—we need to find vodka.”
“Top shelf, behind the cans,” Ryan confirmed. “Wait, I’ll get it.” He followed the other two out and left Loki and Alex alone.
“Shit,” Alex repeated.
Loki took the opposite seat. “This is serious, Simba—bigger than just trade rumors. We need to get a grip on this team.” Unspoken was, You need to tell management to let us work with what we have. They can’t keep fucking with us like this, how can they expect us to win games when they won’t let us settle with the team we have?
Alex knew all that, and he pressed a hand to his temple, where a headache that had threatened all day was becoming a reality.
“Don’t you think I know that?” He was pissed, and he couldn’t fail to see Loki’s wince.
Instead of carrying on with the character assassination of the team, Loki looked deadly serious. “What can I do to help you?” he asked.
Alex regarded his friend. Something had changed in Loki since his time off the ice with a bum knee. Yeah, he was still in the middle of any prank within a ten-mile radius, but he was also more settled, somehow, more responsible.
“Nothing, man,” Alex said. “I can’t fight fires if they haven’t even started yet.”
