by Lia Riley
“I didn’t know this was going to be a party.” Margot slid into the booth and removed her beanie. “What gives? First Breezy’s spending Valentine’s Day here, and now you two lovebirds?” She gave Neve a double-take, taking in the bold slash of red lipstick and daring kohl-black eyeliner.
“I had a thing tonight.” Neve shrugged under the scrutiny.
“Oh my God!” Margot clasped a hand over her mouth, realizing the date. “The burlesque show?” They’d done a four-lesson burlesque dancing class together back in November. It had been fun, but Margot had too many conflicts teaching night classes. Neve had stuck with it and the recital had been set for Valentine’s Day.
“Why didn’t you remind us?” Margot pressed. “We’d have gone and cheered you on.”
“Save your breath.” Breezy snorted. “I’ve already given her a stern lecture.”
“Sorry, not sorry. Tonight wasn’t for you guys,” Neve stated in her crisp matter-of-fact manner. “It wasn’t for anyone. Just me.”
“Although I happened to enjoy it,” Tor deadpanned before taking a sip from his pint.
“Mmm-hmm. I noticed that you kept the program open on your lap.” Neve winked at her boyfriend.
“Guys! Guys! Come on. Let me pig out on these bar peanuts without gagging,” Margot said with mock severity.
“What can I say?” Neve responded. “I love getting a rise out of my guy. Pun very much intended.”
“All right, ladies,” Tor cut through the giggling. “Not to rain on this parade, but Neve and I have dinner reservations at Julia’s in—” He checked his watch. “T-minus thirty minutes.”
“Julia’s? Look at you, Tor-nado. Pulling out the big gourmet guns. You must have moved heaven and earth to get a reservation tonight.” Margot teased. “But then, why not? There’s so much for you two to celebrate, what with the end of the lockout and everything.”
For the past four months, a lockout had halted the NHL regular season. A Titanic-sized tragedy for the city.
Neve and Tor exchanged a long look.
“Indeed. Among other things.” Neve coyly placed her hand on the table. A sapphire winked in the dim light as Breezy and Margot screamed.
“See?” Neve continued. “We aren’t alllll work and no play.”
“How? When? What! Oh my God!” Breezy blustered while Margot demanded, “Tell us everything. Leave no stone unturned. Sakes alive, I need smelling salts.”
“Today, before the recital,” Neve responded. “With the lockout over and my new position as head of Hellions Public Relations off to a great start, Tor thought we should kick off the rest of the season on the same team . . . in more ways than one.”
“I’m freaking out. When will you have the wedding?” Breezy squealed, clapping. Her own big day was in two months in Aspen. “I have ideas. So. Many. Ideas. You could go vintage. Or rustic. Or Jazz Age. Wait, what about The Wizard of Oz. You could wear red ruby slippers and—”
“Stop right there.” Tor held up a hand while giving his new fiancée an adoring look. “Angel. I’m happy to let you handle every last detail and spare no expense. Have a yellow brick road and flying monkeys. Invite fifty bridesmaids. Hire a petting zoo. Get a skywriter. But we’re down to twenty-five minutes. I’ve booked your favorite table and have a bottle of Dom Pérignon on ice. Breezy begged us to come so let’s wrap this up and then hit the road.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll be quick. I’ve . . . had an idea.” Breezy drummed her fingers on the table for dramatic effect. “A breakthrough idea for dealing with the Patch Donnelly situation.”
“Eeesh.” Margot wrinkled her nose. “There’s a guy whose issues have issues. I heard how he got served at his first practice back over that crazy bar brawl.”
Back in November, the Hellions goalie had almost torn off the arm of a notorious personal injury lawyer who was locally famous for his cringe-worthy commercials. No one knew what went down; simply that Patch had issued an epic beatdown.
This suit was just the latest blight in a long string of altercations that had culminated in Patch getting thrown out of the last game he’d played against the San Francisco Renegades, right before the lockout began.
Margot racked her brain but couldn’t think of a single reason why anything about Patch Donnelly could relate to her. She loved hockey—ahem, hockey players—as much as the next red-blooded woman, but she wasn’t exactly an expert on the finer points of the game. Certainly not enough to weigh in on player strategy.
Breezy shot Tor a pointed look. “He is going to be part of the starting lineup again, right?”
“I’m not prepared to comment on that.” But an uncharacteristic look of uncertainty flickered over Tor’s chiseled Scandinavian features.
“Why don’t you ask Margot to help you out.” Breezy clapped her hands. “See if she’d be willing to do you a favor, and volunteer to treat Patch to a few yoga sessions.”
“Margot?” Tor said right as Margot cried, “Me?”
She gaped at her friend. What was Breezy smoking?
“She could teach him some basic techniques and see if yoga’s for him. Think about it, Marg. Imagine if you could take the credit for screwing Patch Donnelly’s head on right. Tor could put out the word about who helped, and maybe at some point the Hellions could do a plug at your yoga studio. It could be a great way to build your rep as you move forward with your Sanctuary idea. Plus,” she arched a single brow. “You aren’t into gingers so won’t be tempted to mix business with pleasure, you little man-eater you.”
“I don’t know. Has Patch ever expressed even the faintest interest in yoga?” Margot asked, ignoring the taunt.
“No.” Tor leveled the full force of his icy blue stare. “Never.”
“Who cares? Show him what he’s been missing,” Breezy said emphatically. “Patch’s got anger issues, but sweet baby Jesus, he’s talented. We all know he isn’t playing to his potential, and you could be his secret weapon. What do you say, Tor? Because I’m telling you, if that guy can keep his cool, you’ll have the best goalie in the league. Margot might be the answer to your prayers.”
Margot stared at her friend, speechless and her heart swelling. No matter what happened, it was lovely to hear how much her bestie believed in her abilities.
“All I’ve got is one question,” Tor said after a considered moment. “Why the hell haven’t I thought of this before?”
Chapter Four
Patrick dipped his fingertips into the brass holy water font and made an absent-minded sign of the cross. Morning confession hour at Our Lady of Perpetual Help was hopping. Two elderly women in black cardigans prayed the rosary in the front pew while a third padded her walker in the direction of the votive candle stand. If it got any more exciting, someone might break out their knitting.
But he’d bet twenty bucks that Father O’Sullivan wasn’t bored by the peace and quiet. If he knew his old college roommate, Sully was kicked back in that walnut-paneled confessional perusing the Denver Post’s sports pages, which happened to be riddled with speculation about his lawsuit.
Patch’s jaw flexed. Leave it to Guy Footscray, that slimeball ambulance chaser, to know how to make a scene.
Patch couldn’t have messed with a worse guy. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Not that he’d had much of a choice in the matter. Not when he saw what Footscray was capable of.
Still, now he was in one hell of a shit burger. A shit burger that he didn’t know how to escape.
Which is why he was here.
Patch had once heard it said that if a guy had one person they could count on in life they should consider themselves lucky. Sully filled that description. He’d accepted a parish posting to Denver a year after Patch was drafted, and gained a reputation as an activist priest, supporting immigrant communities and advocating on behalf of the poor.
Only God himself knew why he made the time for Patch.
But whatever the reason, he was grateful that his buddy had the loyalty of a golden retriever. Sull
y was a good listener, and today Patch needed a trustworthy ear.
He slid into a pew. He could go receive the sacrament of reconciliation, but didn’t feel like owning up to all the quality time he’d been spending with his right hand.
A frosty winter sun shone through a stained-glass window depicting Saint Anthony of Padua, a friar in a brown robe wearing a belt with three knots tied at the end, symbolizing the holy vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. He held a bundle of lilies in his arms, a symbol of purity and a reminder to pray for grace during trying times of temptations.
Patch fingered the chain around his neck, the one that held his own Saint Anthony medal—a gift from Ma, the only thing of value that she’d ever given him. He glanced at the confessional again.
His head coach, Tor Gunnar, had called first thing this morning. With regular games resuming, Patch had braced himself for the news that he was being downgraded to second-string. The season needed to get back on track with no distractions. And getting served by Footscray hadn’t done him any favors. It was another reminder that Patch was unreliable. A liability. A loose cannon.
The last thing he’d expected was for Coach to give him an address to a yoga practitioner along with the order to attend a private class. “She’s expecting you at noon. If you don’t want me giving Reed your spot on the lineup, don’t be late,” he’d growled before hanging up.
Yoga? He bounced his knee trying to ignore the churning in the pit of his stomach. What the hell was that going to fix? Did Coach seriously think going downward dog with some spacey chick would make everything copacetic?
He gazed back to Saint Anthony, air compressing in his lungs. He’d never spent time with a yoga instructor. Would she wear those skintight leggings? Would he have to sit and watch as she bent her limber body into all sorts of positions?
Sweat broke out at his temples. He needed that situation like he needed a third nut.
Screw yoga.
Since he’d been a teen, he’d kept the opposite sex at a distance. It had been easier than anyone might imagine. Sure, girls had always been around, and yeah, there were always chances. But he stuck with other guys at parties, hanging on back porches talking shit about hockey. No one ever noticed that he didn’t go home with anyone. And if anyone ever gave him a hard time about his single status, all he had to say was that he was too busy with his game to have time for a girlfriend. People would just shrug and nod.
His rep might be notorious, but imagine if the real story got out.
A muscle ticked in his temple.
He was a twenty-five-year-old virgin . . . a virgin’s virgin. He’d never gotten to first base, let alone scored a home run. No kissing. No nothing.
Once or twice he’d gotten drunk and had a chance with a pretty, willing girl. But both times he’d halted things, pleading a headache or an early start to the next day. It wasn’t that he believed sex—and other stuff—was for marriage. But if he did it . . . he wanted it to mean something. And for it to mean something, it meant caring. And the problem with caring was that it meant feeling.
And feelings were dangerous.
He gnawed the inside of his lower lip while twisting the championship ring around his finger. No one knew his secret. Not even Sully. Shit. Even he’d had a girlfriend before joining the seminary.
Patch tore his gaze from Saint Anthony. While the Church might value celibacy, out in the real world, male virginity wasn’t any prize. If word leaked out, late-night comedians would have material for days. He’d be a punch line. A laughing stock.
The confessional door swung open and Sully lumbered out, suppressing a yawn. Patch rose from the pew and strode toward his friend, hoping his smirk hid his unease.
“Forgive me, Father, am I interrupting nap time?”
The priest wasn’t holding a paper, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t heard the news.
“I’d tell you to kiss my donkey, but I’m afraid you’d like it,” Sully muttered, stretching out his back muscles.
“Tsk. Tsk. You give the sacraments with that mouth?”
“Morning, Father.”
Sully nodded at the passing parishioner before slinging his arm around Patch’s shoulders and giving him a noogie. “I’m heading back to the rectory for a cup of coffee. Join me?”
Like Patch, Sully was Boston-raised, a gap-toothed Dorchester kid who’d attended Heaven’s Gate—the rival to his own Southie parochial high school Holy Cross. At first, they’d kicked each other’s asses in game brawls until both were granted hockey scholarships from Boston College. There they’d flipped the switch, becoming best friends, although still never missing a chance to bust each other’s balls.
“That depends on if you’re still chugging that instant shit?” He jerked away, rubbing a hand over the top of his head. “I don’t drink coffee unless it’s Dunkies.”
“Remind me why we are friends again?”
“You pity me.” Patch spoke the words lightly, but meant every word.
And Sully, with his priest Spidey-senses, knew it.
“Mrs. Giaccomo brought over cannoli yesterday. I’m telling you, it’s as good as anything in the North End. Come on.”
Patch managed a chuckle. “This I got to see to believe.”
Ten minutes later, Patch pushed back an empty plate in Sully’s kitchen. “God bless Mrs. Giaccomo.”
“Amen.” Sully patted his growing gut. “This parish is making me fat. The flan. The pupusas. Oh man. The El Salvadorians make magic with their pupusas.”
“Hit the ice with me sometime, I’ll whip you back in shape in no time.”
“Hmph. I hear you’ve got problems playing nice with others.”
The smile melted off Patch’s face.
“Read that you got served your first day back at practice? That’s cold.”
“That lawsuit is closed to discussion.”
“If you say so,” Sully replied mildly. “But you’re here to talk about something. So what is it?”
Patch kicked out his legs and crossed his arms. “Coach says I can start on one condition. I gotta see this chick who teaches yoga and shit.”
Sully nodded. “Go on.”
“That’s it.”
“Yoga?” The priest cocked his head. “That’s your existential crisis?”
“It’s a load of crap.” Patch got to his feet and paced the kitchen perimeter. “Coach should trust me or cut me. But I don’t see how doing some doggy-style feel-good bullshit is going to make a difference.”
“Studies show that meditation and yoga can do wonders for anger management.”
“Why aren’t you giving me some big lecture about how yoga leads straight to the devil? That’s half the reason why I came out here.”
Sully snorted. “Look, way I see it, as Catholics, we bend our knees in prayer. Body postures have a psychological effect. Does the church criticize yoga? Meditation? Probably in this case it would. But do I?”
“You’re not exactly Mr. Orthodox.”
“No. I’m not. Never have been. But the God that I believe in wants to see us happy. Peaceful. And you, my friend, are neither.”
“I am when playing hockey.”
“Three or four years ago, I’d have agreed. The game helped clear your head. But now, it is starting to feel like you can’t get through three periods without knocking someone out. It’s become part of the opposing team strategy—take an otherwise formidable goalie with the thinnest skin in the league. Poke a few times and he’ll break apart. Something is eating at you from the inside out. It’s Self-Destructive Tendencies 101. It’s like you feel the need to be punished for what happened to your mom—”
“Don’t want to discuss Ma either.”
Sully went quiet a moment. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re really afraid of with this situation? I don’t feel like I’m getting the full story.”
Patch didn’t have to answer. But if you couldn’t tell the truth to your best friend slash priest then what was the point of having either?<
br />
He mumbled the answer, half drowning it in a slug of coffee.
Sully arched an eyebrow and rubbed the bald spot appearing near the back of his head. “Gonna need you to swallow and repeat yourself.”
“Don’t talk to girls much.” Patch grimaced as his throat muscles constricted. “Or women. Guess they’re women at our age.”
Sully grunted, his gaze softening. “I hate to break it to you, buddy, but you never did. And between you and me, it always seemed a waste, God giving you that face and then tying your tongue in knots.”
“It didn’t used to matter. Thought I’d be joining you, remember? Wearing a white collar. Ministering to my own parish. One that had a school with a decent hockey team.”
“Well, that plan lasted a hot minute. Seminary dropout,” Sully crooned using the same general tune as the song “Beauty School Dropout.” Remind me how long you were in? A month? Two? Before you went back to hockey. Let’s face it. You’d have hated being a priest. Swearing is frowned upon. And blasphemy is out. You also need to be comfortable talking about feelings.”
“Ballbuster,” Patch growled.
“This was never your path.” Sully didn’t look the least bit intimidated. “You’re too much in your head, my friend.”
“Hey, it’s good in here.”
“Liar.” The smile slid off Sully’s face as his expression turned serious. “You came to see me because you wanted advice, so here it is. Tell your coach yes, you’ll give this yoga instructor woman a try. Because what’s the worst that could happen?”
“I don’t know. It blows up in my face?”
“Seems like you’re the one blowing up things lately, mostly opportunities.”
Patch didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Sully was right.
He didn’t want to do anything differently, but if he didn’t start making better choices then his life was soon going to be nothing but ashes. And he’d worked too damn hard, travelled too damn far from that skinny, scared kid in Boston, to go back now.
