He ordered a Wild Turkey, neat. The amber liquid burned with blessed fire down his throat, calming his frayed nerves and welcoming him into an old, familiar comfort zone. It tasted like ambrosia compared to the bootleg rotgut he’d consumed in prison. He looked around the room. Seemed like quite a party going on. For what?
Servers circulated with trays of appetizers and hungry guests lined up at a buffet table. The ticket said it was a fundraiser for youth hockey, but two of the walls lay draped in Rochester Riot banners. Wasn’t that Ryder’s team? The one where he hid like a worthless pussy behind the beveled glass of the front office? A smaller banner over a raised stage area in one corner read “Welcome #7.” He peered deeper into the crowd, uncomfortable at the thought his son would discover him drinking here. Taking another hit from the yummy whiskey, he decided the crime would be worth the punishment.
Sure enough, he spotted Ryder talking with a group of friends a few tables away from the main bar. Walter uttered a low grunt of disdain. He may have abstained from drinking at home, but he was certainly pounding back the shots tonight. Hypocritical little spawn. Suddenly, a voice called the crowd’s attention from a PA system set up by the stage.
“Alright! Is everyone having a good time?” a huge, bald man at the microphone yelled. A roar of assent rose up from the crowd. “First of all, thanks everyone for coming out tonight and supporting a great cause. Second, I’m sure you’re all anxious to meet the newest player for the Rochester Riot.” Another cheer from the patrons. “After that, I want to draw your attention to our silent auction event, which will run until ten p.m. So bid early, bid often. Cole’s underprivileged but future NHL stars are counting on your generosity.”
The bald dude beamed at the crowd as they rose to their feet in applause, not talking again until everyone had settled down. “Now, without further delay, here he is, the Riot’s choice in the recent open tryouts, wearing lucky number seven, Rochester’s own, Ryder Ryde-the-Pride Martin!”
Walter’s glass fell to the hardwood floor, shattering into a thousand tiny slivers. Stepping on them would cause as much pain as the ache in his heart. Fucker didn’t even tell me! His own fucking flesh and blood, he thought amid the shouts and cheers erupting all around him. The kid had made it. His kid.
A two-man camera crew from the local station moved in close as Ryder stepped onto the stage and the announcer handed him a brand new jersey. Walter watched him pull it over his head without messing a hair, his smile radiating across the room like a damn spotlight.
A sensation burned in his gut that had nothing to do with alcohol, one that told him exactly what an unwelcome and needless role he now played in his youngest son’s life. He hadn’t said a word to his old man. Walter drew in another painful breath. The look of happiness on Ryder’s face was simultaneously the most beautiful and most bittersweet thing Walter had ever seen. He knew, with the certainty of a sunset, he wouldn’t be around long enough to enjoy his son’s triumph.
He had nobody to blame but himself. There would be no complimentary tickets for him so he could root for Ryder as he made his NHL debut. A father’s dream. He looked down at the mess littering the floor beneath his torn sneakers. Dammit, if he was going to die, he shouldn’t help it along.
***
Applause thundered in the dining room as Hannah entered. The Riot’s starting goalie Shredder Politski was at the microphone, talking about the auction. She seemed to have missed the player announcement while checking on the chicken sliders, clearing tables, and refilling the appetizer trays, her thoughts on her sister more than on the job.
“We have a very special item up for bid tonight,” she heard Shredder say. “You may have seen this on television, but I’m pretty sure it’s a first for Rochester. The next item on your auction list was graciously donated by one of our tryout participants, who sadly, did not make the final cut. But, since it’s only fair that everyone gets a good look at what they’re bidding on, c’mon up!” He curled his arm in a beckoning gesture.
Hannah looked up as an athletic woman with long, copper-colored hair that cascaded down her back and shoulders in knotty curls stepped up beside the mike and waved to the crowd. Whistles and hoots sounded throughout the room. Her fresh, freckled face shone with good health, and her sleeveless sequined top revealed sculpted, shapely arms. Dewy pink lip gloss framed a stunning smile.
“Down boys,” Shredder joked. “The bids will start at two-hundred, but I’m sure we can drive that number up. The winning bid will have the privilege of a date with this lovely young woman, who happens to be one hell of a hockey player. We called her Joe, but it’s my pleasure to introduce, hailing from La Ronge Saskatchewan, Miss Josée Marie Thibault!”
Hannah’s mouth dropped open. Her dream man was a woman! They allowed women in the NHL? She had no idea. As she gaped at the scene feeling beyond stupid, her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She grabbed it and moved to a quieter corner. “Hello?”
“It’s a girl,” Cole’s voice crackled over the connection. He sounded exhausted and delirious. “Five pounds, six ounces. She’s beautiful! Just like her mother.”
Hannah smiled at the news. “Of course she is! What’s her name? How’s El?”
“El’s fine, no name yet, she’s…” his voice cracked and stalled.
“What? Is anything wrong?”
“No, it’s just… she’s just so small, she’ll have to stay in the hospital for a while.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s what they do,” Hannah said, not having the first clue how premature babies were handled. “But it’s the best hospital in the country, right? Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Is that the wise old auntie talking?” Cole chuckled.
Auntie. Holy crap, I’m an auntie! “That’s right. So you just listen to me, Daddy-o.” Even through the noise all around her, she could hear it. The big tough hockey guy was about to cry.
“Daddy-O…” he repeated in a choked voice, followed by silence. “Hannah, I can’t even explain how I’m feeling right now. I never thought I was capable of loving someone this much. In the blink of an eye.”
Hannah felt like crying too. She took a deep breath and changed the subject to ease the moment. “Well, things are going great here, don’t worry about anything. Spud and I and your teammates have got everything under control.”
Cole cleared his throat. “Right. That’s great, I knew you could handle it. Kick-start that party with some champagne, will you? Tell Spud to break out the bubbly, on the house. Everyone in my Casa needs to raise a glass of the finest to baby girl Fiorino!”
“Okay,” Hannah said. “Right after I call Mom, Dad, and Sophia in Columbus.”
“Already done. My mother’s called everyone we’re related to on two continents. We’re gonna have one hell of a cell bill. I better go stop her before she gets on the horn to CNN.”
Hannah laughed. “Alright then, I’ll be at the hospital first thing in the morning. Give El a kiss for me, and your new daughter too. I expect to hear a name when I get there, okay?”
“Okay, Auntie Hannah.”
Auntie Hannah. She liked the sound of that. She disconnected the call and made her way through the jostling bodies to tell Spud the news. His mutton-chop jaw lit up with a big grin. “Go tell Shredder to make an announcement while I start pouring.”
Chapter Eight
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Ryder said, staring at the redhead standing next to Shredder. Had he known this information prior to the open call, he might have opted to forgo his dream in favor of his wounded pride. “I had to beat out a chick? That’s disgraceful. That’s… embarrassing.” He turned to Jones, whose gaze was fixed blankly ahead. Ryder elbowed him.
“That’s the worst fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“What?” Jones said, clearly oblivious to everything except the girl at the microphone.
“A chick, he’s a chick! How did we not know this? Is this Sheehan Murphy’s kind of warped version of PUNK
d? That old coot would do just about anything to make a buck, but shitting all over the NHL and making a mockery of our sport? It’s… it’s…”
“It’s I dunno, bro. All I know is that holy fuck, she’s hot. Too bad she never showered with me.”
“I can’t believe it. All these weeks we were skating, sweating, spitting, and swearing right next to that juicy number,” Ryder said. “If I didn’t hate her guts, I’d buy the date just so I could sweat and spit all over her.”
“Definitely bidding on that piece of ass,” Ealon said, knocking back another tequila shot. “Time to teach her a lesson about infiltrating a man-only situation. Fuck. Is nothing sacred anymore? Pretty soon we’ll have chicks on the bus and chicks on the plane and chicks…”
“Someone will outbid you,” Ryder said. “You’re notoriously cheap. If you heard the gossip in the front office, you wouldn’t be so cocky. You should take it easy on those,” he pointed to Ealon’s empty shot glass, “you know what they say about tequila… it never travels alone.”
“Look who’s talking. If you’re counting, I believe that’s your third scotch. No game ‘til Monday, bro. You gotta learn to live like a player now.” Jones slammed the tiny tumbler down on the bar and straightened. “Time to put my money where my mouth wants to be… in between those freckled thighs.” He laughed and headed for the auction tables. “I hope she doesn’t smell like one of my teammates.”
Ryder waved his glass at Spud. “Another,” he said, his words drowned by the pop of a cork. It reminded him of what Jones’s cock was probably doing right about now. “Aw, you didn’t have to break out the Moet & Chandon just for me.” The scotch was definitely kicking in.
Spud poured the foaming liquid into waiting glasses lined up on a tray. “Seems you’re not the only thing we’re celebrating tonight.”
“Huh?”
“Attention, everyone,” Shredder’s voice boomed from the front of the room. “I have some great news. I’ve just been informed that we have another addition to the team. It’s a bit earlier than expected, but the Fiorino family has just increased by one. Tonight, Cole and Eloise are the proud parents of a baby girl.”
Shouts and cheers filled the room. Ryder whistled and shook his head. “That stupid ass,” he mumbled. “Just because you repeatedly say the word boy, doesn’t make it so. What do you know? Fiorino the Great will be stickhandling diapers instead of pucks. Hope he remembers which bag to grab on game nights.”
Spud laughed at his comment and slid a glass of champagne across the bar at him. “Here. This’ll hold you until I bring you that scotch.”
“Gee, thanks. Just what I wanted… fruit punch.” He took the glass anyway and raised it in a small salute. As he turned around, he felt his body connect with something solid, followed by the sound of tinkling glass. “Shit,” he yelled, grabbing for the serving tray he’d just knocked out of a woman’s hands, dropping his own glass to land on the toe of his polished shoe.
Champagne flew everywhere, spewing onto the floor, onto the sleeves of his new team jersey, and the pink satin material of her dress. Christ, he was drunker than he thought. “Sor…” he started to say, when he looked up into the widest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen. And they looked like they wanted to kill him. Daggers blazed from their azure depths. If he weren’t so numb from scotch, he’d feel them pepper his face. Frozen in their icy glare, he said the first thing that popped into his blurry brain. “Sorry.”
Their owner stood as still as he, liquid dripping from her chin and forming little rivers down the skin of her neck and chest. He watched a droplet roll down and disappear in the cleft between her breasts. Her lips trembled as she found her voice. No. No. No. Please don’t cry. “You should be.”
Of all the ways he’d have wanted to bump into the pretty blonde from the front entrance, this was not it. “I really am. I am so, so sorry.”
In a flash, Spud appeared at his elbow, prying loose the oval tray from Ryder’s fingers. “I’ve got this,” he said, thoughtfully producing a towel for the lady. “Sit down, Ryder, before you fall down.” He swept up the scattered champagne glasses from the floor and carried them away.
“You’re Ryder Martin? The new player?” she asked, clutching the towel in her hands. She seemed to have found her composure. And her voice.
He smiled weakly. “Yeah. How do you like me so far?”
She dabbed the drops off her chin and then threw the towel in his face. Ryder fell back onto his barstool as though the weight of the cloth had pushed him there. He pulled it off and stared after her as she marched away, the folds of her pink skirt swishing between her lovely legs. She disappeared into the kitchen without a backward glance.
“Aw, fuck,” he grumbled, tossing the towel onto the bar. Off the post and out. “Where’s my fucking drink?”
He twisted around to find that Spud had also exited. He pushed himself to his feet and went in search of Jones. He found him chatting up ‘Tiny’ Thibault in a corner. Damn, she had a nice figure. Especially when poured into that tight-fitting sequined number that barely covered her ass. She turned toward him as he approached.
“Allo Ryder,” she said in a telltale French accent, flashing him a smile along with a copious expanse of fleshy leg. His eyes couldn’t help but travel the length of it. “Congratulation… de best man win, after all.” She reached out for a handshake.
Very punny. Ryder obliged. His hand felt as though caught in a vice. Strong too. “Thanks. Is this left-handed cherry picker bothering you?”
Ealon threw him a caustic look, then leaned in and sniffed him. “You’re supposed to drink the champagne not take a bath in it, dipshit. I’m not sure I’m going to be okay with you on the team. Am I going to have to explain everything?”
“Oh, he is celebrating, Ealon. Let him enjoy it,” Josée said, waving off Ryder’s appearance.
Ryder grinned. “I like a girl who’s a good sport,” he said with a wink. “Sorry you didn’t make the team, but I’m sure we could play with each other again sometime.”
Josée smiled in spite of his lame come-on and glanced over Ryder’s shoulder. “I think someone wants to meet you.” A giggle sounded from behind. Ryder turned, slowly this time.
Two girls stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes bright with a champagne-induced sparkle. And fake ID’s most likely, Ryder thought. Neither looked of legal drinking age to him, but what the hell. They were here. And they were looking at him – no, drooling over him more like.
“Can we have your autograph?” The one on the right squeaked, her dark bangs brushing just above her over-manicured eyebrows.
“Me too?” the other mewed, her waist-length hair tamed behind a wide hairband.
“Certainly, ladies…” he acknowledged coolly. Oh yeah, baby. Blow that train whistle. “You have a pen?” Bangs-girl smiled and produced a Sharpie but nothing else. He took it and gave her a curious look. “Uh, what do you want me to sign?”
The pair looked at each other, laughed and returned their attention to him. On cue, they pulled aside the necklines of their flimsy dresses and pointed to the area of skin just above their hearts.
“Us!”
***
As if the evening wasn’t stressful enough already, she had to end up all wet.
Hannah stood before the bathroom mirrors, assessing the damage. The spilled liquid left blotchy patches in her makeup and a big wet stain on the front of her dress. Hot tears threatened to melt off her mascara too. She’d spent hours altering the bridesmaid gown she’d worn at Sophia’s wedding into a short cocktail dress especially for this occasion. She hoped it would come clean.
The worst part was coming nose to nose with the man who’d ruined it. On top of the mysterious Joe Thibault turning out to be a woman, the gorgeous Ryan Reynolds lookalike she’d seen jumping the queue at the entrance turned out to be not only the Riot’s newest player and the guest of honor but also a drunken klutz. And a womanizing piece of shit if Spud’s words rang true. And Spud was a man who
could be depended on. He never lied. And Ryder’s first impression of her would be looking like a drowned rat and glaring daggers of outrage at him.
Hardly love at first sight.
Ugh. Why couldn’t she meet somebody she was actually attracted to in a normal way? Like at a bookstore perusing the gourmet cooking section or a coffee shop where he’d stoop chivalrously to pick up her dropped change? Or over powdered sugar donuts at the convenience store like Cole and El. Why did it have to be so hard?
However, the disastrous encounter didn’t make Ryder Martin any less handsome. In that blistering moment when his soft, amber-brown eyes had locked with hers, she felt like a trapped animal, desperate to run away yet frozen in the hypnotizing gaze of her hunter. But the spell had broken along with the shattered glassware all around them.
He’s not for the likes of you, Hanna-bee. This was one situation where her other alter-ego Wanna-bee made more sense. She wasn’t enough to capture the attention of a man like that. So it was good that she didn’t want his attention.
She really didn’t want it.
She heaved a sigh wondering if she’d ever convince herself of that. If she could just get this night over with, she could go to the hospital and see Eloise and the baby – a place she’d much rather be right now. But she’d made a promise. To conceal her ruined frock, she donned a black cardigan that El kept on the back of her office chair and marched back to the battlefield looking like an advertisement for Nike compression pants.
She picked up another tray of filled champagne glasses from the bar, thankfully noting Ryder had left his previous roost and gone elsewhere. She moved carefully around the room, and as she passed the auction tables saw something she immediately wished she hadn’t. Ryder stood there, surrounded by women. He leaned over one of them, his hands on her boobs. What in the hell was he doing? Inappropriate much? Geez, give a guy a shot at the NHL and he turns into some kind of exhibitionist.
The Rebound: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance Page 7
