Yup, he was still on a roll. At least they were on the PCH now. Now, it would probably take twenty minutes, if that, to get home. Emma felt herself yawn and she sank deeper into the passenger seat. Even though she was determined to work out the last few hits of the routine, she was exhausted. School had barely started and she could already feel her summer social life slip away from her. It was her last year though, so in a way, she figured that perhaps this last push would be worth it.
Since she had listed everything she wanted to fix in terms of dancing, she felt her mind drift away to something else: Kyle Underwood.
They decided they would be friends. She knew it was the best thing. Both of them were busy with their own thing and both didn’t really have incredibly positive things to say about love and relationships, so it made sense. She was glad there was no pressure on her to impress Kyle Underwood, as a potential girlfriend. There was no need to be perfect, no need to try too hard. She could just be herself around him, her goofy, slightly anal, and naively optimistic self.
Except, it would be harder to do whenever he smiled at her the way he had when they locked eyes on the ice. Even though she told her heart that the connection they had between them was completely platonic, her heart jumped at the sight of him. Forgot to beat. And the butterflies in her stomach amassed to rocks being thrown into its walls.
No, she didn’t want a relationship – with him or with anyone – but she did feel something different. And she didn’t know what that was.
“Okay, time to stop that,” she murmured to herself under her breath.
“What was that?” Jeremy asked, stopping in midsentence to address his daughter.
“Um...” She pressed her lips together before coming up with something quick. “Why won’t the refs stop the fight, exactly?”
Nice save, Winsor.
“The only time, really, that the refs let fights go on is when they feel that there’s a lot of tension between the team,” Jeremy explain. “The fighting might alleviate that tension. But it never happens during preseason. Never. Sure, fights break out, little scraps here and there, but nothing as big as what’s been going on here, and if it did turn into what we’ve been seeing, the refs are normally really good at breaking it off. I have no idea why they continue to let the players fight, but if any of our guys aren’t able to play at the beginning of our season, I will be livid. I would even be tempted to consider bringing a lawsuit against the league about it.”
At the last statement, Emma couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Her father could get a little carried away. Yes, it was rare, but there was a lot going on in her father’s life, that perhaps he needed to relieve the tension by attacking an innocent bystander like the National Hockey League. Although, Emma couldn’t help but agree that the refs needed to step up and prevent the players from hurting each other.
“But I thought that’s what hockey is about,” Emma pointed out, turning to look at Jeremy’s profile. “The fighting and kicking ass and stuff.”
“That’s an added benefit, don’t get me wrong,” Jeremy agreed. “What other sport, besides actual fighting sports, do you get this kind of violence? None. But hockey is more than that. It’s the fastest team sport ever played. And to me, it reminds me of the games I went to with my own father. Granted, he couldn’t afford season tickets, and normally we would sit in the nosebleed seats, but back when I lived in Nashville, we would go to the Municipal Auditorium and watch it together. My dad was a blue-collar guy, working on building things like airplanes and other machines, so he was busy and when he got home, he was tired and didn’t have much time for me. But he always made it a point to take me to games throughout the season. And I got into the game, I got extremely close to my dad, and they were the best nights of my life. That’s what hockey means to me. And to see it get this dismissive quality, sort of exploiting the violence, makes me frustrated.”
Emma snorted, knowing that frustrated was nowhere near the correct word to describe what her father felt. However, there was something about the story she had been vaguely aware of that she couldn’t help but worry about a teensy bit. He spent time with his father. They bonded, father and son. And Emma? Emma was Jeremy’s only child, a daughter.
“Do you ever wish I was a boy?” she asked. Her voice was quiet and anxious. She always enjoyed her relationship with her father, even with all the awkward conversations they were practically forced to endure. To be honest, Emma didn’t think they could get closer. But maybe if she was a boy...
“Never,” he replied, and Emma was certain he meant it. “I love you exactly the way you are. Never feel any different.”
Emma nodded, satisfied. She yawned again. Maybe, instead of working on the dance tonight, she’d just work extra hard tomorrow. She really didn’t need the corrections implemented until Friday. She had enough time.
“I just hope this ends soon,” Jeremy muttered. From the corner of her eyes, Emma saw him shaking his head with disappointment. “This isn’t what hockey is about.”
Chapter 8
Friday afternoon was the only time Emma could meet up with her three best friends at Farley’s, a chain restaurant and brewery. She had fixed all the necessary mistakes and tightened up a couple of hits in her dance routine yesterday, and then practiced it over and over again this morning to make sure that every time she danced it, she nailed it. This was her little break before she had to head back to UCI in order to teach her team the dance which meant she couldn’t eat a cheeseburger and fries like she wanted to lest she wanted to puke all over the dance floor.
“Looks like it’s a salad for me,” she muttered under her breath.
Emma reached forward and grabbed the gaudy, gold seashell-shaped handle. The dark oak door was heavy, and it took effort to open the door and slip inside. Despite the fact that the restaurant opened maybe a half an hour ago, the lights were dim and different sports games on multiple flat screen televisions located at various places throughout rather than just at the bar were going off at the same time. A few people were already scattered, a couple off in a booth, middle-aged men sitting at the bar and mumbling about how they would coach whatever team they were watching, businessmen at tables talking to their clients. And there, located in the bar section of the restaurant at a high table with matching-in-height chairs, were Ariel, Michelle, and Carrie, Emma’s three best friends.
It was their table, a long standing tradition they had come up with their freshmen year of college, to meet at least once a week and catch up. Ariel was tall and slim – perhaps skinny was a more appropriate word – with luxurious, wavy dirt-brown hair and sapphire colored eyes. Though Ariel really was slender without being unhealthy and had legs up to her neck that Emma would kill for, she lacked curves to outline her body. She was wearing skinny jeans and a layered top, her hair pulled back into a casual ponytail and her thin lips curled into a smile. Currently, she was in her first year at graduate school at UCI, studying law. A fruity drink – probably a mimosa of some sort – sat just off to the side, barely touched.
Michelle was doing her usual crossword puzzles, seemingly ready to order. She had straight black hair that reached just past her shoulder and green eyes. She, too, was slender, but shorter and with more meat on her bones than Ariel. Unlike Ariel, she preferred to go makeup-less most of time unless they all went out on the town or somewhere special. Michelle invested in baggy clothing most of the time, and her chosen style was baggy t-shirts and tight jeans, whether they were skinny jeans or boot cut, it didn’t matter. On her feet was the same pair of Vans she had had since high school. She majored in psychology at Cal State Fullerton, with a focus of marriage and family counseling. A Coke half-drunk was just off to the side.
Carrie was writing something on a paper napkin, probably lyrics to another song she was writing. Originally from Georgia, Carrie’s goal was to be a country singer and she certainly looked the part. Carrie had deep, curly red hair that reached the middle of her back with side swept bangs that framed her oval-
shaped face and dark brown eyes. Because she was from Georgia, she had more curves than her three friends, but there were times when she wished she had Ariel’s legs, Emma’s stomach, and Michelle’s arms. She was naturally tan, with freckles scattered across her face and a slight, Southern drawl that hadn’t been depleted since she moved here her sophomore year of high school. She loved dresses and was constantly wearing them, and especially loved that the weather in Southern California permitted her to wear her choice of clothing even in the summer. Because she was intent on being a country singer, she wasn’t in college, but she did have a manager and her demo was swimming around different labels both in Los Angeles and back east in Nashville. She had a lemonade to her left.
“Girls!” Emma exclaimed once she had reached the table.
They all looked up and began to comment on Emma’s casual attire – “I can literally predict what you’re going to wear to our get-togethers,” Ariel said – the fact that she was, as usual, late – “I actually won the betting pool so I should really thank you,” Michelle said in her normal dry tone – and her new routine – “You have to teach it to me,” Carrie said with natural enthusiasm – all the while dishing out hugs and air kisses.
When Emma finally sat down, she noticed an ice water just waiting for her. “Guys!” she said, gesturing at the drink. “You know me too well.” “Duh,” Michelle said with a grin.
“Actually, there’s something we want to know that we don’t,” Ariel said, her brows pushed up. “What’s been going on at Sea Side and with the Gulls? You know, with that whole murder thing and how that one guy is a suspect but it might be the uncle but they arrested the player.”
“Ooh, yeah!” Carried said, nodding her head vigorously. “Sounds like tons of drama.”
“Eh.” Emma shrugged her shoulders, not quite sure if drama was the right word. “Well, I guess, for the new owner, Seraphina Hanson.”
“I heard she’s a UCI grad,” Ariel said.
“So is her sister, Katella,” Emma said. She took a quick sip of her water before continuing. “And technically speaking, Brandon Thorpe, the player, wasn’t actually arrested. He was brought in for questioning. I think he was released last night or something. And Seraphina’s uncle was the prime suspect but they cleared him. Although, my dad kind of knows him. Not personally, but you know how much he loves the Gulls and everything so he talks to, like, the trainers and coaches and stuff, and I think the uncle is the biggest asshole on the planet.”
“I saw that he came out against his niece in a video on The Orange County Register’s website,” Michelle said.
“Douche,” muttered Ariel.
“So how hot are the hockey players?” Carrie asked. Apparently the murder was brushed aside for more important things. “I mean, you get to meet them right? And your dad’s season tickets are, like, up close and personal. So? Do they have all their teeth?”
The table erupted in laughter.
“Carrie, they’re all rich and have access to the best dentists in the country,” Emma pointed out. “Even if they lost them, they can easily replace their teeth.”
“What about that guy that came up to you at that beach thing?” Ariel asked, pushing her perfectly plucked brow and looking at her friend inquiringly. “Has anything come from that?”
“What’s his name again?” Michelle asked.
“Kyle Underwood,” Emma said, feeling herself blush. And no, the lights weren’t so dim as to hide the new color in Emma’s face because her friends all picked up on it and all gave her crap for it. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you.”
Before she could actually reveal what had happened between her and number sixteen, a waitress dressed in the typical black and white uniform, her brown hair pulled back from her face in a sleek ponytail, came over and took their order. Emma could barely get out the words Chicken Cesar Salad without grumbling. Farley’s was known for their burgers and fries. But since Carrie was getting that particular combination, Emma would sneak a few fries here and there.
“Okay,” Carrie said with narrowed eyes. “The waitress is gone. Dish. Now.”
Emma laughed but began to tell everything that had happened: how Kyle had given her his stick – “His stick? Really? And you don’t expect us to comment on the underlying meaning behind that?” Michelle asked – how they had met at The Canary, a place where he took all of his first dates – “Um, skeeze much?” Ariel said – and how they had decided they would just be friends – “I don’t think it’s possible for guys and girls to just be friends,” Carrie said – but made sure to leave out that whenever she saw him, her heart got all funny.
“So is he cute?” Carrie asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
Before Emma could answer, a nearby sports game on a television broke out into breaking news. Brandon Thorpe’s official team picture of this season appeared on screen. He was staring straight ahead, and as Emma studied him, she felt a sliver slide down her back. Those pale green eyes looked as though they could see right through the lens, like they held a secret while at the same time, they looked lifeless, like there was nothing behind them. His short brown hair was unruly, locks going every which way but not enough to cover his ears, which prominently stuck out. Whiskers swept over his distinct jaw and the right corner of his lips curled up into a subtle smirk that seemed to taunt, ‘I know something you don’t know.’ Despite his obvious coldness, he was still good looking. Maybe not Emma’s type, but attractive nonetheless. Yes, Emma could see how people might assume Brandon Thorpe killed Ken Brown. The guy looked detached even in his Seagulls photo.
“This just in,” a well-dressed news reporter began, coming onto the screen so Brandon Thorpe’s picture was placed in the left corner of the frame. It shrunk to accommodate whoever Chip Donahue was. Probably some sportscaster. Every piece of his cut, (probably died, Emma figured) chestnut brown hair was perfectly in place and Emma could tell the suit he wore was custom-made. “We have just learned that Newport Beach Seagulls goalie, Brandon Thorpe, was released late last night from police custody after being questioned about the murder of Gulls owner and manager Ken Brown. He was taken in earlier yesterday morning and kept approximately ten hours before he was allowed to go. He did not make it in time to meet his team to John Wayne Airport in Orange County for their away game tonight, against the Vancouver Chiefs. As of yet, there is no word on whether or not Brandon Thorpe will continue with the Newport Seagulls as their goaltender. His contract has yet to be signed, and he has not publicly commented about the matter. We have tried to get the new owner, Seraphina Handson, and Brown’s granddaughter, to comment about both Thorpe and her uncle being suspects in her grandfather’s murder, but she has yet to make a statement to the media, besides, of course, playing Thorpe during the Gulls’ preseason games despite the suspicion surrounding him.”
Chip Donahue turned to his left in order to face another comment.
“Brandon Thorpe recently made headlines by holding out last minute instead of resigning with the Gulls,” Chip continued. “He wanted more money. Already a player that wasn’t, exactly, a fan favorite - though revered for his amazing skill in front of the net - Brandon Thorpe already has a notorious antisocial reputation, not only with fans but amongst his fellow players as well. It is highly unlikely that if Thorpe is innocent of Brown’s murder and Hanson does not offer Thorpe the option to resign, he will have an easy time finding a new team to play with. Just because Thorpe is arguably the best net minder in the Western Conference – possibly even the entire league – does not erase the fact that he was thought to be a murderer. This is disappointing because, God, the guy can play.”
The game resumed and the young ladies pulled their eyes off the television and placed them on each other.
“I cannot even imagine what I would do if I was that Hanson girl,” Ariel commented, taking a sip of her mimosa. “Inheriting a sports team I had no idea about, only to find out that one of my players is a suspect and oh, by the way, so is my uncle. Jesus.”<
br />
“Ahem,” Carrie said, crossing her arms over her chest and giving Ariel a look. “What’d I say about taking the Lord’s name in vain, Ariel?”
“It’s an expression,” Ariel retorted.
“Okay, I know this is going to sound weird and everything,” Michelle said, a light pink blush coloring her pale cheeks, “but was I the only person who thought that Brandon guy was hot?”
“Michelle!” Carrie exclaimed. “The guy is a suspect in a murder!” “So?” Michelle asked.
“That didn’t mean he did it.” Carrie looked like she was about to argue but Emma interrupted.
“Michelle’s right,” she said. “And Chip Donahue didn’t actually tell the entire story. I was at the game, the day Thorpe was brought in for questioning, and my dad already knew everything there is to know about it. As much as a civilian could know, anyway. But the way Chip was talking, it was like he was insinuating Thorpe was arrested, but he actually wasn’t. He was only brought in for questioning. Technically, he could have left whenever he wanted, and because he got to leave without being arrested, the cops probably don’t have anything on him.”
“Well, they must have something on him,” Carrie pointed out, “if they suspected him in the first place.”
“The motive is a good one,” Ariel added. “Wanting more money.”
Grace on the Rocks: A Slapshot Prequel (Slapshot Prequel Trilogy Book 2) Page 8
