Shoot it! Shoot it!
Shit. Michael’s heart sank along with the rest of the players’ on the bench as Ottawa’s goalie poke-checked Paul van Dorn before he could get off a shot. With three minutes left in the game, the teams were tied at 1-1. A quick glance around the Corel Centre revealed it was filled to capacity, the crowd holding its collective breath as the clock wound torturously down. Two nights before, in the first game of the first round, the Blades had humiliated Ottawa on its home ice, 3-0. But tonight, Ottawa had come out battling. Michael and the fourth line had seen only spot action.
He watched as the third line, still on the ice, cycled the puck in the offensive zone. For a split second, it looked as if one of Ottawa’s defensemen might wrest the puck from right winger Barry Fontaine. But Fontaine maintained control, flipping the puck behind the net, van Dorn skating in after it. The blade of his stick had barely touched it when—BAM!—he was boarded by the thuggish Ottawa defensemen Ulf Torkelson, one of the chippiest players in the NHL. Van Dorn’s head snapped back, and then he was down. At first there was silence. Then, half rising off the bench, Michael and the rest of the Blades began screaming.
“That’s a hit from behind!” Michael shouted.
“What are you, fucking blind?!” Ty yelled at the ref. “Call that!”
Play had stopped, but Samuelson hadn’t been penalized. In fact, he took the opportunity of van Dorn’s injury to slowly skate by the Blades bench.
“Looks like the little rookie isn’t so pretty now, eh?” he jeered.
“You’re a dead man!” Michael shouted.
“What are you gonna do, hit me with a spaghetti pot, Mikey?” Samuelson taunted, circling back to Ottawa’s defensive zone.
Out on the ice, two of the Blades trainers were helping the dazed van Dorn to his feet and then to the dressing room, his bloodied face covered in a towel. Ty, who had been warned he was in serious danger of a bench minor, tapped Michael on the shoulder. The fourth line skated out onto the ice.
New York won the face-off, and just as Michael had envisioned, the puck slid into the corner. Both he and Torkelson hustled after it, Michael leaving his feet and slamming into the big Swede with everything he had. But before Michael could get to the loose puck, Torkelson elbowed him in the face with all his might, sending a blinding pain cracking down Michael’s cheekbone.
Retaliating, Michael shoved his gloves in Torkelson’s face. “C’mon, big man! Let’s see how tough you are face-to-face!”
A scrum of players from both sides quickly formed around the two of them as the linesmen fought their way into the pack, pushing Michael and Torkelson apart.
“Both of you! Out of here!” the helmeted referee yelled at them. “Number Eight, Ottawa, two minutes for elbowing. Number Thirty-three, New York, two minutes for roughing.”
Michael lost it. “If you’re not gonna keep him honest, then we have to!” he yelled at the ref. “What, you didn’t SEE the hit? Were you too busy getting ANOTHER DOUGHNUT?”
The ref ignored him, and Michael was forced to skate, glaring, to the penalty box. The left side of his face felt like it was on fire, the flesh throbbing and swelling as he sat there. Play resumed with the teams skating four on four. A minute later, Ottawa scored, putting them up 2 to 1 with less than a minute left.
The horn blew signifying end of play, and Michael bolted from the penalty box, heading straight for Torkelson. But he was blocked by one of the linesmen who grabbed him by the arms.
“Game’s over, Mikey. Let it go for tonight.”
“You fucking coward!” Michael shouted past the linesman at Torkelson. “No way am I done with you!”
“Mikey, get off the ice!” the referee yelled.
Frowning with dismay, Michael jerked his arm out of the linesman’s grasp while Torkelson disappeared into Ottawa’s locker room.
“You need your eyes checked,” Michael muttered to the referee, skating off the ice. His left cheek had ballooned up so far, so fast, that he could almost see it in front of his left eye. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he went to join his teammates.
“How’s the face feel, Mike?”
Michael tried not to blink as Dr. Linderman shone a penlight deep into his eyes, their noses close enough to touch. Obviously he was worried about another concussion. Michael wasn’t. Any pain he was feeling was in his face.
“My head feels fine,” he told the doctor.
“Well, your face is killing me,” the doctor laughed, amused with his own joke. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He switched off the penlight. “Put that ice pack back on your face.”
Michael complied. The anesthetizing cold helped him block out both the endless throbbing and the anxiety in the room. Ty and Kevin were both there, nervously waiting to hear what the doctor had to say. Judging by Linderman’s deep sigh as he showed them all the X ray, Michael knew it wasn’t good.
“There’s a hairline fracture to the left cheekbone. Here.” Linderman’s finger traced the thin line along the X ray.
Ty, looking displeased, regarded the doctor. “So, what’s the prognosis?”
“If he sits out, it heals and is as good as new in two months. If he gets hit there again, he’ll need reconstructive surgery.”
“Fuck,” Ty muttered.
Michael peeled the ice pack away from his face. “Fuck is right,” he echoed loudly. “No way am I not playing.”
Linderman chuckled as he lightly grasped Michael by the elbow and steered him toward a nearby mirror hanging on the white concrete wall. “Have a look at yourself and then see what you think.”
Michael faced his reflection in the mirror. The entire left side of his face was swollen and bruised, the skin turning varying shades of yellow, purple and black. Michael’s response was a shrug.
“I look like a hockey player.”
Kevin chuckled, but Michael failed to see the humor. He could feel the season slipping away from him. “I’ve got two days to ice it. By the time Wednesday rolls around it won’t look half this bad.”
“You really should avoid contact,” Dr. Linderman reiterated. Michael ignored him. All his attention was focused on Ty and Kevin, off in the corner talking. Michael hoped to Christ they weren’t going to pull the rug out from under him. Dante’s had reopened and was up and running. He had rededicated himself to hockey. If he couldn’t play, he didn’t know what the hell he’d do with himself. The thought was unbearable.
Ty and Kevin approached him.
“What about wearing a shield, Mikey?” Kevin suggested with concern.
“No fucking way,” Michael spat.
Ty took a step toward him. “Michael—”
“No shield! I’ve never worn one in my life and I’m not about to start now. It’s not my eyes we’re talking about here, it’s my face. You make me wear a shield and you may as well hang a billboard that says ‘Dante is injured.’ They’ll be going after me all night. We’ll ice it,” Michael maintained stubbornly. “It’ll be fine. No shield.”
“Jesus H. Christ.” Ty blew out a breath, shaking his head as he looked to Kevin. “What do you think?”
Kevin looked Michael in his one good eye. “Promise us you won’t drop your gloves.”
Michael looked at both of them. “I promise.”
He waited, Ty and Kevin exchanging quick glances before Ty gave an almost imperceptible jerk of the head. Then he spoke.
“You’ll dress. No shield.”
CHAPTER 19
The room was small and solidly beige. Several tiny white tea lights flickered, while ethereal sounding harp music was pumped in. Theresa inhaled deeply, intoxicated by what smelled like lavender tinged with another fragrance, perhaps tangerine. As the massage therapist administered a long, deep stroke down her spine, she felt herself drifting away into the ether. She closed her eyes, her body quietly humming with contentment.
“This,” Theresa sighed, “was a very good idea.”
“So, I was thinking,” Janna mumbled, lying on a tabl
e next to her.
“Mmm?”
“We should use Ty’s money.”
“You sly fox,” Theresa accused dreamily while the massage therapist worked on her left shoulder blade, pushing and pulling at the knotted muscle there. “You deliberately brought me here to relax me so you could bring this up.”
Janna laughed. “Am I that transparent?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what do you think?”
Theresa paused, enjoying the sensation of being fully in her body, appreciating a delicious sense of weightlessness. Janna was smart; now was the perfect time to talk about their business, when both their minds were relaxed and uncluttered.
“I don’t know,” Theresa admitted. “I feel badly your husband has to bail us out. That you—he—are going to pour more money into the company, and I won’t be contributing anything.”
Janna gave a languid sigh, her response delayed, Theresa supposed, by the pleasure she was currently experiencing as her own therapist worked on her neck. “Who put up most of the seed money for the business from her settlement?”
“Me,” Theresa said reluctantly.
“So why can’t we take money from my husband? It all evens out in the end.”
“I guess.” Theresa mulled this over as her shoulder muscles slowly, miraculously loosened. Without an infusion of cash, Reese’s nasty prediction would come true: Butler would bury them. Ty’s money would pay off their debts and also give them a financial cushion. They’d be able to keep Terrence on, perhaps even hire another publicist to handle smaller accounts.
“Have you talked to Ty?” Theresa asked, realizing immediately it was a stupid question. Of course she’d talked to Ty. Knowing Janna, the papers had already been drawn up and were just sitting at the bank waiting to be signed.
“He said we could use as much as we want.”
Theresa whistled softly. “Does he realize how dangerous a statement that is?”
“I don’t think we’ll need that much, as long as we continue to grow the business. Now that we’ve done restaurant PR, we could expand in that direction. Our focus has been too narrow. We need more restaurants and small businesses on the roster.”
“You’re right,” Theresa agreed. The success of her Dante’s campaign made her confident she could branch out beyond repping celebs.
“So is that a yes?” Janna sounded hopeful.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Janna crowed. “We’ll show those bastards at Butler.”
But Theresa wasn’t so sure. “The minute we tell them we’re not interested in their offer, they’re going to start stealing clients,” she predicted.
“Let them try. We can handle them. We’re the best, remember?”
“I remember.” Theresa smiled to herself, surprised to find her eyes getting moist. When she and Janna worked together at the network and managed to pull off a particular PR coup, they would often high five each other and say, “We’re the best.” Because they were. Let Butler come sniffing around our clients, she thought defiantly. We’ll give them a run for their money.
“We should probably give Terrence a raise,” she murmured, tensing slightly as the therapist gently pushed up the sheet covering her lower body to begin working on the back of her legs.
“I agree,” said Janna. “Let’s tell him tomorrow.”
“And then make him take us out to lunch.”
They both laughed.
Long . . . slow . . . deep. The therapist’s hands glided over Theresa’s calves with ease, pausing to work out a kink just above the back of her knee. “I’m beginning to see why you have this done every week,” she said to Janna.
“Sometimes coming to Karma for a massage is the only thing that keeps me from murdering Ty.”
Theresa gasped with feigned shock. “You mean he’s not perfect?”
“Not when I have PMS,” Janna returned. “Speaking of Ty . . . the Blades . . .”
Theresa groaned. “What?”
“Have you thought about getting back in touch with Michael?”
“No,” Theresa said emphatically.
“Well, you should. Maybe he’s not serious with the redhead. Maybe he’s just with her because you were with Reese.”
“Maybe we’ll never find out because I refuse to humiliate myself.” The therapist deepened the pressure, causing Theresa to sigh with pleasure.
“It can’t hurt to let him know you’re available.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“The team will be back in town tomorrow night to play Ottawa at Met Gar. You and I could visit before the game, say hi.”
“Won’t Ty get pissed? I thought pre-game was when he got them all revved up and ready to fight. We’ll be committing puckus interruptus.”
Janna chuckled. “We’ll go down before they dress, when they’re all working on their sticks and skates.”
Theresa thought a moment. Saying hello couldn’t hurt, could it? She felt so good . . . so relaxed . . . blissful . . . positive. . . .
“All right,” she agreed easily, feeling herself being carried away on a wave of well being. Right now, anything seemed possible.
Perhaps even getting Michael back.
“I’m leaving.”
Theresa’s declaration was met with a firm grasp of the wrist. “Don’t be an idiot. All you have to do is say hi, how are you, and then we’ll go to our seats and watch the warm-up.”
“You promise?”
“I promise. Here, we’ll say hi to Ty first.”
Her wrist still in Janna’s clutches, Theresa found herself being dragged along the fluorescent-lit, labyrinthine corridors beneath Met Gar toward the open doorway of an office.
“Hello, my love.” Janna dropped Theresa’s wrist and headed toward the desk behind which her husband sat.
“Hey.”
Hovering uneasily in the doorway, Theresa watched as Ty rose to kiss his wife. She felt awkward and self-conscious in front of him; the last time Ty had seen her, it was after midnight and she was shivering and drenched to the bone in the foyer of his apartment. He must have thought she was nuts. Still did, probably.
“Hi, Theresa.” Ty’s gaze was overly sympathetic as it lit on her. “How’s it going?”
“Fine.” God, he does think I’m nuts. Maybe I am. Being here is insane. Michael has a girlfriend. And she isn’t me.
“Theresa and I thought we’d pop in and say hi before the game. Where’s Kevin?” Janna inquired. “Down with the rest of the guys?”
“Yeah.” Ty looked mildly suspicious. “Why?”
“I just want to say hello,” Janna replied perkily. She stood up on tiptoes and kissed her husband’s nose. “Win tonight, okay?”
“Don’t distract the guys for too long,” he called after them as Janna once again grabbed Theresa and headed back down the corridor. “They have to dress soon!”
“I know,” Janna called over her shoulder.
Theresa shook her hand free of Janna’s. “I’m really not sure this is such a good idea.”
“Too late.”
They had rounded a corner, and there, at the far end of the corridor taping the blade of his stick, was Michael. Theresa’s heart lurched. It should be easy to stroll up to him and start a conversation. After all, it had been his arms she cried in at the funeral home, his strength that had prevented her from totally breaking down beside her father’s open grave. But grief tended to suspend the rules of reality. Now that they’d each returned to the “real world,” Theresa felt sure they’d resume their roles within it.
“I’m going to talk to Kevin,” Janna murmured, veering off into the locker room.
Before Theresa could protest, Janna was gone. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she continued walking towards Michael, whose head was bent low in concentration. Lifting it, Theresa saw the left side of his face looked pulverized. She gasped, drawing Michael’s attention. Seeing her, his face broke into a huge, if lopsided smile.
“What are you
doing here?” he asked pleasantly.
“I’m watching the game with Janna and thought I’d say hi.” Theresa grimaced. “What happened to your face?”
Michael shrugged dismissively. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.” Her hand was halfway to his cheek before she realized what she was doing and checked herself. “What happened?” she asked again.
“One of Ottawa’s defensemen elbowed me. Not a big deal.” Finished taping the stick, he slowly spun it left, then right, admiring his own handiwork. He lowered it to the floor, lifting it back up to eye level before putting it down again.
“What are you doing?” Theresa asked.
“What?”
She waved her hand in the direction of the stick. “What’s the tape for?”
Michael looked amused. “You really want to know?”
“No, what you do with your stick is your business,” Theresa answered, suppressing a smile. This felt good, teasing him like this. This was within her comfort zone. This she could handle.
Michael laughed. “Well, I’m going to tell you anyway. It gives you more feel for the puck.”
Theresa nodded as though she understood, even though she really didn’t.
“So, how’s your mom doing?” Michael asked.
“Good,” Theresa answered quickly. “She’s doing good.” She could feel awkwardness beginning to creep into the conversation, making her tense and twitchy. It’s just Michael, she reminded herself. Just be normal.
“So . . . um . . .” She heard herself sounding uncomfortable and tried to remedy it. “I just wanted to thank you for all you did during the wake and funeral,” she said softly. She felt shaky inside, tender. “I couldn’t have gotten through it without you.”
His eyes caught hers before looking down at his stick, which he mindlessly twirled. “Anytime,” he murmured.
What should I say now? Theresa thought desperately. She felt overwhelmed by her own ineptness and flustered that what should be a simple conversation seemed so uncomfortable for both of them. She was frantic to keep the flow going, desperate to fill the silence that felt like drowning. And so, unthinking, she blurted, “How’s your girlfriend?”
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