Blood on the Rocks: A Slapshot Prequel (A Slapshot Prequel Trilogy Book 1)

by Myers, Heather C.

  And she didn’t want that. She wanted to live.

  Even though running the team was difficult and stressful and she also had to deal with the loss of her grandfather, Seraphina wanted to live. The pain that come with life’s tragedies was worth it to her because in the end, she was put on this earth for a reason. And that was to survive. And no matter what life threw at her, she would survive.

  She had to.

  Simon chuckled at Seraphina’s last-ditch attempt to save herself. “I suppose no one can say you didn’t try, Miss Hanson,” he said. “A valiant effort, I must say. But, as I mentioned before, I know when you are lying, and right now, you are lying. The police still believe that Brandon Thorpe is responsible for the death of Ken. And even if he is not suspected anymore, they would never turn their attention to Ken’s old, cripple friend. A close friend, in fact.”

  Seraphina watched as his fingers tightened around the gun, his index finger began to caress the silver trigger.

  This was it.

  “I suppose I will accept your thanks though you have yet to offer them to me,” Simon said. “I will be reuniting you with your grandfather. I know how close the two of you are – Oh, I apologize. The correct terminology I’m looking for is ‘were.’ I know how close the two of you were. But you’ll both be together again, soon enough.”

  His finger tightened on the trigger and Seraphina closed her eyes, waiting. She hated that she flinched when she wanted to look at Simon with defiance in her eyes, but she couldn’t help it.

  A loud thump caused Seraphina’s eyes to spring open and her arms went to her stomach. It didn’t sound like a gunshot, but she still checked her body to make sure she wasn’t shot. She didn’t feel any pain, but she also knew that pain didn’t immediately arrive.

  And then she heard struggling. And then she looked on the ground.

  Brandon Thorpe was on top of Simon Spade, holding the old man beneath him. Simon was moaning in pain, probably because he broke a hip when he fell onto the floor.

  Seraphina couldn’t get a grip on one particular thought, so she let her body do what it did naturally: she reached forward and grabbed the discarded gun just in case Simon somehow was able to spring free and retrieve it.

  “Call the cops,” Brandon ordered, still on top of the old man. His voice was harsh and ragged, but Seraphina didn’t take it personally. She should have thought of that herself. Holding the gun with one hand, Seraphina grabbed her cell phone and dialed 911. Her hands were shaking as they had been even though she knew she was out of danger. “I’ve got him.”

  After letting the operator know what was going on and being reassured that police were already on their way, Seraphina got off the phone. She collapsed in her chair, her legs unable to support her anymore.

  “How did you” – she paused in order to collect her breath – “How did you know...?” She couldn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t have to.

  Instead, she focused her eyes on him. She needed something to focus on since her mind was too loud and too busy to narrow it down. His presence calmed her. She even felt her heartbeat start to slow down.

  He was wearing essentially the same thing as he had been. Now, though, his hair was even messier than normal and his cheeks were flushed probably due to the adrenaline. He had managed to force Simon’s hands behind his back, and the goalie was keeping a tight lock on them. Even if Simon wanted to move, he couldn’t. Brandon’s form, in both size and girth, dwarfed Simon. The older man had a hard time breathing, but it didn’t matter.

  Brandon had come back. He saved her life. “I was going to head down to the rink,” Brandon said. His low voice was back to its controlled form.

  Interestingly enough, hearing that it sounded normal reassured Seraphina more than she was willing to admit.

  She felt her body relax into the chair, and her eyes dropped to his mouth, the way it moved around the words. “I figured since public skating wasn’t until nine o’clock tonight, I could get a few hours on the ice to practice. I turned the corner for the stairs when I saw Simon emerge from the elevators. He had a book under his arm. I thought nothing about it, but something made me stop. I waited around in the corner, where I could see him but he couldn’t see me. I saw him come out and then go back in. I waited. But something was wrong. I could hear him talking but couldn’t understand what he was saying. So I got closer and closer until I saw him with the gun pointed at you. I didn’t really think after that.” And he looked away from her.

  Simon was wheezing and grunting but neither Brandon nor Seraphina paid any attention. She was safe. She was alive. “Thank you.” She said it, despite the shakiness of her voice. She needed him to hear it. Without Brandon, she would be dead. “Thank you.” She felt her eyes build up with water but they didn’t fall – not yet, anyway – and Seraphina decided to try and stop the sporadic movement her body made outside of her control. She was shaking but she wasn’t cold. She was relaxed but still tense.

  With Brandon there, she knew she would return back to normal soon. She should call Katella. And then she would go home and take a long bath and then she would sleep for however long she needed to. Thank God it was an away game tonight. Thank God she didn’t have to be on a stage, in front of the fans, being criticized for the way she sat more than anything. Thank God she didn’t have to worry anymore.

  It was over. Finally, it was all over.

  Chapter 13

  “This would have been just the way he wanted it,” Katella said in a low voice.

  Seraphina nodded her head, feeling herself release a small smile onto her face. It would have been perfect if Alan and Ryan weren’t sitting in folding chairs behind the two sisters, but at least Henry Wayne and Matt were sitting with Seraphina and her sister, offering the two their support. There was obvious tension between the sisters and Alan. Seraphina didn’t particularly care one way or the other about Ryan because Ryan was quiet, mind his own business, and was probably drunk most of the time. Even now, amid the hot September sun, she could smell the alcohol radiating off of him. Probably he wasn’t even really present.

  It was Alan that Seraphina felt herself get tense around. Alan couldn’t deny that he publicly came out against Seraphina in that online video. He couldn’t deny that he had claimed he was going to take his two nieces to court because he thought Papa hadn’t been in his right mind when he assigned where his estate would go, including the Newport Beach Seagulls. Of course, that had been a lie, just to get more attention from the media. Just to charm more people and get the public on his side. Perhaps the more people he had supporting him and the words he spewed, the easier it would be to talk Seraphina out of keeping the team.

  But Seraphina wasn’t a pushover. At least, not anymore. Perhaps before her ordeal, she might have worried what other people thought of her, even people she didn’t actually care about, like Alan. Seraphina always felt this amazing sense of pressure to be perfect, to be the best at everything, including school and soccer and now, being the best team owner despite her lack of experience and her youth.

  She had survived.

  Seraphina was still alive. She was breathing and could feel the warm sun upon her cheeks, the subtle caws of crows off in the distance, the caress of the soft breeze that caused the hairs on her arms dance. She was alive. And as such, she didn’t care anymore about what anybody thought of her.

  Alan could get as many people in his corner as he wanted; Seraphina wasn’t going to back down.

  There was no speaker at the intimate burial. There were American flags flapping in the wing and four uniformed officers saluting at the gravestone with Grandma’s name on it. Soon, Papa’s name would be written just above it, in royal blue. His ashes would be buried alongside Grandma’s, and both would be amongst other veterans who fought in any war for their country, for the United States.

  The Los Angeles Veterans Cemetery was located just off of Wilshire Boulevard, close to the University of California, Los Angeles. It was a large piece of land,
filled with kempt green grass and tall, sturdy trees that provided visitors shade. It was quiet, calm, and even soothing to those visiting their lost loved ones, a place for contemplation, for talking to those loved ones, for getting some kind of closure. Twice every year, Ken would bring his two granddaughters up to the graveyard in order to pay respects to their grandmother – once on her birthday and once on the anniversary of her passing. Ken never spoke, never brought flowers (he figured they would end up dying anyway so there was really no point), but he stayed out there the longest. Now, Seraphina and Katella would keep with tradition, but they would be visiting more frequently. Along with their grandmother and grandfather’s birthdays and death days, they would visit on Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day in order to commemorate Ken Brown, the soldier.

  Once two gardeners began to bury the ashes, Ryan and Alan got up and left without a word. Technically, it was over. The uniformed men left as well, taking the American flags with them.

  Katella was right. This was the type of memorial he wanted; nothing too fancy or too sad, barely any people save for those he felt particularly close to. Nobody made a ceremony of it, a man from a religion he didn’t really believe in didn’t recite verses Papa had never read, people he hadn’t come in contact with years didn’t go up and tell a story Papa probably didn’t even remember. Just family and friends.

  The four remaining people all stood.

  “Your grandfather would be so proud of you two,” he said, looking at both women individually. He said nothing more before he, too, left, but he didn’t have to.

  “I’ll be in the car,” Matt said, reaching out and squeezing Katella’s hand. It was a rare display of affection in public. “Take as much time as you need.”

  When the sisters were alone, Katella placed her hand on Seraphina’s shoulders. Despite the tone of the day, there was a small smile on her face. “I am so proud of you,” she said. Her voice was tainted with sadness, with the tears that were slowly eclipsing her cheeks. “With everything you’ve gone through, looking at you right now, seeing that not only are you in one piece but that you aren’t broken...” She cut herself off so she could sniff. “This is exactly why Papa left you the team. No matter what anyone says – the press, Alan, the fans – you can handle this job. You can handle this team. You’re smart and determined, and above all else, you never give up. You’re courageous. And it makes me proud to be your sister.”

  Seraphina felt the tears that had been building up fall as well, and both women laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation.

  “If Papa could see us now,” Katella murmured.

  “He’d tell is how silly we were being, crying over something that already happened,” Seraphina said. “To save our tears for something that mattered.”

  Katella nodded.

  Both stood silent, taking in the fresh dirt being thrown into the hole that would soon mark their grandfather’s resting place. Both women suddenly felt something, like looming pressure surrounding the two of them but not in a threatening way. As if someone was there. As if someone was reassuring the two that he was all right.

  The moment passed and Katella turned back to her sister. “Are you going to go home now?” she asked. They didn’t need to talk about what happened. Both women knew.

  Seraphina shook her head. “If it’s possible, I’d love it if Matt could take me to Sea Side,” she said, rubbing the back of her hand over her nose. “I’ve called a press conference. Long overdue, I know. And there’s something else I need to take care of, too.”

  The ride back to Orange County wasn’t as bad as the trio had originally anticipated. About fifty minutes later, Seraphina had reached her intended destination. After she thanked Matt and told Katella to pick her up later tonight, she scurried up to her office. More people began to greet her with ‘hellos’ and ‘sorry for your loss’ more than they had at any time prior. Probably because her life had been threatened. Or maybe because Brandon Thorpe was found to be innocent after all, they admired her unwavering faith in him. Maybe it was because they knew that today was a private memorial for Ken, now that the two Hanson sisters could finally lay his body to rest. It didn’t matter though. She might have smiled, nodded, and thanked them, and while she was glad people were finally starting to open up around her, she had a meeting she needed to attend.

  Seraphina reached the doorway to her office, and beyond her control, felt her body stop. She almost died here. Papa did die here.

  There was a lot of history in this small room. Pushing her memories aside, she stepped over the threshold and into the room. “Papa, you should have installed a shower or something,” she muttered under her breath as she slipped her shoes off. She wanted to wash away the memorial, change into some fresh clothes, but she didn’t have the time. And she didn’t think to pack the extra clothes until that moment.

  Technically, she could have gone down to the female locker rooms and showered there, but time was pressing.

  She plopped into her chair, giving herself a few moments to herself, completely slouched over, before she had to sit up straight and look professional. Seraphina made sure her heels were all the way under her desk in hopes that no one would be able to tell she was barefoot. She might have to suffer through her funeral clothes, but right now, she didn’t have to suffer with those heels on. Seraphina reached down to the bottom drawer and opened it. She flipped through a few files before reaching in and grabbing a couple of documents, and then she placed them on the surface of her desk. With a few minutes left before her meeting, she allowed herself that time to completely relax, sinking into her chair.

  A now familiar knock on the door – soft, three taps – caused Seraphina to pick her head off of the chair. She felt herself smile as she called her visitor in.

  Brandon Thorpe walked into the room, closing the door behind him. He took a seat across from Seraphina, and for the first time since she met him, she saw a sparkle occupying his pale green eyes that looked nothing short of excited. He looked so much younger, too, though didn’t look like he was that much older than his twenty-nine years. Even so, his face was still set in a controlled, passive look – as passive as someone who was also excited could be. He was dressed in nice clothing – fitted black slacks and a white, long-sleeved collared shirt that was both iron and tucked in. Seraphina noticed that there was effort on Brandon’s part to tame his unruly hair but he failed, as was evidenced by the brown locks going every which way. This observation made the young woman’s smile deepen.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he began, “but I’m not going to apologize for your loss.”

  Seraphina choked – on nothing – at his blunt statement but she threw her head back and started laughing that loud, guttural laugh that wasn’t all that flattering.

  “I appreciate it,” she said when she got a hold of herself. “It’s nice to know that with everything going on in my crazy life, I can count on you to still be a jerk.”

  Instead of glaring at her or dismissing her insult with a cold look, his lips curled up into a genuine smile. It was slightly crooked – another one of his physical flaws that, when added with the others, just seemed to work – and the lines around his eyes crinkled. His eyes revealed surprise – little emotions began to shine through those green orbs, and Seraphina wanted to make sure she memorized every single one because otherwise it was hard to decipher just what the goaltender was thinking – probably at her abrupt statement concerning his character. Seraphina didn’t care all that much; she figured that if he could dish it, certainly he could take it.

  And she was trying to start living life as if she didn’t care what anyone else thought about her. “Yes,” he agreed, nodding his head. “You can always count on that.”

  “So.” Seraphina sat up straighter, folding her arms together. “Let’s get down to brass tax. The season starts next week and we need to figure out some sort of resolution to the dilemma we have in that at least I am unsure about where you and I stand professionally.”
She wasn’t sure why she tacked on the last adjective, but for whatever reason, it was there and she couldn’t take it back.

  “I would love to play,” Brandon said. Even though Seraphina was getting used to Brandon Thorpe being blunt, it still took her aback by how blunt he could be. If she had been in his position, she’d probably start off with something akin to small talk, a prologue to what she wanted before fitting her desire in there, and then rushing to thank them for the offer and the decision was really up to them. Not Brandon. And she had to admire that. “But I’m not sure if you’re still willing to let me re-sign. I’m sure you’ve seen the papers.”

  Despite the fact that Simon Spade was announced as the killer, the press wasn’t very forgiving when it came to Brandon and his financial demands and lack of loyalty. His unfavorable reputation only worsened because of this controversy even though, in the end, he was innocent of any violence, and the media wouldn’t let people forget that. They were demanding Seraphina get rid of Brandon because of his negative image was not only affecting the team, but the entire national hockey league.

  “Of course I’m willing to re-sign you,” Seraphina told him. She hoped he knew that she was being honest with him, that she really did want him on the team. “You’re a phenomenal player, Brandon. You know that. And I don’t care what anyone thinks. We’re lucky to have you. But here’s the thing: I’m not going to give you the money you held out for. That’s not going to happen. I will pay you what my grandfather agreed to pay for last season, with the option to renegotiate once the season concludes.” She slid the documents over to him and offered him the pen. “Do you need to call your lawyer or your agent?”

  Brandon shook his head, his eyes firmly located on the text he was reading. “No,” he said. “I’ve read plenty of these before. I keep my lawyer and agent around to help me articulate what I want without sounding too demanding.”