by Sarina Bowen
Her foot stopped her fall, though—caught between two balusters. At first it was such a relief to stop falling that she didn’t feel the pain shooting up her instep. And then, shaking with fury and freaked out, she’d tried to conceal it. But that’s hard when you can’t put weight on one leg.
At the sight of her injury, Vince had sobered up fast and used Uber to get them a ride to the ER. “I’m sorry, baby,” he babbled. “Terrible accident. Never happen again.”
She made sure it wouldn’t. The next night, when he went to work at the club, she’d had an emergency locksmith come over to change the deadbolts. She’d asked her tenant, a flight attendant named Maddy, to help put Vince’s clothing into trash bags. It was possibly the most embarrassing favor she’d ever asked of anyone.
It had been far easier to shake off the hospital staff’s probing questions than Maddy’s. “He did this, didn’t he?” she demanded, pointing one long red fingernail at Ari’s walking cast. “I never liked the look of him. Good for you showing him the door.”
Ari had neither confirmed nor denied Vince’s role in her tumble. He probably hadn’t meant to break a bone, but it really didn’t matter. A bone was broken, and he’d been the cause of both her trip to the ER and her sudden wake-up call. With Maddy’s help she’d hobbled around, doing her best to be respectful of his things even as she scrambled to get them all out of the house and into the basement storage unit. Maddy made all the trips down those back stairs herself, which meant Ari owed her. Big.
“You’d do the same for me,” Maddy protested. And surely it was true. When the job was done, Ari gave her a hug and a pre-apology for whatever grief Vince might give her if he happened to show up when Maddy was coming or going. “I can take care of myself, hon. You do the same.”
The four A.M. pounding on the exterior door had been awful. When Ari didn’t come to the door to explain herself, he’d begun yelling terrible things up at her bedroom window. “Fucking cunt! Get down here and let me in.”
Maddy’s chainsaw voice had rung out from her third floor window. “Go away or I’m calling the police. You have ten seconds. Tomorrow Ari will tell you how to get your stuff.”
“Meddling bitch!” he’d returned. But when Maddy’d told him she was dialing 911, he’d actually left.
In the morning she’d e-mailed Vince to let him know he could retrieve his own things from the storage room with his old key. The fact that he didn’t answer or turn up for a week only made her more anxious. It was unlike him to give up and walk away. Especially if his collection of expensive suits was on the line.
But then one day she’d spotted his van nearby. And she’d heard the basement door open and close. It happened again a couple of days later. For the past few weeks he’d either been moving out one article of clothing at a time, or merely torturing her with his sporadic presence.
That’s why her latest e-mail had threatened to change the locks on the basement door, too. She should have done that weeks ago. It’s just that the basement was so inhospitable—its entrance barely a step up from the cellar door in The Wizard of Oz—she thought he’d get sick of the lurker charade and leave her alone for good.
Hopefully today was the day.
Hugging herself, Ari kept up her vigil by the fridge. Eventually the door slammed again and Vince strode into view, his back to the window, his swagger intact. He disappeared around the corner of the building. A moment later she heard what had to be the van’s engine start up and then drive away.
Finally, she relaxed.
With her heart rate returning to normal, she checked her messages and reheated a square of lasagna she’d saved for dinner. She even poured herself a half glass of wine to go with it. Everything was fine, or soon would be. Tonight her team was going to beat the visitors from Washington D.C., and tomorrow she’d relieve their aching muscles.
After her early dinner she lay down on the couch with a book. The house was so very quiet. She still wasn’t used to living alone. She’d met Vince when she was just twenty-one and bartending at one of his clubs. She’d never been an adult on her own.
It was obviously time to start. She read her book and tried to think soothing thoughts.
By six thirty it was time to get ready for the game. She went up the creaky narrow staircase to her bedroom and chose a knit dress with three-quarter sleeves and tights. The NHL liked its staff to look professional, even if she might be called upon for some last-minute attention to stiff muscles. It had taken her a few months on the job to figure out what to wear. Now her closet held four comfy game night dresses in shades of eggplant (the team color). She wore ballet flats to keep herself comfortable and mobile.
Ari grabbed her bag and headed out the door. Before heading to Water Street where cabs were more plentiful, she took a moment to circle the block for a moment, casing her own building like a thief. She peeked into the alley. The basement door of her little house was closed, as it should be. There was nobody in sight. Checking over both shoulders like a paranoid fool, she walked around back, slipping her keys out of her pocket.
But she stopped at the rear door, confused. There, gleaming against the beat-up metal door, was a new lock. Even though it didn’t make sense, she tried her key anyway. This was her building, for God’s sake.
The key wouldn’t even fit in the lock.
Anger rushed through her veins like a drug. Damn you, Vince! He was like a cockroach that couldn’t be killed off. He’d locked her out of her own basement.
What the hell?
The only windows back here were narrow and just above her eye level. Shaking with fury, she stood on tiptoe to peek inside. She cupped a hand over the glass to try to reduce the sunset’s glare. It took her eyes a moment to identify the shapes in the basement’s dim light.
The first thing she could make out was the strip of lights on a computer modem, doing their little dance to announce their connection. And their light helped illuminate a sort of folding table which held the rest of a computer setup—a screen and a keyboard and mouse, with a chair pulled up to them. But the item which really drove home the problem was the wastepaper basket on the floor. There was something so freaking civilized about it that it could almost make steam come out of her ears.
Vince had set up an office in her basement. He was conducting some kind of business on her property! With a wastepaper basket!
She was mad enough to spit. She stomped toward the corner, calm mood ruined, and stuck her arm in the air for a taxi.
* * *
Two hours later she was feeling a little calmer, even though the problem remained unsolved.
But the game was about to start, the stadium filling with ten thousand fans. It was hard to feel crabby with so much expectation bouncing around the arena.
Ari had already given a couple of last-minute chair massages to players with upper body pain. By this point their fate was out of her hands. She stood in the owners’ box, a soda in her hand, a notebook at her side. She would watch the first period of the game from this premium location and make some notes about who suffered the hardest hits, so she could follow up with those players during the intermission or tomorrow.
Hockey was pretty freaking exciting, too. Just because she’d never been a fan before she took this job didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy it.
Beside her, the Brooklyn Bruisers’ office manager stood sipping from a glass of wine. “How’s O’Doul today?” Becca asked, watching the ice team sweep the surface one more time. “I heard rumors that they sent him to you for his hip.”
“He seemed fair,” Ari said, considering the question. “A little rest would probably help him. But I don’t think it’s any worse than a lot of the strains the guys play on.”
In her heart of hearts, Ari would never understand the risks these players took with their bodies every day. That was their job, and they were highly compensated for it. She’d never be rich, b
ut she’d never take a punch to the face, either.
Though you let yourself be pushed down the stairs, her subconscious prodded.
“Is Doulie a diva in the treatment room? He’s so freaking bossy. The travel team actually calls all the hotels where he stays and gets duplicate receipts to submit for him, because they’ve learned it’s a bigger pain to ask for his cooperation than to just take over.”
“Really?” Ari laughed. “Sounds like he has them trained.” Everyone was supposed to submit his or her own receipts, or pay an assistant to do it for them. Ari did her own, but it was a pain in the gluteus maximus.
“He has an ego the size of the stadium. If you have any trouble with him, I’m happy to play the part of bad cop.”
“You do that part well.” Ari squeezed her friend’s shoulder.
“Fuck,” Becca moaned. “Do that again. Please? I spent too many hours at my desk today.”
Ari set down her drink and stood behind Becca. She put her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders and began to rub. “You only like me for my hands,” she complained.
“Not true! You make a mean margarita, and you always turn in your personnel forms on time.”
“I feel so much better now.” She put her thumbs at the base of Becca’s skull and rubbed. This was a brand-new friendship. Ari had always liked Becca and her sidekick, Georgia, the publicist. But Ari’s ex had resented all the traveling that Ari did for the team, and when she was home in Brooklyn he got pissy if she went out without him.
His attitude had kept her away from developing normal friendships with the girls at work, and she hadn’t even realized it until after she’d broken things off with him.
During Ari’s yoga training, a wise yogi had told her that pain always brought new awarenesses. He said pain brought gifts with it. Or, as her Italian grandmother would have put it—when God slams a door, he opens a window. Becoming friends with Becca and Georgia was that window.
“Marry me,” Becca breathed as Ari rubbed her shoulders.
“I would, but I’ve sworn off relationships. Today was a good reminder of why.”
Becca spun around, cutting off her massage. “Oh, no! What happened? Did he pound on your door again?”
“No, but his stuff is still in my basement storage room, and . . .”
This conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Nate Kattenberger, the team’s owner. He walked in wearing his trademark hoodie and dark wash jeans. Ari had heard that the old guard of the hockey league hated the young billionaire’s personal dress code, and its governors occasionally made snide comments about his “athletic shoes” in the press.
Becca had let it slip that Kattenberger’s Tom Ford sneakers ran six hundred bucks, though. The man liked expensive clothes, but he did not like to conform to a bunch of league rules. And Ari loved him for it.
“Evening, ladies,” Nate said with a wave. He walked right over to the front of the box and looked down, surveying his dominion.
A young woman breezed in after him. Lauren was Nate’s Manhattan assistant, not to be confused with Becca, his Brooklyn assistant. The contrast between the two women was more than a little amusing. Lauren wore a designer suit in an expensive shade of pink, stockings and high heels. Her hair was swept into a glamorous up-do that must have taken forty-five minutes to accomplish. And at seven thirty P.M., it still looked perfect.
Becca wore Dr. Martens, purple tights, and a leather dress. Her hair was purple and her eyebrow and nose were proudly pierced.
The biggest difference, though, was in facial expression. Becca raised a hand to give the other woman a friendly wave. “Hi, Lauren! Want to have a glass of wine with us?”
The only acknowledgment that Becca had spoken was a sidelong glance flicked in their direction. As if she hadn’t heard at all, Lauren went over to the drinks table herself and poured her boss a Diet Coke over three ice cubes. She perched a wedge of lime on the rim, snapped a cocktail napkin into her hand, and scurried over to him to present it as if to royalty.
“I’m always nice,” Becca whispered under her breath, “but I’m really not sure why.”
“Because it feels better to be nice,” Ari whispered. “And you’re a beautiful person.”
Becca shot her a grateful glance. “She makes ugly look pretty good.”
It was true. Queen Lauren (as they sometimes referred to her) was beautiful. But Ari wasn’t even a little jealous of that silky pale hair or those blue eyes. Lauren exuded stress and unhappiness. A decade of yoga might not even make a dent in Queen Lauren’s steel facade.
“Rebecca,” Nate called. “Do you happen to have tonight’s ticket sales?”
“But of course!” she chirped. “Do you really think I’d stand here and slurp wine if I hadn’t brought them with me?” She balanced her glass in one hand and dug through her briefcase with the other. “It’s here somewhere. Ah.” When she finally tugged a file out of her bag, Nate took the folder with a smile. “Anything shocking in here? Should I hit the whiskey early?”
“It’s always cocktail hour somewhere, boss. But the numbers looked good to me.”
Nate flipped the cover open and scanned the summary page while Lauren glared over his shoulder at Becca. “These are good numbers. And I like the time series graph.”
“Thanks! I got sick of flipping backward to see the prior weeks’ numbers.”
When he was through, Nate handed the folder to Lauren for safekeeping. Lauren stashed it in a leather satchel while simultaneously attempting to incinerate Becca with her eyes.
“Thank you,” Nate said in Lauren’s general direction. “That’s all for today, I suppose.”
Lauren said good night to her boss and buttoned up her impeccable jacket.
“Aren’t you staying for the game?” Becca asked.
“I hate hockey,” Lauren declared. Then she walked out, her heels clicking importantly across the walnut floorboards.
Ari exchanged a loaded glance with Becca. Her friend’s eyebrows lifted as if to ask, can you believe Nate’s assistant would say that right before a game? Maybe the girl didn’t understand how superstitious men could be about their sports.
The door opened again, admitting Georgia Worthington and the brand new publicist, Tom. This was his first week on the job.
“How’d the press take it?” Nathan asked by way of a greeting.
“Lots of questions,” Georgia said. “There’s going to be speculation.”
“Take what?” Becca asked, voicing the same question that was on Ari’s mind.
“O’Doul was scratched at the last minute,” Tom said. “The trainers want him rested. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.”
Oh, boy, Ari thought, staring down at the ice. The players were lining up for the national anthem now. She couldn’t even remember a night when O’Doul had been scratched before. The only time she’d known him to sit out games was that brief span when he was on the injured list while his wrist was healing.
She didn’t know him all that well. But she knew enough to say he was not going to like it.
THREE
FRIDAY, MARCH 11TH
Standings: 4th place in the Metropolitan Division
16 Regular Season Games to Go
A day later, stepping off the bus in front of their Detroit hotel, O’Doul had to admit that his hip was better. But not his attitude.
They’d fucking scratched him last night at the last minute. “We need to rest you,” Coach Worthington had said. “I need you to play a long postseason. Can’t do that if you’re injured.”
Needless to say, he had not agreed with this decision. He hated the way it looked—like he needed rest, like an old fart. His team had struggled without him, too. They should have owned that game against D.C. But by the end of the third period, it was a 2– 2 tie. And then a lucky shot in the overtime period by the opponent�
�s rookie lost the Bruisers the game.
No gold star.
“We got an overtime point out of it,” Coach had said last night, sounding uncharacteristically sanguine for someone who had slipped in the standings. Since Boston had won their game the same night, the Kattenberger model now had their play-offs chances slipping to 73 percent.
O’Doul knew the numbers would have gone the other way if he’d played.
He wore a grimace while he waited beside his teammates for their luggage to be offloaded from the bus’s storage hold. His hip didn’t hurt, but his ego sure did.
The new backup goalie, Zac Sullivan, was horsing around on the sidewalk, trying to steal Bayer’s bottle of Gatorade out of the side of his duffel without getting caught. It was all fun and games until the guy almost crashed into a woman pushing a stroller.
“Whoa! Sorry ma’am,” he said, backing off.
She gave him an evil look and pushed her baby quickly past the group of hockey players.
“Twenty bucks, man,” O’Doul said. “Pay up.”
“What? Why?” the goalie argued.
“For almost mowing down that kid. Jimbo?” O’Doul said, pointing at the young man on the travel ops team. “Sully owes you twenty.”
“Got it,” Jimbo said, pulling a pad out of his back pocket. The team called these slips of paper “parking tickets,” and O’Doul assessed them anytime somebody was out of line. He gave out parking tickets for petty offenses like leaving a mess in the locker room or making the team look bad. At the end of every season, the whole kitty went to charity. Last year they gave over ten grand to a Brooklyn homeless shelter.
“Want to get some barbecue for lunch?” Trevi asked O’Doul. “The Katt Phone says there’s a good ribs joint nearby.”
“I’m in,” Castro volunteered.
“I wish,” O’Doul said. “I have to get a fucking massage.”
Castro exchanged a glance with Trevi. “And the problem is . . . ?” Castro asked.
