by Calista Fox
The first couple of times his head had nearly exploded when he was on the ice had brought the games to a standstill. He’d been on his knees, holding it all in. Forcing himself not to yell from the pain or spew from the vertigo. Twice was all it’d taken for his coach to demand the truth—and that had resulted in a second surgery. Which had sent his career into a tailspin, because there’d been complications that made operating on him tricky, but they would have been exacerbated had he not been forced into surgery again. In the end, Scout had been delivered the ultimate in bad news for a guy like him. In addition to the residual headaches, he now had a blind spot in his peripheral vision. Not so bad that it kept him from passing a driver’s license eye test. But for a hockey player… It was significant enough to end his whole goddamn, fucking career.
In a heartbeat.
Scout would have done anything to keep playing. But he’d had no choice than to lay it all on the line for his coach and the team’s doctor. Because he couldn’t afford to fake a hockey-related injury in the middle of every single game.
And Scout didn’t fuck around with coaches. He’d had one of the best in the world as a private instructor. Sully Tollison had retired after numerous Stanley Cup wins and a long run as the coach of two of the best hockey teams in history. He’d eventually been the coach of the Olympic team Scout had made it on to. Sully had been the one to travel with Scout as a kid. The inter-leagues were crucial to developing hockey skills, as were all the training stints. Sully, just like everything related to improving upon a kid’s natural talent, hadn’t come cheap.
Scout had deeply appreciated from an early age the extent his mother and grandfather willingly went in order to ensure Scout got the best guidance possible. That meant he traveled nonstop and was away from home more than he was there. While growing up, Scout hadn’t minded so much. Now, he felt the strain of estrangement from his brothers and his mother, even though he dutifully called her once a month. No, that wasn’t a great stat to brag about. But it was what it was…
At any rate, Sully had not only helped him to hone his skills and be the greatest damn player he could be, Coach S. had also taught him all about loyalty and respect—to the team, to the organization, to the sport. And though Scout knew when to downplay an injury or suck it up entirely, the TBI was one thing Sully never would have allowed Scout to hide. God rest his soul.
So Scout had ‘fessed up. Because, in the end, his severe injury could not only get worse, even end his life, with the checking or high-sticking or God forbid a puck to the head, but because he could also adversely affect the team’s performance and maybe even get another player hurt.
Completely unacceptable.
No matter how much it gutted Scout to leave the ice.
He’d confronted one demon—admitting his vulnerability and shortcoming to his coach. Now it was time to do the same with his family. And the love of his life.
Which made his gut clench and his heart twist. The simple fact was, Scout felt like a failure. It might not be a sensible response to the end of his career. But he’d had many more good years in him. Until that damn elk. So ironic that was what took him out of the game—when he’d gotten his nickname from scouting the beasts for his grandfather and his hunting pals. Some sort of weird, poetic, cosmic justice, even though Scout had never actually pulled a trigger?
He didn’t know.
Maybe what really rubbed him raw was that his brothers were their own forces of nature in their respective fields, as was their mother. Having been revered—still being revered—made it even worse for Scout to tell them he no longer possessed any sort of reason to be revered going forward.
He was just a guy now. Not a giant among giants.
Just a guy.
A guy who currently had no job.
A guy who currently had no future.
Just a guy.
With a heavy heart, he showered and dressed in his best suit. Armani for special occasions. All black with a crisp white shirt Constance had sent out for dry cleaning and starching when Scout had arrived yesterday. He wore his lucky deep-crimson silk tie with thin diagonal silver stripes. Conservative and nothing out of the ordinary, except that Ciara had given it to him ages ago. When they were ten and he’d had to get all formal for his first meeting with Sully. Coach S. had had a long list of other potential—hopeful—pro and Olympic hockey greats that he could have taken on. He’d chosen Scout.
And Scout had always considered that Ciara’s unwavering faith, devotion and hero-worship had lent to the success of that initial meeting.
She’d also proven to a have a hint of foreseeing of the future in her, because she’d bought him an adult’s tie. He’d had to tuck the ends into his pants and couldn’t unbutton his jacket so that Coach S. wouldn’t see that below Scout’s chest, the tie was ill-fitting. But Ciara had made it work and Scout had pulled it off and now… Well, he wore her gift when he needed that extra surge of confidence, familiarity… He didn’t really know the right word. Sometimes he just needed her close to him and this was the best he could manage.
He left the B&B and drove to the edge of town, near the base of the mountain. There was already a large gathering at the Winchester Ice Rink. There were some outdoor activities, mostly for kids, and the large sign in the front lawn was covered in canvas. The unveiling of Scout’s name added to the signage was supposed to take place here, but the vast majority of the dedication festivities had been moved inside due to the inclement weather. It was snowing pretty damn hard.
Scout’s agent, along with his high school coach, Emerson Holland—Coach E. to Scout—and the mayor greeted him as he made his way along the shoveled sidewalk. He shook hands with the men and they congratulated him for, well, everything. Scout didn’t get a word in edgewise before he was swarmed by kids in his team’s jersey, bearing his name and number. They all demanded autographs and asked advice from their hero, Winger—that nickname Ciara had given him early on, which had stuck when Coach S. had heard it.
Sure, it wasn’t as catchy as “The Great One” Gretzky or “The Golden Jet” Hull, but just like the tie, it held sentimental value.
He caught sight of his younger brother Hamilton passing by, not stopping to talk to anyone, including Scout. Just making his presence briefly known before disappearing into the crowd. JT swooped in at one point to give a quick, manly hug, but that was really the extent of the exchange. The brothers showed their respect, their acknowledgement, of what Scout had achieved, and he was grateful for that. But he had no idea if they’d actually stick around for the dedication or the exhibition games Scout was guest-coaching today, given they had their own agendas while in town.
His mother arrived and gave him a long hug. Scout didn’t cut her off by any means. Let her take as long as she needed. When she eventually pulled away, her eyes were misty. She busied herself straightening his tie.
“You look so handsome,” she mused. “So professional. And well, really, Scout. Everyone’s just so proud of you. Especially me.”
“Mom, it’s just an ice rink.” He tried to downplay all the emotions that had gripped him from the moment he’d driven into Plymouth Rock yesterday. Time with Ciara and now his mother tugged the heartstrings the hardest.
She made a soft tsking sound and added, “You devoted yourself to this sport, Scout. From the very earliest of ages. I always did admire that about you. Even when it was so difficult to have you away from us, I just knew…” Tears flooded her eyes now. “I just knew you were going to be a legend.”
“In my own mind,” he quipped. What else was he to do? She was killing him here. In a really great way, but still…
Catherine Winchester always knew when to rein in the emotions. She smiled prettily and said, “I suppose I just build you up because you’re my son.”
Ah. That was more like it.
“Yeah. You’ve really gotta get over me.” Though Scout secretly loved how she fussed and gushed. He hadn’t had enough of that in his life. Because he hadn’t
been around her enough. Changing the subject, he asked, “Have you seen Ciara?”
His mother beamed up at him. “She’ll be here, sweetheart. Ciara wouldn’t miss this for the world. Never doubt that.” She gingerly patted his cheek. Then shook her head and let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Look at me, ruining your tough-guy image. I’ll go inside.”
She started to move around him. Scout called out, “Hey, Mom.”
She looked back at him. Smiled. “Yes?”
“Thanks for being here. Thanks for…everything.”
His mother dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. It made Scout’s throat tighten.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, either. Never doubt that.”
Coach E. came along at that moment and offered his arm to escort her inside the rink. Scout took a few seconds to collect himself. This was all very surreal and completely out of his realm of normalcy. Sure, the TBI had jacked his program and left him off-kilter and feeling vulnerable. But the motherly and town love stuff…? That was really throwing him for a loop.
“Come on, Man of the Hour,” his agent, Preston Hills said. “You’ve got a packed rink. Nothing new for you, I know. But given that it’s practically Scout Winchester Day in Plymouth Rock, it’s a big deal for you, Mr. Hometown Hero.”
“Let’s not get crazy here.”
Preston, a tall, lanky, all-business sort in a suit and neatly trimmed sandy hair said, “You’ve really got to learn to enjoy the limelight, kid. This isn’t just about what you can do with a stick and a puck and a net.” As they headed up the steps to the main level of the stadium-styled rink, he added, “I know the goalies try to intimidate the hell out of you, but you’re the one who ends up scaring the bejesus out of them with your skating speed, sheer determination and slap shot velocity. Yet at the end of the day, it’s how you manage all the off-ice stuff that makes you great. All the time you spend helping to train and coach kids, money you donate to organizations to help offset the costs of guys playing in leagues that aren’t school-sponsored, the contributions you make to the sport, in general.”
“Jesus, Pres,” Scout snorted. “You’re making me sound like a good guy here.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” His agent snickered.
They yanked open the heavy wooden double doors at the entrance of the large building with the rugged stone façade. Inside, there was a buzz of activity to rival the excitement outside. Artie from Artie’s Groceries and his wife Mimi were serving free hot dogs. There were also complementary sheet cake squares and cupcakes with the hockey theme from Bella’s Bakery. Canning with Catherine’s most popular jellies and jams offered up on toast points. Face painting. Slap shot demonstrations and competitions with plastic sticks and hacky sacks to keep it all safe. The list went on and on. Scout was a bit mind blown.
They made their way down to the ice. The official unveiling ceremony got underway, with Scout and Preston joining the mayor and Coach Emerson at center ice. The PA system came on and the mayor welcomed everyone. Gave his spiel about Scout and what he meant to the sport, this town and this particular facility. Then the canvas covering the signage at the main level on both sides of the rink were stripped away to reveal Scout’s name added to Winchester Ice Rink.
He got a little choked up, no doubt about it. Knew it’d be worse when his pro team retired his number. But he expertly held it all in. Though it was especially emotional when Scout caught a spark of light out of the corner of his good eye—a golden flare against the top corner of the “S” in the sign. Could have been a flash from a camera. But there weren’t any others like it. And the jolt deep in his gut told him there was a reason for that.
He grinned.
Grandpa Win was with him again.
That, and the glimpse of Ciara on the upper level, next to the south-side sign, brought a little inner peace to him. Made him start to feel a little more at home…
Chapter Four
Ciara took the saved seat next to Catherine, not the least bit surprised that the arena that accommodated five-hundred had turned into standing-room only.
Scout made a quick, though well-thought out and articulate speech that was filled with gratitude for his supporters and his appreciation of the league and high school games, coaches and players, and of course, his grandfather.
That got the tears going in the crowd, especially since everyone had loved Grandpa Win. But Scout played it cool. Kept his voice on an even keel. Ciara knew it was a good show on his part.
The pee-wees took to the ice in the first exhibition game and it turned into a laugh riot as they tried to walk in skates, run in skates, pretty much do anything but actually skate from one goal to the other, set up using only a quarter of the ice for them. One overly zealous kid in particular took off with the plastic demonstration puck moving in front of his stick and headed straight for a goalie.
His goalie, but whatever. It was totally cute.
The teammate tried to warn him off. As did the crowd. Scout came charging onto the ice after him, caught the kid about the waist and hoisted him up. Set him on his skates going in the opposite direction and gestured for him to head that way.
Munchkins will be munchkins, though. The tiny kid maneuvered the puck and his body around and once more took off toward his own net. The other skaters attempted to intervene, but this one was full of determination. A Scout Winchester in the making?
He got close enough to the net and whacked it in. The buzzer sounded. The goalie shook his head and wailed something behind his mask no one in the stands could actually make out…though it was easy to assume it was wrapped around frustration. But as a whole, the team wasn’t put out and the fans erupted in laughter and cheers. It was just too damn adorable.
And Scout… Well. Ciara’s heart fluttered and her pulse raced.
Never before had she given any sort of thought to what it might be like for Scout to have kids—Mini-Me’s who looked like him and loved the smell of the ice, the roar of the crowd and the glory of victory the way he did.
Mini-Me’s he could teach to respect the game and their teammates, and be the best that they could be. Even if they turned out to be girls.
“Oh, God!” The words flew from her parted lips. She gasped. Clamped a hand over her gaping mouth. Her eyes were wide and her heart thundered even more.
“Are you all right, dear?” Catherine asked in an alarmed tone.
Ciara tore her hand away and jumped to her feet. “I forgot to thaw the cannoli for tonight’s dinner!” she impulsively lied.
“Ciara, Henry’s people are bringing over everything fresh from Venti’s. You will not be serving frozen anything, let alone cannoli. Talk about sacrilege!”
“Right, right. You’re right.” Anxiety seized her. Why??! “I just realized we don’t have enough ice for the cocktails. Definitely not enough ice. And I need to aerate the red wines. Why haven’t I decanted them already?”
“Ciara—”
“I have to go. I mean, I seriously, seriously have to go!” She moved into the aisle and rushed up the steps to the main level, crossed to a set of double doors and threw them open. Only when she was outside could she actually pull in a slice of air. A sharp, frigid one, but hell… At least she could breathe.
She glanced over her shoulder as the intricately carved wooden doors eased closed. Scout would know she had plenty of details to see to for tonight’s dinner, if he somehow saw her bolt. He’d totally understand her leaving early.
Catherine would, too, being her own hostess with the mostess.
Hopefully, no one would put two and two together. And figure out that what Ciara had just witnessed in that arena with Scout and the pee-wees—his absolutely loveable way with them—and her sudden, where the hell did that come from? epiphany of how fantastic he’d be with kids of his own was what really and truly freaked the shit out of her.
In a really and truly good way…
“You have Tilda’s golden touch and attention to d
etail,” Marilyn Albright said.
Ciara glanced up from one of the round tables that sat six, which she was currently dressing—stylizing, she called it—and let out a long sigh of relief. “I’ve been plotting these dinner arrangements over and over in my head since spring. Grandma never did anything the same way twice when it came to the donor events. The food always had to be different, the decorations all had to be unique, the entire look and feel of the place had to be like an entirely new experience. Mostly because it’s the same people who sponsor the society year after year. She didn’t want them to get bored.”
“And they never have. This, however, tips the scales of perfection,” Marilyn assured her as she gestured around the enormous room that would not only comfortably seat thirty for dinner, offer plenty of space for all the double-sided buffet stations, accommodate the high school jazz ensemble and ensure there were absolutely no obstructions in front of the two large wood-burning fireplaces and the tall French patio doors that led to the snow-covered courtyard, but would also leave plenty of openness for people to mix and mingle at will.
The tables were covered with satin sienna-colored floor-length cloths and topped with short, sheer amber overlays with handkerchief hems. The centerpieces were tall, slender, V-shaped vases that exploded with fall blooms and dripped gilded pearl and sparkly rhinestone strands that caught the light. Shimmering gold votives were in amber glass holders and scattered over the guest tables and the tiered and satin-draped buffet stations. Pillar candles were lit on the fireplace mantles, lined with fluffy gold ribbon and glittery tulle. The chandeliers overhead—throughout the entire house—were set on low.
