Icing the Puck (New York Empires Book 2)

by Isabo Kelly

  Without looking back at the ice to see what had happened, she fled the stadium, taking refuge in the cold winter air.

  Brody fully expected the match penalty and took it without argument. It was worth it to make that bastard pay for what he’d done to St. Laurent. As he headed to the tunnel, he looked into the stands for Ann. She wasn’t there.

  Worry followed him to the locker room. That fight had been even more bloody and vicious than the one she’d seen on TV. And watching a beat down live was very different to seeing one on the small screen.

  He changed out of his gear, let one of the trainers check his hands—he had swollen knuckles but no major damage—then showered. He’d have to meet with Coach and do a few interviews with the press before he’d be able to leave. He’d warned Ann it would take him some time after the game ended before he could meet her. But now, the usual delays made him edgy.

  Watching the last of the game from the locker room, he forgot his anxiety long enough to cheer when the Empires won. Then he went back to tapping his foot, impatient to get to Ann so he could check on her.

  The team filed in a few minutes later, and for the next half hour, Brody did what was required. He got a lot of congratulations and praise from the guys—which he waved off. He was only doing his part for the team. He went into the office to talk with Coach—where it was confirmed he’d have a five game suspension. Neither he nor Coach MacArthur were very bothered by it. Brody would be back in time for the Winter Classic, and the suspension was worth it given the egregious actions of the other player.

  He answered all the reporters’ questions, doing his best to put on his typical easygoing acceptance of what had happened. But during it all, he worried about Ann, and it was harder than usual to focus on this part of his job.

  Finally, after a brief talk with Semenov about the suspension, Brody got his chance to escape. By that point, the events of the game were secondary to his growing apprehension about Ann.

  After making his way through encouraging fans and a few more reporters, he reached the place on the opposite side of the stadium from the team exit where he was supposed to meet Ann. She wasn’t there. He hunted the passing pedestrians as the scents of cooking nuts from a nearby food cart flavored the cold December air. The streetlights surrounding the stadium were bright, but the stadium’s wall still harbored pockets of shadows. He searched those too, trying not to let his frustration and worry show.

  Where the hell was she? Had she left?

  He took out his cellphone and checked—again—for texts or voicemails. Nothing. He flicked through to her number and started to call, just as he saw her come around the corner of the building, heading toward him.

  Relief made his shoulders slump. He stuffed his phone back in his coat pocket and went to her, so happy to see her he almost missed how pale she looked.

  Her hands were jammed into her coat pockets and her skin was nearly translucent under the yellow streetlights. Her eyes were huge and glassy, and she breathed in rough, rapid gasps.

  “Hey, are you OK?” When he tried to take her in his arms, she jerked away. “Ann? Was it the fight? I’m so sorry. That was worse than usual. Are you upset?”

  She swallowed visibly and shook her head, then nodded, then bit her lip. “It’s… Are you hurt?”

  He flexed his hands, though she wouldn’t be able to see the damage through his gloves. “Nothing serious. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

  “What happened after?”

  “You missed me getting thrown out?”

  She blinked. “They threw you out of the game?”

  “I expected it. Got a five game suspension.” He shrugged. “I’m more worried about you right now. You don’t look so good. I mean, you always look beautiful, but you’re very pale. Maybe we should go get a drink, put some color back into your cheeks.”

  She shook her head in a fast, jerky denial. “No. I can’t… I have to go. I need to get home.”

  “Wait, what? I thought we were going out? Ann, damn it, what’s wrong?” He pulled her into his arms, ignoring her protest because he was too worried about her. “Jesus, you’re burning up. You’re sick.”

  She scrambled out of his arms, so fast and so full of panic, his own panic spiked.

  “Ann, please. Let me get a taxi. I’ll get you home.”

  “No!” She shook her head again in that fast, jerky movement. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I…”

  Tears filled her eyes, and Brody’s panic went into overdrive. But before he could do anything else, she turned and ran. For a split second he didn’t react, then he took off after her. If she was that sick, she needed help.

  He pushed through a clump of milling tourists, grunting at their protests, but it was too late. Ann had disappeared into the crowds.

  He had a sharp déjà vu moment of their first date, when she’d also run away from him. And his panic turned into full blown fear.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ann pushed into her apartment, her hands still warm enough to heat the wood when she pressed it. She dropped her coat and purse on the floor just inside the entryway without touching anything, toed out of her boots, then went to her bathroom. She didn’t even take off her clothes, just climbed into the shower, turned on the cold water and dunked herself under the spray.

  Steam rose from her skin, warming the air around her despite the cold water.

  Since the blue flames that burst from her skin weren’t typical fire, they didn’t react to fire retardants the way normal flames would. But cold water helped. It wouldn’t prevent the fire entirely, but it was enough of a shock to her system to give her time to regain her control.

  One of the more valuable lessons from Nathalie and Mr. Mendez.

  She closed her eyes, with her head under the spray, and focused on slowing her heartbeat.

  “Pi to the fifth decimal,” she murmured. “Divide by twelve.” She did that in her head. “Now add that.” She focused on the numbers, the sound of her own voice echoing in the shower stall, the abstraction of the equations. Still with her eyes closed, she talked herself through a series of large number calculations, until finally she felt steady and calm.

  Another trick Nathalie had taught her—if she focused on multiplying and dividing large numbers in her head, she automatically calmed because she wasn’t thinking about her feelings or panic.

  She eased out from under the water, taking a long, deep breath. The air wasn’t steamy anymore, and the cold water was giving her goose bumps. Shutting off the spray, she stripped out of her clothes, leaving them hanging in the shower to dry, and pulled on her robe. Then she went to clean up her coat and purse in the entryway.

  Her cellphone was ringing from the depths of her bag. She pulled it out, saw Brody’s number, and pressed ignore, letting it go to voicemail. She couldn’t talk to him yet. Her control felt tenuous at best, and it was all she could do not to revert to shutting down her emotions entirely.

  But she was trying not to actually notice those emotions at the moment. If she spoke with Brody, everything would come rushing back.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t ignore the sense of disappointment and failure that tightened her throat and brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away and stumbled to her bed, curling onto her side and hugging her knees to her chest.

  This wasn’t going to work. She was still too dangerous, still such a mess. He deserved better, someone who didn’t melt metal and nearly burn a stranger. Someone who could revel in her own emotions.

  Someone normal.

  She ignored the knocking on her door at first, knowing it was likely Brody. What could she tell him?

  It took a few minutes before she realized the voice coming from the door wasn’t a man’s. Frowning, she went to look out her peephole. Nathalie stood in the hallway, hands on hips, shouting for her to open up.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked as she let Nathalie in.

  “Brody is having a heart attack worrying about you. He says you’re sick
with a severe fever and won’t answer your phone. He’s afraid you’re passed out in a gutter somewhere. He’s searching the streets for you and sent me here to see if you made it home.”

  Ann closed her eyes, guilt poking at her control but not enough to damage it. “I didn’t realize… I’m sorry.” She opened her eyes and faced her half sister. “I’m not sick. I don’t have a fever.”

  Nathalie held her gaze for a long moment before nodding. “I see.” She glanced around. “I think we’d better talk. Just let me text Brody to tell him you’re here and safe.”

  When Nathalie was finished, Ann led her to the long, narrow living room and motioned her to the couch opposite the exposed brick wall. “Would you like something to drink?”

  Nathalie waved that away. “Sit. Talk.”

  Ann told her everything, from the fight to nearly burning a man in the crowd in her panic to leave. When she was done, she felt both better and worse for having admitted everything out loud.

  “It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’ll never have a normal life. I waited too long to get help.”

  “Stop. You’ve only been working on your control for two months and then only practicing with us a couple times a week because of your job. Just give it time.”

  “Time won’t help me with Brody. He’s not going to wait around forever.”

  “If he’s worthy of you, he will.”

  Ann tried to smile at Nathalie’s fierce tone, but she failed. “It’s not that, it’s… It could take me years before I’m able to control myself enough to have a normal relationship. I don’t want him to wait that long. It’s not fair to him. He’s such a good man.” She glanced away, swallowing hard. “I really like him, Nathalie. I could…I could love him. But what’s the point when I can’t even take him to bed without worrying about burning down the building?”

  “If this wasn’t such a serious conversation, that comment could be very funny.”

  Ann scowled. “When other people talk about burning up the sheets, they don’t mean it literally.”

  Nathalie snorted a half-laugh. “I get it. I do.” She patted Ann’s knee, then quietly, said, “It might be a little late to break up with him, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Men don’t charge around town in a panic over their sick girlfriend if they’re not…invested. Yours isn’t going to be the only heart broken.”

  Ann tried to wave that way. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. It’s only been a couple of months.”

  “Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

  “You and Alex have been together for a while now, right?”

  “A bit over a year. But I knew I was in love with him a lot faster than that.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “There are just as many emotions involved in a breakup as there are in staying with someone. Worse when two people are in love.”

  “We’re not yet.” But the declaration sounded hollow even to Ann.

  “Deny all you like. That’s your choice. Break up with him if you feel you have to. But just know it won’t make things any easier. Not for either of you.”

  “What else can I do?”

  “As I see it, you have two choices. One, give him up and move on, putting off relationships until you’re confident of your control. Which, by the way, you might never be if you don’t test it.”

  Ann hated the idea of giving up Brody. She didn’t want to. But it felt like the only option. “What’s my other choice?”

  “You work harder at your control and take a chance with Brody. We can use the excuse of you supposedly being sick to disappear for two weeks. You can come stay with my dad and train full time. My grandma is back from her trip to Spain, so she can help, too. I’ll come out when I can around my work schedule. We’ll push you, hard, test you and train you. Like boot camp.”

  Ann stared at Nathalie as she considered the offer. “Will that work? Can I cram learning better control like that? This isn’t a college exam.”

  “You’re highly motivated. Anything is possible. But, if at the end of the two weeks, you still don’t feel you can maintain enough mastery over the pyrokenesis to have a relationship, you’ll have to have the hard talk with Brody.”

  Ann swallowed and stared at the rug covering her hardwood floor. It was a chance. Slim but real. If she didn’t take it, she’d definitely lose Brody, and she’d always wonder if she’d sacrificed what could have been the best thing in her life because she was afraid to try.

  She’d never even hoped for what she had with Brody before coming to New York. Now, could she really let the chance at happiness go without a fight?

  He would fight.

  So would she.

  She straightened her shoulders. “I’ll go pack a bag now. You’re sure your father won’t mind a house guest?”

  “He’ll be delighted. I’ll call him while you’re packing.” As Ann headed back down the narrow hall to the bedroom, Nathalie shouted after her, “You’d better text Brody, too. He won’t give you the space you need to train otherwise.”

  Ann took her time composing the text, wanting to ensure Brody would give her space but not worry too much. She hit send then pulled out a small suitcase. And as she packed, she allowed hope to settle into her heart.

  She could do this. For him. For herself. She would do this.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brody hated that he couldn’t go see Ann, hated that she still wasn’t taking his calls, though she did send him a few texts. He hated more that he didn’t fully understand what was happening.

  He flopped onto his huge couch and flicked restlessly through TV channels, gave up, dropped the remote on the coffee table, and resumed pacing his apartment—the same thing he’d been doing for two fucking weeks when he wasn’t at the gym or out for a long run. He’d started and stopped at least twelve different books, unable to focus on his favorite, non-hockey pastime. He’d probably run the equivalent of five marathons. And he’d trained harder than he’d ever trained in his life. It hadn’t done a thing to ease his frustration. Even grueling workouts at his boxing gym hadn’t helped.

  Both Ann and Nathalie assured him Ann just had a bad flu—contagious according to a doctor, Nathalie said. Too contagious for him to see Ann. But after two weeks, he was beyond worried. If she was still sick and contagious after this long, could it be just a flu? What if she was sick with something worse and they weren’t tell him?

  What if she wasn’t sick at all?

  He didn’t even have his job to keep him distracted, damn it. He hadn’t minded getting suspended so much because he’d assumed he’d be spending the extra time with Ann. Instead, when he wasn’t working out like a madman, training to stay in shape but without the actual games to shed his restlessness, he paced his apartment, fretting like an old woman, irritable because he felt so damned helpless.

  At least he was starting back to work tomorrow. He’d gotten the call just that morning that he was confirmed for the Empires’ next game.

  There’d been a media thing going on since St. Laurent’s concussion and Brody’s suspension, led by a reporter out of Montreal. A huge blowup, questioning why the player Brody had beat up hadn’t gotten a suspension but Brody had. There’d been a lot of debate in the sports media, and all of it could have caused the Empires problems if not handled right.

  He’d been ordered not to respond to the controversy, so he had politely refused to answer any questions reporters threw out him. He didn’t actually have much to say about it anyway. He’d been too concerned about Ann to do more than notice the debate peripherally. At the moment, how the NHL handled penalties and suspensions was the least of his worries.

  He paced into his kitchen, contemplated his empty fridge, and considered ordering takeout even though his appetite wasn’t great. He needed to eat if he was getting back on the ice. Ignoring the phone and pile of takeaway menus next to it, he wandered back out to his living room.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that Ann’s i
llness wasn’t just an ordinary flu. He wasn’t even sure why that kept nagging at him. Probably because he had too much time to think.

  She’d just gotten sick so fast, right after seeing his fight… And he couldn’t ignore the sense that his fight had something to do with what was wrong with her. Which, for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, made him think of that first week when he couldn’t see her. All of his worries got tangled together until he was sure his fight, this illness, that first week were all related. Unfortunately, without any actual information, worst case scenarios haunted him.

  She’d had a violent ex-boyfriend, or her parents had been abusive, or she’d lived through some other violent encounter, and his fight had triggered a serious episode of PTSD.

  She really was sick, maybe even dying, and she didn’t want him to know.

  She was married and her husband had caught her at the game.

  Though, if the problem involved Ann being married, he was sure Nathalie would have told him by now, if only to get him to stop pestering her about Ann’s health. Maybe. Nathalie was as notoriously private as Semenov and it was impossible to get anything out of either one of them if they didn’t want to talk. But still, he doubted Nathalie would leave him like this if Ann really was married. She’d at least give him a warning hint.

  So it probably wasn’t a lurking husband. But some sort of violence in Ann’s past seemed more and more likely. And he felt shittier and shittier for encouraging her to go to that game.

  She should have just told him she wasn’t ready yet, damn it.

  He flopped onto his couch again, scowling at the silent TV. He’d already gone for a run that morning, but maybe another would help wear him out. They had the Winter Classic in two weeks. There probably wasn’t such a thing as over training for that.

  Christmas was coming, too. He’d hoped to spend that holiday with Ann. He’d already bought her a present.

  Pounding the couch a few times, he stood, intent on going for another run, but stopped when his cellphone rang.