The Rebound: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance

by Colleen Charles

  As she stepped closer, she saw a pen in his hand. Good heavens, was he writing on the girl’s exposed cleavage? Something coiled up Hannah’s spine like a poisonous serpent, bitter and feral. She froze in place, unable to move or look away, watching him appear to take great delight inscribing atop the skin of her left breast. In the same moment, as though he sensed her, he glanced up. The expression ‘like a deer in headlights’ must have originated in Minnesota, because even from several feet away, Hannah could see the whites enlarge around his beautiful brown irises.

  Suddenly, her paralysis released, and she spun an about-face, feeling… what? Disgust? Embarrassment? Jealousy? Ridiculous. The guy was clearly an ass, a skirt-chasing ice monkey with loose hands and even looser morals. She wanted nothing to do with that sort, hot looks or not. The saying was true. You really couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Even when that cover had big broad shoulders and dreamy brown eyes. And some kind of hypnotic and magnetic pull that drew her toward him like a hiker to the edge of a cliff.

  She shook her head to eradicate any further images of him and continued serving the last glasses of bubbly, trying to erase the image from her mind. But like a bad celebrity out-take in a gossip rag, once you saw it, you couldn’t un-see it.

  On her way back to the kitchen for more glassware, she noticed the gray-haired man who’d ambled in at the last minute sitting alone in a corner next to a wall. He hunched awkwardly over the bar-top. It made her sad to see his isolation, but even more worried. Was he alright? Had he had too much to drink, or something worse – a seizure of some sort? Her stomach lurched. She didn’t know if anyone working tonight even had first-aid training. The last thing this night needed to cap it off was a visit from an EMT, sirens blaring and strobes flashing.

  “Sir?” she asked. “Can I help you? Get you anything?” As she drew near, she could see his shoulders moving up and down as his lungs worked to take in air. His breathing sounded labored and painful, rasping in and out. He raised his head at the sound of her voice, placed a shaking hand flat on the bar to push himself upright.

  “Just… catch my breath,” he gasped, his voice tight and harsh. “Be… okay.” His movement revealed the half full whiskey glass he’d been guarding beneath his chest.

  “Do you want to go home? I can call a taxi for you.”

  He nodded haltingly. “Yes. I gotta… get outta here.” At close range, Hannah noticed his pockmarked face and reddened nose. He smelled strongly of liquor.

  “Okay, just take it easy and stay right here. I’ll call one right now.” She reached for her cell phone and called the local cab company the restaurant utilized as she hurried over to where Spud stood pulling pints from the taps. “There’s a gentleman over there who’s not doing too well,” she said. “I’m calling him a cab.”

  Spud looked over. “Good. Can you handle it? Got my hands full here.”

  “Sure. He’s not causing any trouble.” When the taxi arrived, Hannah went to the elderly man and slipped a hand under his elbow. “Taxi’s outside, sir. Let me help you.”

  The man seemed a bit recovered but still shaken. “Thanks.” He attempted a smile as he allowed her to guide him off his seat and to the door. “What’s a nice girl like you doing escorting broken-down has-beens like me out of bars? You’re beautiful and sweet. You could do better. You could be anything you wanted to be.”

  Hannah chuckled at the words she’d always wanted to hear from her own father but was still waiting for. She wouldn’t hold her breath since she perpetually lived in El’s shadow. “Just lucky I guess, but I sure appreciate your kind words. You take care of yourself, okay? Goodnight.”

  On a whim, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. His look of abject pleasure stole her breath. Did this man not have anyone to care about him? He nodded as the driver assisted him into the back seat. As the car drove away, she thought of her dad again. A grandpa, she reminded herself, a twinkle of excitement returning at the news of El’s new daughter. He was probably handing out cigars at the union hall as she spoke. The firstborn of his firstborn.

  She and her sisters were lucky to have a dad with plenty of years left to enjoy with his grandkids and not in the kind of condition as the man she’d just sent home in a cab.

  She took a big breath in and went back inside. Life in Rochester was turning out to be quite an education. At this rate, she might not even need grad school.

  ***

  “Oh shit, looks like we’ve got an ambulance case on our hands,” Jones mumbled over the lip of his beer bottle.

  It registered that Ealon had said something, but Ryder was too busy posing for selfies with an unending stream of girls that he didn’t quite catch it. Jesus, they circled like seagulls over a fishing dock at high tide. But after his interlude with the lady in pink, none of them were floating his boat even though they were literally throwing their naked tits in his face.

  “Say what?” he called over.

  Jones took another swig then pointed the neck of the bottle toward the bar. “Code red. No country for old men.” Out of curiosity, Ryder threw a casual glance in that direction, but then did a double take. His vision might not be the most reliable after all the drinks, but what he saw nearly made him fall down. How the fuck did that piece of work get in here?

  He could only stare as he watched his bent, miserable old man being lifted out of his chair and escorted off the premises – by none other than the lady in pink. The only woman his cock wanted and whose acquaintance he’d screwed up royally. Apparently, his father had more charm than he did.

  “Who is that old reprobate?” Jones asked.

  Ryder felt a burning sensation at the base of his tongue, a precursor to a potential vomit-storm. He choked it back. “No idea,” he lied through clenched teeth.

  Chapter Nine

  “Christina Theresa Fiorino,” Hannah repeated as she peered through the glass of the incubator unit. An awfully big name for such a little person. Barely the length of Hannah’s forearm, baby Christina sported an unlikely shock of black hair on her tiny head which was, no doubt, the legacy of both her parents’ luxurious tresses. She stared in awe at the little wonder of nature, her face with its translucent infant’s skin relaxed in oblivious slumber, breathing on her own in spite of the numerous sensors and tubes connected to her small body. Now she knew why cherubs were always depicted the way they were. Babies were the closest thing to angels that Earth possessed.

  “Well, what do you think, Auntie Hannah?”

  Hannah turned to see Eloise standing close behind her. “No more Hanna-bee?” she said with a grin.

  El shook her head. “No way. You’re officially an adult when you reach aunt status.”

  “Thank goodness. She’s so beautiful, El. I can hardly believe she’s real. When can I hold her?”

  “She should be ready to go home in a week or two. When the doc gives the thumbs up, you’ll be first in line.”

  “After Mom and Dad, I assume. Are they going to come out early? Have you talked to them?”

  “I’ve sent pictures, but Dad can’t get away until the twenty-third. We’ll all be home and ready for Christmas visitors by then. So?” She nudged Hannah’s elbow. “How’d the party go? How much money did we raise? Was the place full?”

  Hannah laughed at her big sis. “Jeez, El, can’t you relax and enjoy motherhood for five minutes? Does it always have to be business for you?”

  “Sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess,” she said with a sigh. El looked tired. Still beautiful but like she’d been through the ringer. Thank goodness her own childbirth was still years in the future. “Tell me anyway.”

  Hannah rolled her eyes heavenward, exasperated. “Spud has the totals. I was so tired after the cleanup, I just went home.” She sighed thinking about all the crazy things that happened. “It certainly was a night to remember.” Or one to forget.

  “Did you meet anyone interesting?” El prodded. “I’m sure most of the team was in attendance.”

  Han
nah wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I was too busy to notice.”

  El cocked her head and narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Hannah Jane Robertson, you are a terrible liar. Too busy to notice a herd of hunky men all around you?” She clucked her tongue. “What did you think of Shredder? He and Cole used to room together, and he married my favorite assistant and friend, Kylie.” She leaned over and lowered her voice. “He’s my favorite Riot player. And even if you didn’t notice anyone, I’m willing to bet at least one of them noticed you.”

  Yeah. One of them sure did. And not in a good way.

  Hannah shrugged. “I loved Shredder. He did a great job hosting the event, and I think his charm and sense of humor drew more money in. And as for the Riot players noticing me? Doesn’t matter. I’ve re-submitted my grad school application. I’ll be going back to Columbus eventually anyway.”

  “Really? That’s great. If that’s what you want. You know, there’s some pretty good schools out here too. Minnesota boasts some of the top private colleges in the country.”

  Hannah’s lips pressed together in a tight line. “Yes. Especially the Rochester school of hard knocks. It’s teaching me life skills I won’t soon forget.”

  Like whenever you see a man that makes your heart pound and your pussy wet. Run.

  ***

  All Ryder could see through the slits of his puffy eyelids was a furry face with glassy eyeballs staring back at him. He jerked his head back on reflex, his brain responding with an explosion of pain that reached to every part of his skull, including his hair follicles. A pitiful groan escaped from his lips.

  With difficulty, he pushed up off his pillow, blinking to clear what felt like radioactive waste coating his eyes. His bed companion lay unblinking on the pillow next to him – a small stuffed toy that looked like it came from Build-A-Bear. It wore a plastic hockey helmet on its head and fuzzy felt skates on its feet. Emblazoned on its little jersey in black marker were the words, ‘I LUV U RYDER.’ The stuffed toy was probably the best-looking thing he’d had in his bed in recent months.

  What. The. Fuck.

  He glanced around his bedroom for any other surprise inhabitants and thankfully found none. Alone. He honestly didn’t remember how he got home. He flopped onto his back and raised his arm to cover his eyes that now throbbed like nuclear reactor cores. As he crooked his elbow, he saw curvy writing on his inner forearm in a matching black ink. CHELSI, with a heart dotting the ‘I’ and a phone number. He groaned again and clamped his aching orbs shut.

  Be careful what you wish for, he chided himself. Regret and worry crept into his brain in equal doses. Had this Chelsi been here and left? Did they get it on? Was she the brunette-bangs-girl or her friend? Or someone else entirely? Fuck, he couldn’t remember at all.

  None of it past the point where Jones had called out his dying old man as a reprobate.

  As the memories flooded back, he imagined with horror, the sight of his dad lurking in the shadows of the bar. Spying on him? Following him? More likely following the scent of a free drink. He must have found the unsold tickets lying around and decided they were a gift. How long was he there, and how much did he see or hear? Probably enough to know about his selection to the team. Unless he was already so deep into the pail he’d fallen both deaf and blind.

  He bolted upright, ignoring his splitting head. Where was Walter? Shit. The man was sick to begin with, and his last glimpse of him involved his removal from the restaurant by…

  His mental movie went to freeze-frame. That girl. That lovely golden-haired nymph he’d wanted to meet all night… until he’d doused his chances at the same moment he’d doused her with spilled champagne.

  Well, that vision was lost to him forever.

  He stumbled out of his room to check on Walter, grabbing his bathrobe on the way. The Murphy bed in his den hadn’t been turned down, and there was no sign of the man anywhere. Panic, guilt, and nausea collapsed upon him all at once. As much as he hated him, he still felt responsible. He hadn’t pictured his Saturday starting out with calls to every hospital in Rochester.

  By mid-afternoon, he’d located Walter at the Mayo Clinic’s Pulmonary Care center. He told Ryder that he’d taken a cab straight there from the restaurant and that they’d kept him overnight.

  Ryder stared with tired eyes at his father, who lay partially upright on a bed in the facility’s observation ward. “Do you even have any insurance coverage?” he asked him. “Or are you expecting me to foot the bill for all this.” He circled his finger around the room. His guilt didn’t quite extend as far as paying thousands of dollars in unexpected medical bills.

  Walter coughed again, as he’d been doing every few minutes since Ryder arrived. He seemed worse than when he’d picked him up two weeks ago.

  “The FMC arranged for an outpatient program with the Mayo before I got released,” Walter said when his lungs settled down enough to speak. “They want research subjects for my condition. They’re working on nearby co-op accommodations for patients so they can study the disease.”

  Ryder stared at his father. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “You never asked. And why the hell didn’t you tell me about an NHL contract? Thought for sure you’d wanna rub that in my face the first chance you got instead of keeping it a secret.” Walter’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t worry about denting that fat wallet of yours, whelp. The research department pays part of it, and I still have a pension. So I’ll stay here until then.”

  “You wouldn’t be here at all if you hadn’t helped yourself to those charity tickets. The free drinks were on Cole Fiorino and only for the paying customers making a donation. You’re a thief as well as an alcoholic.”

  Walter seemed to shrink and collapse into the thin mattress of his bed at this comment, as though he’d aged another ten years in the minutes they’d spent arguing. Emotions warred within Ryder. His own chest felt tight with anger, frustration, anguish. Helplessness. He shouldn’t have said that. Words couldn’t hurt his father more than he hurt already. All of a sudden, being right didn’t seem that important. He’d just realized his own dream, and he could afford to be more empathetic as he tried to forget all the pain this man had caused to his family.

  “Son,” he wheezed. “I’m sorry for intruding on your important evening. I’m sorry for a lot of things. Your mother. The accident. I’m sorry I won’t get to see your brothers before I leave this world. But more than anything, I’m sorry I won’t get to see you live your dream.” He lifted a trembling hand. “Go away. I can’t look at you another minute.”

  ***

  It took several hours and about a gallon of black coffee before Ryder recovered from his emotional exchange with his father, and his hangover reduced to a low-grade case of indigestion. Add that to piecing together the events of the previous evening, and he realized he owed some apologies. Lots of them. Some even to himself. But one, in particular, he wanted to deliver in person and say out loud.

  Once again, Ryder found himself on the steps of Casa Fiorino, wondering what sort of reaction might await him inside its doors. Maybe she wouldn’t even be inside. He had no idea about her schedule. But he couldn’t get the girl out of his mind. Even if she hadn’t been stunningly attractive, she still stood out among the throng of women in the place last night. She shone like a lighthouse beacon across a rolling sea of party girls and hockey wife wanna-bees. Those chicks that would do anything to bag a professional athlete and suck him dry just to say they had. The lady in pink… seemed so different. So sweet. And innocent.

  He let out an ironic chuckle. His ranking scale of female candidates centered around the four Fs – fitness, fertility, flexibility, and fuckworthiness. He hadn’t thought of innocence being a quality he’d ever want in a woman, but perhaps that’s why she fascinated him. One always wanted what they’d never had. And he wouldn’t forget her steady, caring nature. In addition to putting up with his own and others drunken foolery, she’d helped an old codger she di
dn’t know from Adam in his time of need. Acts like that required the fortitude and constitution of Mother Teresa herself.

  He slapped a shaky hand to his head wondering what the hell his father might have divulged to the woman. Any words tumbling from the old man’s lips couldn’t paint Ryder in a favorable way. In the cold light of day, he felt ashamed for not getting involved and going to his dad’s aid. It was even worse since their conversation earlier today.

  What kind of shit son are you, the archetypal angel on one shoulder whispered. Same kind of shit father he was to you, said the little red devil.

  But he had been pretty drunk himself by that time. The shock of seeing Walter in the place, uninvited on top of his compromised state, had paralyzed him, keeping his mouth shut. He didn’t want anyone knowing the relationship between them. Especially not her.

  Christ, he didn’t even know her name yet. But he’d never find out if he didn’t walk through that door. He pulled the latch and went in. The dinner rush hadn’t yet begun, so the place was quiet. He spotted her blonde head in the middle of the dining room where she leaned over a table setting wine glasses in place. He ventured farther into the room.

  “Excuse me.” With a start at his voice, she turned toward him, hair swirling in a golden arc about her shoulders as she did so. Shit, she’s something. Her expression was difficult to define. One of recognition but neither hostile nor welcoming. “Hi.”

  “Hello,” she replied with a nod.

  “Remember me?”

  Is that the best thing you can come up with, dipshit?

  Her lips pursed into an alluring pucker as she regarded him. He hovered by the hostess stand, not knowing if he could get any closer. Or if he should even try. Her full lips looked pink and petal-soft, and right then and there he wanted to kiss her. To tell her with his body what his inept words could never do. Kiss away whatever sourness he’d placed there with his abominable behavior from the night before.