After plucking a hot dog fresh from the barbeque, stuffing it in a bun, and lathering mustard and ketchup on it, she headed farther away from the food table and closer to the water. All this talk of death brought up memories of her mother even though her mother wasn’t technically dead. It wasn’t long after signing Emma up for those classes did her mother leave, abruptly and without warning. Emma couldn’t really remember her mother, only that she had pretty blue eyes and the same wheat-colored hair her daughter now had. When she was in elementary school, she just told everyone that her mother was dead. It was much easier than trying to come up with an answer to the question she didn’t know the answer to and would inevitably be asked by her naïve and most of the time tactless peers: Why did she leave?
To this day, Emma didn’t know. Growing up, she remembered the various stages she went through as a child in response to her mother’s abandonment; at first, she was sad. She would sit up and wait for her mother to return and kiss her on the forehead, tuck her in, whisper goodnight to Emma in her whimsical voice, and every night, she would cry herself to sleep because her mother never came. Next, she thought that maybe if her mother could see what a good daughter she was, she would return so she would leave out aced tests and pictures and cookies she made. When that didn’t work, she became angry and frustrated. These new emotions happened to coincide with puberty and getting her first period, along with Emma having to go to a new school for seventh grade. Everybody else’s mothers were there for them at probably the most awkward stage in her life. Why wasn’t hers? She got through it. It was more uncomfortable than it normally would have been due to the fact that it was her father who took her to get her first pads and her first training bra. It was her father who actually sat down and had The Talk with her.
The night of her high school graduation, something just snapped in Emma. To this day, she would never admit it out loud, but sitting in her royal blue graduation gown under the blaring sun, waiting for her name to be called, her eyes sought out her mother’s figure. Though she wasn’t sure just what her mother looked like nowadays, she felt that when she saw her, Emma would just know.
But she didn’t show.
It wasn’t as though Emma had expected her to, but a piece of her heart was crushed, and from that moment on, she accepted her mother was never going to show. She wasn’t going to attend any of Emma’s recitals. She wasn’t going to be there when Emma graduated college. She wasn’t there for Emma’s prom and wouldn’t be there at Emma’s wedding. Once Emma realized that, she stopped caring about her mother. Occasionally, her memory would come back and Emma would allow herself to wonder just why her mother left her, if maybe she thought about her daughter every once in a while...
“I hate these things.”
A low, soft spoken voice jarred Emma out of her thoughts and caused her to jump a little. Luckily she had long-since finished her hot dog so chunks that might have otherwise been occupying her mouth weren’t at risk to spew out into the nearby ocean.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Emma turned her head to get a good look at whoever it was that spoke to her. Her brow raised on its own accord when her eyes met with clear, blue irises.
“You didn’t frighten me,” she told him, returning her gaze out at sea. “I just startle easy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, and took another step closer so he stood at Emma’s side. “You’re Winsor’s daughter, aren’t you?”
Emma looked at the hockey player sharply. “You know my father?” she asked, slightly suspicious.
Even though it didn’t surprise her to know that people and players associated with the team were familiar with Jeremy Winsor, she was still cautious when people approached her with her father at the forefront of the conversation. She wasn’t exactly sure what they wanted, but most of the time, it had to do with money. She couldn’t for the life of her remember what this player’s name was or what his position was or whatever, but she did know he was a Gulls player. Which meant he had his own money, which just confused Emma as to what he wanted with her in the first place.
“Everyone knows your father,” he said, glancing down at her. “He’s practically as recognizable at a Gulls game as Gil is.”
Emma continued to stare at him, still not understanding the point of the conversation.
“Right, well I recognize you from the games,” he continued. He shuffled his feet a couple of times, looking at his toes buried beneath the sand. “Just wanted to say hello...”
By the tone of his voice, Emma could tell she had thrown him off and probably made him uncomfortable. “I’m Emma,” she said after a long moment of thinking how to remedy the situation even though she hadn’t meant to be so cold.
“Kyle,” he replied, taking her offered hand and shaking it. It felt surprisingly warm, maybe a little moist due to the heat, and much bigger than hers was. “Kyle Underwood. I play for the team.”
“I know.” Of course, Emma wasn’t keen on revealing that that was all she knew about him. “So why do you hate these things, exactly? I thought people felt good about giving to charity.”
“Oh, I do,” he said, looking at her. “It’s not that. I just hate all the awkward conversations that people expect to have with you.”
Emma grazed her bottom lip in order to keep a retort from spilling out of her mouth. He obviously didn’t recognize the hypocrisy of his statement.
“So I wanted to escape.”
Emma wasn’t sure if he was finishing a previous thought or was compelled to add it on for her benefit.
“And how’s that going for you?” she asked him, and then prayed to God that he didn’t use some kind of cheesy pick-up line like, ‘Well, the view’s definitely better.’
Surprisingly enough, he lifted his right shoulder and let it fall before angling his torso in his direction. “It could be better, I suppose. I don’t know. If I was at the beach, I’d rather be lying down on towel, soaking up the sun, maybe reading. I’m not a very social person. I kind of like to do my own thing.”
Once again, Emma refrained from asking just why, if he was as unsocial as he claimed to be, he was he talking to her, initiating the forced conversation he had just said he wanted to avoid. “You’re a hockey player though,” she pointed out. “Aren’t you supposed to interact with your fans and the press and all that stuff? You know, be famous?”
Kyle surprised her again by rolling those clear, blue eyes. “Okay, I know this is going entirely cliché, but fame isn’t why I got into playing hockey,” he told her, and for whatever reason, she decided to believe him. “I like the feeling I get when I’m on the ice, when I’m throwing an opposing player into the wall, when I’m shooting the puck. I do the press stuff because that’s what the job requires me to do. I interact with the fans because without them, I wouldn’t get to live my dream. But really, if the money and fame and all that other stuff didn’t come along with playing, I’d still play.”
“You seem very dedicated.” Because, really, Emma wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to such an unexpected bout of passion.
He didn’t comment on Emma’s observation and instead, shifted his weight before saying, “So are you really into hockey? You come to all the games and you have been, for a while.”
“Oh no, it’s not me,” Emma said in a rush, feeling her face heat up at the prospect that he actually noticed her presence. He didn’t think she was some kind of stalker, did he? “My dad’s the fan. I just go to the games with him.”
Kyle gave her a look – a cross between confused and interested – and cocked his head to the side before crossing his arms over his chest. “It sounds like you’re very dedicated to your father,” he said and then chuckled. “That came out wrong, didn’t it?”
Despite her best efforts, she found herself chuckling along with him. “No, I get what you’re saying,” she said. “Um, yeah, I guess you could say that. We’re both busy but we try to make time for each other, and somehow, our commonality is hockey. I
grew up coming to games and events and stuff. I guess it’s just how we bond.”
“You’re lucky,” he commented. “My father didn’t want me playing hockey, thought it would be a waste of my time. Even now, even though I’m playing for an NHL team, he still sees it as a habit rather than a career.”
“I’m sorry.” Emma knew her voice sounded off; whenever people told her personal things, she could never find the right things to say to make them feel better or supported. Instead, she stuck with formal apologies or silence, hoping it would ease her discomfort at the personal nature of the conversation as much as it would ease the speaker.
Kyle shrugged, shaking his head as though it was no big deal. “I have my mom, you know?”
Obviously the question was rhetorical, but the words stumbled out of Emma’s mouth before she could stop them. “No,” she murmured. “I don’t know.” She glanced up and saw that he was about to say something much like her own tacky apology, and if anything made her feel more uncomfortable than people sharing their intimate details of their life, it was being on the receiving end of one of those bullshit apologies. Which was why, under normal circumstances, she didn’t talk about things like that.
“You kind of sound like you have an accent,” she said, hoping to change the subject before he could say anything. His eyes caught hold of hers, and for a moment, Emma felt as though he could see through her cool exterior, as though he knew what she was doing.
“I’m from Canada,” he replied, causing Emma to release a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding.
He knew what she did and let her get away with it.
Before anything else could transpire between the two, Kyle’s name pierced the low murmurings of the crowd that had gathered. Both figures turned to see the only player Emma recognized by sight and actually knew the name of; Matt Peters, the Gulls’ team captain. She could see the many tattoos crawl up and down his arms, sliding in and out of the loose material of the v-neck shirt he was wearing as gestured for his teammate to come over to where he was at.
“There are some people who want to meet you,” he called.
Kyle nodded but didn’t respond. He turned to Emma and gave her a grin that seemed to have some sort of effect on her heart because it jumped out of its normal beating pattern. “It was nice to meet you, Emma Winsor,” he said, and now that he mentioned it, Emma could detect the subtle Canadian accent laced through his voice. “I’ll see you around.”
Though it was a statement, Emma still felt compelled to answer. “I’m sure you will,” she said.
Chapter 2
Even though the season technically didn’t start until October, Emma and her father pulled into the somewhat crowded Sea Side Ice Palace parking lot. Hushed chanting caught the young woman by surprise and from her spot in the passenger seat, she craned her neck in order to try and pinpoint where the noise was coming from. She couldn’t remember people gathering before a hockey game in order to chant, especially not during the preseason.
By time her father paid the attendant and found a place to park his beloved silver Mercedes relatively close to the large, circular building, Emma could hear the voices much better, and it wasn’t long before she could actually see the group of people making the noise. There were probably only twenty people, but the group was relatively diverse in both age and ethnicity. There seemed to be more females than males, which surprised Emma only because there didn’t seem to be a huge Seagulls fan base composed on solely women. Every other person held a sign that had some kind of clever slogan relating to their cause. But even reading a couple of signs or listening to their chants didn’t actually give anyone who happened to walk by them a clear idea of what they were protesting. One thing Emma did recognize was that whatever these people were protesting about, they were upset about it.
“What are they protesting about?” Emma whispered, despite being safely inside the rink where the chanters couldn’t overhear.
“I’m not sure,” her father replied. He led her skillfully to their section, having walked this exact route many, many times before. “But if I had to guess, it probably has to do with Brandon Thorpe.”
They walked into a small archway where an usher stood in a dark green vest, waiting to check tickets and show guests to their seats. The usher smiled at Jeremy, recognizing him because of his frequent presence at Sea Side. She didn’t even check his tickets.
Once in their seats, Emma turned to her father. “Why would people protest Brandon Thorpe?” she asked. “Isn’t he supposed to be, like, the best goalie in the league or something?”
Jeremy’s brown eyes sparkled with pride. “I didn’t actually expect you to know that,” he teased, but his admiration was detectable in his voice. Before his daughter could come up with some sort of retort, he continued. “From what I hear, Brandon Thorpe is an unofficial suspect in Ken Brown’s death. And before you ask me why, Thorpe hasn’t exactly been shy about asking for more money before extending his contract with the Gulls. And I don’t think Ken was going to give him that money.”
“Why not?” Emma asked. “He’s the best at what he does, isn’t he?”
“Yeah he is,” her father agreed, nodding his head. “But Ken didn’t care only about a player’s performance. He cared about a player’s attitude, too. Maybe even more than performance. I can’t tell you from personal experience about Thorpe’s attitude, but he’s played for the Gulls for three years and besides going to every home game, we’ve been to every Gulls charity event, and I don’t know about you, but I’ve never had a conversation with him besides a brief introduction.”
“So the people outside are protesting the fact that he’s playing tonight given that he could be a suspect in this case, even though the police haven’t actually said that Ken was murdered?” Emma’s voice was doubtful. “Isn’t that like saying he’s guilty without even looking at the evidence, giving him a trial, that sort of thing?”
“That’s exactly what it’s like,” Jeremy said. “But you’d be surprised, honey, how quickly people come to conclusions about others without letting them share their side. Especially people suspected of committing a crime.”
If anyone knew that point, it was her father. As a lawyer defending major corporations, Emma was certain her father was ostracized by people who knew about what he did for a living and probably even by some of his peers. When Emma asked why he decided to go into white-collar law rather than something like criminal law, he told her that he was well-aware that big businesses weren’t popular, and there was a good reason for this, but it didn’t mean that every single last one was bad, and if it meant that he’d have to defend a bunch of bad ones in order to reach that good one, then he would do it. Emma knew her father wasn’t the most popular person because of his job, but he seemed to enjoy it. And she wouldn’t lie; he got paid well which allowed her to live the lifestyle she was used to and liked.
Before they were able to resume their conversations, the lights in the stadium dimmed and an enthusiastic voice over the loudspeaker announced the Sea Gulls. Because it was a home game, the team was decked out in their navy blue jerseys with white lettering and subtle, dark red outlines. They skated with ease and grace, making it look so much easier than it really was. Instead of burying her nose inside the book she brought with her like she normally would have, she decided to watch for a moment. Just for a bit.
Completely beyond her capacity of control, Emma’s eyes managed to catch onto Kyle’s skating form. She thought she heard the announcer say Kyle would be starting. His hair was pushed underneath the black helmet clipped underneath his chin though strawberry blond strands stuck out here and there. The pads underneath his clothing made his shoulders and torso look bigger than he really was, which greatly contrasted with the size of Kyle’s head and caused Emma to smile in amusement.
The three forwards lined up in the center of the ice, against the opposing team, the Phoenix Panthers. And just like that, the referees, in helmets and ice skates as well, star
ted the game and skated out of the way.
Emma was close to the glass, only four rows from it. There weren’t many people around her, and she figured that that had to do with the fact that the season had yet to start. She actually preferred it this way; she could see so clearly in front of her and she didn’t have to worry about people standing up and being obnoxious. After a couple of minutes, one of the referees blew his whistle, causing the game to stop.
“What happened?” Emma asked her father while keeping her eyes in front of her.
“Icing,” her father replied, too entranced in the game to look at his daughter. “It means that one of our guys was in the neutral zone and shot it past the two red lines, the last one being where the goaltender is located, and nobody touched it. But if Peters had cleared it while being in our zone, icing wouldn’t be called.”
Emma didn’t fully understand why clearing it was such a big deal, but she decided not to ask. As much as her father knew about hockey, she didn’t think he’d know the answer to this question, either.
When Kyle was off the ice, Emma focused her attention on Brandon Thorpe. He had stretched before the game, his fingers – encased in thick, white gloves – touching the ice as he bent one knee and extended the other and then switched. He took his stick, thicker and shorter than a regular hockey stick, and traced it on the ice in the form of a crescent moon before kneeling forward. Even she could feel the focused tension brimming from the player and he was a good deal away. His mask fit his head completely, almost as though it molded to his head, and though Emma couldn’t make out the designs completely, she thought she saw darker forms of seagulls decorating the white plaster. It protected his face – Emma couldn’t detect a poignant facial feature besides his eyes, but even here, she wasn’t sure of the color – and made it seem smaller than it really was. She didn’t want to believe it fully, but someone with that much intensity could possibly commit a murder, if he was angry enough.
Grace on the Rocks: A Slapshot Prequel (Slapshot Prequel Trilogy Book 2) Page 2
