Grace on the Rocks: A Slapshot Prequel (Slapshot Prequel Trilogy Book 2)

by Heather C. Myers

  Maybe she could understand why those people were protesting him playing; watching him – a guy who could have possibly killed an old man – almost felt like she conspired to have Ken Brown killed, too. Like she supported it.

  Then she reminded herself that perhaps she, too, was making a quick judgment about him. Maybe he didn’t do it.

  Whether he did it or not, Emma couldn’t deny that Brandon Thorpe was good. He made saves she thought were impossible. Every time he did, fans, both supporting Phoenix and Newport, started to boo. Almost to the point of distraction.

  As a result, she couldn’t help but feel bad for the guy. Emma had no idea how he managed to keep his cool throughout the entire first period; if Emma had been in his place, she probably either would have started yelling at the crowd or skating off – well, staggering since she couldn’t skate – the ice in a fit of tears. Yet, looking at Thorpe, he seemed to be totally and completely unaffected by it. Like he couldn’t hear them.

  Was that even normal?

  It was only seven minutes and fifteen seconds into the first period when Matt Peters, the captain of the Seagulls, began a fight with a member of the other team. The fans started cheering and standing up to get a better view of the scene before them.

  “How stupid,” her father muttered. When he noticed his daughter’s curious gaze, he said, “Well, it’s preseason. Fights in preseason are just asking for injury and we can’t afford to lose Peters because he hurts his hand over a fight that has to do with Thorpe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hockey players try and get under their opponent’s skin,” Jeremy said. “Some jab players with their stick – normally goalies, but I’m just generalizing - and some cross-check a little more than necessary. Others throw around words, insults. Since Thorpe is obviously making headlines, Phoenix is probably trying to mess with the Gulls using Thorpe. And the Gulls, they’re not exactly dirty but if they feel personally attacked, they get the job done. What I’m guessing is that Benson wanted to mess with Peters, said something about Thorpe, and Matt felt like he needed to defend his teammate and got into this stupid fight.”

  “Why aren’t the refs stopping it?” she asked, completely baffled at the scene that still continued before her. “Look at them; they’re standing right there! They can obviously see it.”

  “There are numerous reasons why the refs don’t jump in, even though they should have stopped the fight before it even began,” Jeremy said, his voice tight. Emma glanced up at her father and noticed he was getting more and more upset by the minute. “A big one is that the crowds love fights, no matter what the consequences.

  “You see that woman over there?”

  Emma looked to where his father was pointing, away from the two players each skating to their individual penalty boxes.

  “That’s Katella Hanson, Ken’s oldest granddaughter.”

  “She’s the one dating Peters.”

  “Yup,” Jeremy said. “She’s been to every single home game since she started dating Matt, no matter what. It didn’t matter if she had finals to study for or a girls’ night, she’s always here, even preseason.”

  “She’s pretty,” Emma murmured, but even she knew that such a simple word didn’t accurately describe the woman sitting across the ice from them. Katella was smirking but her eyes seemed to be touched with worry, almost as though she loved the fight but worried about the result. Next to her sat another woman who looked nearly identical to Katella, save for a few minor differences. “So is the woman sitting next to her.”

  “I think that’s the elusive Seraphina Hanson,” Jeremy said. “The two look exactly alike, don’t they? I’m glad to see that she’s here, if I’m being honest. Even though she announced that she was going to take over the team, I was worried that maybe she didn’t take it seriously. Or do everything that needs to be done, but lacking the passion for the team. I know she probably doesn’t have it just yet, but the fact that she’s here” - he pointed at Kyle Underwood, stopping himself in midsentence - “That’s the kid you have to watch Emma,” he said. “I mean, look at him play. He’s fast, he knows the team. And even though he’s been playing since he was nineteen, he still seriously enjoys the game.”

  Kyle Underwood?

  Emma watched Kyle for a long moment, though hockey players seemed to change every minute or so, and decided that she agreed with her father. She could make out his clear blue eyes, filled with excitement and anticipation, waiting for the ref to drop the puck after Phoenix was called for being offside. She felt herself smiling as she continued to look, and she realized that it was rather easy to get swept away by his passion for the sport he played.

  The more she looked at him, the more the butterflies that had been fluttering around in her stomach began crashing into each other, into the walls of her belly. He wasn’t that attractive – well, okay, that wasn’t completely true. She figured that just looking at him, one could garner some sort of affection for him. He was tall, and that was always a plus. His eyes were so blue. His hair fit with his pale, sometimes red, skin. His lips were thin. He was toned, fit. When he smiled, his entire face lit up, and in that moment, there was nothing in the room worth looking at except for him. His voice was sweet, endearing, but also low and masculine. Then there was the passion. It was those things that were secondary physical characteristics that made him indescribably attractive to Emma. That, and the flattery she felt that he had sought her out at the beach to talk to her.

  But, no. She had to stop thinking like that. Sure, Emma knew that it was okay to be attracted to him. Every girl needed eye candy if she was going to be spending long durations of her time at something that otherwise might have been boring. She couldn’t actually like him. She was relationship-celibate in order to concentrate on school, her dad, and her dancing. And Kyle Underwood would just mess that dynamic up.

  Although it was silly of her to even assume he could possibly be interested in her. Surely he had a handful of girls following his every move, and those women who cleaned the ice were practically flawless. Emma knew that in terms of symmetry and aesthetics, she was pleasing to look at, and could even be beautiful. But she also knew that she wasn’t everyone’s type – more of a girl next door than a mysterious siren – and who knew what Kyle’s type was?

  It doesn’t matter. Celibate, remember?

  “You know, the decision to trade Randy Silverman to Canada in exchange for Underwood was one of Ken Brown’s best decisions,” Jeremy murmured, breaking Emma from her thoughts. “I say that a lot, I know. But God, what a player. I seriously hope Henry can get these players to actually play together because individually, they have so much potential. They just need to play as a team.” He frowned. “What were we talking about before?”

  “Oh.” Emma had to think a minute before she was able to respond. “Seraphina. The new owner.”

  “Right, right.” Though his mouth moved, his eyes were focused on the game before him. If Emma had to guess, she believed her father was now talking on autopilot. “Yeah, I think she has more going on than people give her credit for.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, she could be enjoying life, never have to work for the rest of hers,” her father explained. “Selling the team could give both sisters millions, and inheriting her grandfather’s estate would just add to that. Instead, she takes on the team even though she’ll no doubt be crucified.”

  Emma paused, taking this all in. Her eyes found the subject of their conversation; she had a rigid posture, unlike most young women their age, and for the most part, her face seemed impassive. But her eyes – granted, Emma couldn’t tell what color they were from her position – spoke more so than her mouth ever could. They were filled with worry and probably anxiety, as though she wasn’t sure she could handle what she had been given.

  Emma didn’t blame her for feeling this way.

  “Do you think she’ll do a good job?” she asked her father, and she was surprised at the
sound of hope that tainted her tone.

  Jeremy sighed through his nose, silent for a long moment. Emma thought that perhaps he didn’t hear her or was too consumed in the game to give her a response, but he finally said, “She has a lot to learn. She doesn’t know anything about hockey, and that’s essential to owning and running a team. I don’t think she should have allowed Thorpe to play tonight, even though it is in preseason. I don’t think he should be allowed to play until he’s officially cleared.”

  “But Dad, you said so yourself, the way Thorpe is being treated, how he’s getting booed every time he makes a save, isn’t fair,” Emma said. “Why shouldn’t he be allowed to play?”

  “Honey, I think he is being treated unfairly. Absolutely. But a hockey team is a business. Fans are already split about him because he’s asking for all this money. They’re offended that he would be willing to leave the team where he built his reputation for financial reasons. Now he’s a suspect in killing Ken, and fans that weren’t sure where they stood about him have most likely decided against him. I’m sure he has fans who’ll stand behind him no matter what, but they’re few and far between. Playing him would only hurt the team’s image. Maybe the controversy will boost ticket sales, but the image, it’s all about image.”

  “Then why would she keep him on the team?”

  Jeremy shrugged. “Maybe she thinks he didn’t do it,” he said.

  Emma looked at him. “Do you?” She wasn’t certain what she was waiting for, what she wanted her father to say, but she felt her breathing slow.

  “No.” He shook his head to emphasize his point. “Thorpe’s arrogant and self-righteous, and if he’s really going to leave, he’s a jerk, but he’s not a murderer. Even so, Seraphina needs the public’s support, not only for the team but for her. She’s a young, rich girl from Newport Beach inheriting this company. Nobody is going to take her seriously. I’m not sure I do. She shouldn’t play him until he’s cleared, and even then, it might be safer to just get rid of him.” He paused, and Emma noticed an admiring sparkle in her father’s eyes as he looked at Seraphina. “But Ken was a gem. And the reason the Gulls even exist. I have to believe that she inherited his business sense in some way. And, I have to admit, that her pretty much standing behind Thorpe through all of this shows that she has balls. And that’s exactly what we need.”

  Chapter 3

  To Emma, dancing was her life.

  Some people said that in a metaphorical sort of sense. Maybe they took dance classes at their gym or as a performing art class requirement. Maybe they went to the club on the weekend. Maybe they danced when they got ready for school in the morning or in their car on the way to work. Maybe they danced in an aisle of the supermarket or at frat parties. Some people danced to forget or to shake off all the stress they had accumulated over any given period of time.

  Emma danced to live. She danced because she had to. She couldn’t control it. Her heart beat purely for the moment when her body was moving in a fluid motion, expressing feelings she couldn’t put into words. Her entire body was tense, focused. She was in complete control in that moment. And nothing phased her. It was also a place for her to escape, whether that was from life or love or school or friends. She lost herself in the music, in the motion of her body, and in that moment, her thoughts were nonexistent. In fact, Emma wouldn’t be able to consciously think when she was lost in the music. Her thoughts were fluid, like her movements, and everything else faded away.

  When Emma said that dancing was her life, she meant it. She couldn’t be sure that it would be like this forever. If and when she got married and had children, things would change. But for right now, she focused her effort and energy into this activity she had been doing since she was young, since her mother left. Maybe psychologically, she wanted to hold onto something stable after being abandoned. Probably she also wanted to escape the feelings of being abandoned by one of the few people who were supposed to love her, to stay with her no matter what. It gave her something to direct her hurt and sorrow and anger into that was constructive and healthy.

  She danced through elementary school and middle school, even missing her promotion dance in order to star in a recital. She took dance in high school and made the varsity team her freshman year. Junior year she was captain over forty students, including eight seniors. Her senior year, she began choreographing her team. She got a scholarship studying dance at multiple schools but she chose University of California, Irvine only because she wanted to stay close to home, close to her father.

  Her father, Jeremy Winsor, was the only constant in her life outside of dancing, and the only person she looked up to. He managed to make every single one of her recitals, even if it meant he would have to miss a Gulls game. He completely supported her, offering to pay for whatever class she wanted to take, to pay for various uniforms and shoes. He volunteered to drive her and other classmates to different shows if buses weren’t available. And she reciprocated the favor by attending as many hockey games as she could.

  Looking back on that period of her life, Emma wished she would have showed more enthusiasm for her father’s favorite sport, especially since he managed to learn different technical terms for dancing and always asked about it. But when you’re ten, twelve, watching grown men ice skate, trying to score and getting violent, wasn’t exactly something that interested her. She would bring books or go over dance moves in her head. Never any sort of MP3 player, though. She didn’t want to be rude. And one of the best things about her father was that he never scolded her or was embarrassed by the fact that his daughter didn’t appreciate something he valued as much as she valued dance.

  Now, though. Now she was coming around. Better late than never.

  As she had been doing the entire summer, Emma was up at five o’clock in the morning, dancing in the studio her father had created for her in the west wing of their house. It was sound proof, so she could turn the music up as loud as she wanted to and it wouldn’t wake up Jeremy, who liked to sleep until eight in the morning. Today was her first day of her last year at UCI, and she was nearly finished with the piece she had been asked to do for the quarter’s end recital in terms of choreography. Of course she had to clean it and then teach it to other people in her group – a group she wouldn’t know the members of until two weeks into the quarter – and then practice it over and over again on top of beginning the choreography for the winter quarter’s recital.

  It sounded busy, but Emma liked that. She liked that her thoughts were always focused. She couldn’t imagine having a boyfriend at a time like this, when all she had been living for would finally get her a degree and then, afterwards, a career that she dreamed of. Especially considering she barely had time to make time for her friends, what with dance and family coming second and first respectively.

  When Emma finished the last couple of loose ends she needed to tie up, she turned down the music to a low murmur and sat down on the wood floor. When she cooled down, stretched, she allowed her mind to reacquire thoughts, but instead of focusing on just one, she let them ramble. Her feet were pushed together, bending her knees so that her legs looked like butterfly wings, and as she leaned over her feet with ease, those thoughts that had been ignored for the past hour began to flow in. Like how she was afraid of the uncertainty that graduation brought. How she wished her father would start dating because she really did want him to find someone that would make him happy. Like how she knew she wouldn’t be taken seriously with this particular choice of song for the recital, but the beat was unheard of. Like how she was so glad she wasn’t dating that tool Dylan Tootoo. Like how Kyle played an amazing game last night and how she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed him before and he was pretty cute.

  “Okay, Em,” she said to herself, rolling her body back upright. “Time to shower.” She stood up and quickly finished stretching, this time making it a point to block any and all thoughts about Number Sixteen.

  Once she washed up and dried off, Emma changed into her usual
school outfit. It was by no means fashionable, nor did it reflect her family’s wealth but it was comfortable and practical so if she needed to run to the floor at UCI’s dance studio – in case she came up with something else, needed to tweak something, or needed to teach somebody else – she could without worrying about changing or doing the routine in something uncomfortable or revealing. Sweatpants from Victoria’s Secret’s Pink line, varying the colors and style every day, and a t-shirt from the same company. Her shoes were either ballet flats or flip flops and her hair was either in a loose ponytail or a simple bun. Her face was void of makeup, save of Chapstick and mascara.

  When she headed downstairs for breakfast, she found her father already dressed for work, sitting at the dining table reading the paper. He looked up when he noticed her come in and offered her a warm smile.

  “Ready for your first day?” he asked her, folding the paper down so he could give her his complete attention.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said as she headed over to the cabinet, picking out her favorite cereal - one of the only foods she could probably live off of if she had to – and pouring herself a sizable bowl. “I only have dance classes today. It’s tomorrow I have to be worried about.”

  “What’s tomorrow?” He took a sip of coffee.

  “Ummm.” She waited until she swallowed her bite of cereal before answering, “History and psychology and economics. Yeesh.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine,” he said, hiding a smirk at her flair for the dramatic. “You’re a smart girl.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Emma took another bite of cereal, going over the steps she had added earlier this morning to the choreography in her head.

  “What a shame.”

  Emma glanced up at her father who had now unfolded the paper once again, his brown eyes heavily involved in the words that were presented to him.

  “What’s up?” she asked, her mouth full.

  Jeremy shook his head. “Yesterday was a pretty bad game, you know?” he asked. “What, with all the protesting, the booing, the whole ‘should they play Thorpe, should they not,’ Ken’s murder. People are just ripping into Seraphina Hanson. If you read this article, the same journalist criticizes her for both playing Thorpe and then pulling him during the second period and then putting him back in during the third. This poor girl can’t catch a break.”