Icebreaker

by Deirdre Martin

  Lou pulled a giant chocolate chip cookie wrapped in a napkin out of his jacket pocket and began munching on it. “Thank God,” he said.

  “You know how a case like this works, right?” Sinead asked them.

  “Yeah,” said Michael, smiling good-naturedly. “We pay you tons of money, and you pin Dobbins’s ass to the wall.”

  Sinead chuckled. “I wish it were that easy. No, in assembling the case I’ll definitely have to interview the three of you”—she gestured at Adam, Ty, and Michael—“numerous times, as well as talk to other players and referees as potential witnesses.” She forced her attention back to Adam. “I’ll have to look into your past conduct. Gather autobiographical info. Talk to people who will testify to your character, things like that.” She looked around the table. “Have any NHL players ever been convicted of assault?”

  “One,” said Welsh.

  “Have there ever been any charged with assault who were acquitted?”

  “Two,” said Barry.

  “Well, like I said, I would be happy to take this case on,” Sinead repeated, putting her legal pad and pen back in her briefcase.

  “What happens now?” Welsh asked, once again glancing down the table at Adam with resentment.

  “You have the appropriate party from Kidco call my firm, and they’ll discuss fees, contracts, etcetera,” said Sinead. “It’s pretty straightforward.” She stood. “Anything else, gentlemen ? Anything you want to ask me?”

  All the men nodded no, including Adam. Sinead took six business cards out of the pocket of her blazer, handing them to Lou to pass around. “Please don’t hesitate to call me if you have any questions. In the meantime, I look forward to working with you all.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” said Lou, launching himself out of his chair.

  “You just want to hit the vending machines,” said Michael.

  “Va fungool,” Lou replied affectionately.

  “Not nice to talk like that in front of a lady,” said Michael.

  “Again, apologies for my mouth,” Lou said to Sinead.

  “It’s all right.”

  Sinead nodded politely to everyone as she left. She was excited about taking on the case; it was something new and different, a challenge, which she loved. She’d be able to bury herself in it, forget her loneliness.

  She found herself thinking about Adam Perry. Was it possible he was a brainless goon who had been instructed not to speak? She got the sense that part of the challenge with this case was going to be Perry himself. She had her work cut out for her.

  “Well, that was relatively painless,” said Justin Barry, draining his coffee cup.

  “Until you get the bill,” Welsh snapped with a frown.

  Ty looked irritated. “You get what you pay for.”

  Lou walked back into the room. “I like her. No-nonsense broad. Smart.”

  “What did you get from the vending machine?” Michael asked eagerly.

  “Snickers Bar,” said Lou, holding it up for Michael to see. “Want some?”

  Ty raised an eyebrow. “Remind me: how many heart attacks have you had now?”

  “It’s dark chocolate! It’s good for your heart!” Lou protested, breaking the bar and giving half to Michael.

  Ty just shook his head.

  “What do you think of her, Adam?” Michael asked.

  Attractive in a cool, corporate sort of way, he thought, with that long, sleek, brown hair of hers pulled back and her flawless makeup, but that wasn’t what Michael was asking about. Adam noticed that she made a point of frequently looking at him. He wondered if she was expecting more input from him, since he was the one being brought up on charges.

  “All I care about is that she wins the case,” Adam replied. He couldn’t believe it when he’d opened the sports pages of the New York Sentinel the morning after the game to read he was being charged for the hit. He sat there at his kitchen table, staring at the article with incredulity. Him being charged with assault causing bodily harm? What bullshit. It would be laughable if the prospect of losing the case didn’t mean his career could come to a screeching halt.

  Lou and the league office had arranged a press conference almost immediately after the article appeared, featuring Commissioner Welsh, Ty, and one of the suits from Kidco. Welsh stated that the NHL supported Adam 100 percent, and that they’d be supporting the Blades in fighting the charges. It was short and sweet; Welsh took no questions. Adam knew he himself wouldn’t get off the hook as easily: the sports press would be all over him at the next game, sticking their mikes in his face, which he hated. Lou had told him to “No comment” them to death. Even if Lou had advised otherwise, that’s what Adam would have chosen to do.

  Everyone except Welsh stood to leave. “Adam, Michael, Ty,” he said, “please sit back down. I have a couple of things I want to talk to you about.” He looked at Justin and Lou. “You guys can take off.”

  “I’ll pop upstairs, tell the big kahunas we’re going with Callahan, Epps, and Kaplan,” said Justin, gathering up his things.

  “Lou?” Welsh said politely.

  “I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Lou garbled as he chewed. “Jesus H., can’t a guy even finish his candy bar?”

  “By all means, take your time,” Welsh said sarcastically.

  Lou did just that. Adam looked down at the table, stifling a laugh. When Lou was done, he wiped his hands on his pants. “That was delicious.” He patted Michael’s shoulder. “See you boys.”

  Welsh closed the door as Lou departed.

  Ty eyed Welsh warily. “What’s up?”

  There was no love lost between these two men, or between Welsh and any NHL player, for that matter. Welsh didn’t have a hockey background; he was a sharp lawyer whose previous sports experience was as senior vice president of the National Football League. He’d been brought in by the owners to help increase the league’s revenues—which he did, by forcing through a salary cap, much to the players’ chagrin.

  “What’s up is this lawsuit,” Welsh replied with a frown. “These assault charges couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Ty.

  “Because the league has decided it’s time to clean up hockey’s image.”

  Adam was skeptical as he folded his arms across his chest. “What does that mean?”

  “It means what I said. The league wants to tone down the on-ice violence in the belief it’ll make the sport more appealing.”

  Michael snorted. “To who?”

  “We’re trying to grow the sport,” said Welsh. He looked directly at Adam. “Look, the league will obviously support you in public when it comes to fighting these charges. But off the record, we want to phase out this kind of violence.”

  “Violence?” Ty echoed, looking at him like he was a moron.

  “He’s got to cut back on the mid-ice hits.”

  “I’m in the room,” Adam pointed out curtly. “You can talk to me directly.”

  “Mid-ice hits are part of hockey, Larry,” said Ty as if he were talking to a child. “I know it’s a dying art, but it’s an integral part of the game, and Adam is one of the best ever at it. It’s part of the reason we acquired him.”

  “It’s like fighting. It turns people off,” Welsh insisted.

  “No, fighting turns people on,” Michael countered. “You get rid of fighting and the hardest checking, and you lose the essence of the game.”

  Welsh sighed. “Look, I understand this isn’t what you want to hear, but for the league to grow, we believe we have to reach beyond our usual fans and bring in new people: young people, parents with little kids, specifically young American parents with little kids who don’t like their children to be exposed to too much violence. From now on, Adam, we’re going to be watching how you play very closely.”

  “Madonn’, are you fucking kidding me?” Michael turned to Ty, incredulous. “You hear this shit?”

  “Calm down,” said Ty. His expression was resolute as he looked at W
elsh. “Larry, do what you think you gotta do. But I can tell you right now: the Blades aren’t changing a damn thing about the way they play.”

  “Understood, Ty. I respect you a great deal and just wanted you to understand the big picture. I’ll do what I have to and you do what you have to. Gentlemen.” Welsh rose. “Good luck on the ice tomorrow night.”

  As Michael had advised, Adam asked for the players’ attention before they went out on the ice the next night to warm up—all the players except Esa Saari, who was late. Well, this will give me the chance to kill two birds with one stone, thought Adam. Assure the guys that the lawsuit was nothing to worry about, and then tear Saari a new one when he turns up.

  “Obviously, you all know about the lawsuit,” Adam began.

  “It’s bullshit,” Eric Mitchell blurted.

  “Yeah, it is,” Adam agreed. “Which is why none of you should worry about the case, because I’m not. I intend to keep playing the way I always have, and I expect all of you to do the same.”

  “Sorry I’m late.” Esa Saari came flying through the locker room door, breathless.

  “Nice of you to join us,” Adam said sarcastically.

  “I—”

  “You can tell me your bullshit story in a minute,” said Adam. He resumed eye contact with the rest of the team. “Any questions?” There were none. “Get out there and start warming up, then. Esa and I will be with you in a minute.”

  One by one, the players filed out of the locker room. Adam noticed a couple threw Esa a dirty look. He deserved it. It was disrespectful to his teammates to arrive late when the rest of them made the effort to arrive there on time. Short of the death of a family member, lateness wasn’t tolerated.

  “Well?” Adam asked when it was just the two of them.

  “Subway delay,” said Esa as he frantically began dressing for the game.

  “No excuse. If you’re taking the subway, you should leave extra early just in case something like that happens. Not to mention the fact you earn enough to use a car service.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Me, too. Because you owe the locker room fund five hundred dollars. If you’re ever late again, you’ll owe a thousand.”

  Saari muttered something under his breath.

  Adam narrowed his eyes. “What did you say?”

  “Chill, okay? I’m here now.”

  Adam slowly walked over to him, grabbing him by the collar. “I don’t give a shit if you have no self-respect, but as long as I’m the captain of this team, you better start showing respect for your teammates and the game. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Saari muttered, eyes darting away.

  “Good. Now get your ass out there on the ice.”

  Arrogant little prick, thought Adam. You’re not going to be so smug by the time I get through with you. He strode out of the locker room, his anger energizing him. Time to go out and do his job.

  3

  “Holy shit.”

  Sinead sat on the couch in her office beside Oliver, showing him the footage the NHL had sent her of Adam Perry’s hit on Nick Clarey. She knew nothing about hockey violence, but the force of the hit shocked her. It was brutal. She found herself wincing every time she watched Clarey’s head snap back before his body crumpled to the ice.

  She’d decided to show the footage to Oliver as a way for her to gauge whether she’d overreacted to the hit. But she hadn’t: Oliver’s eyes popped out of his head the moment the hit was made, his body leaning forward as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

  “Holy shit,” he repeated. He turned to Sinead, incredulous. “He hit the guy so hard he was unconscious before his head hit the ice.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that,” Sinead said grimly.

  “I can’t believe the dude isn’t paralyzed. Let me see it again.” Sinead showed it to him again. “Poor bastard. It was like he was taken down by the Incredible Hulk.”

  “So you agree that hit was incredibly violent?”

  “Well, yeah, but I’m not a huge hockey fan, so I don’t know if it was above and beyond the usual level of hitting. I mean, these guys really beat each other up on the ice.”

  “I’ve deduced that.”

  Sinead turned off the footage.

  “Did the league suspend him?” Oliver asked.

  “Two games.”

  “Has Clarey said anything?”

  “No.”

  “Perry ever been charged with anything before?”

  “No, thank God.”

  “What’s your strategy gonna be?”

  “Right now? That professional hockey players give their explicit consent to the risk of this kind of on-ice contact, and that this hit was not outside the norm.”

  Oliver nodded approvingly. “You’re gonna have to interview enough hockey insiders to prove those points to jurors, who may be as surprised by the violence of the hit as we were.”

  Sinead grimaced. “I know. Believe me, I’ve already started compiling a list. Referees. Sportswriters. Retired players. Active players.” She rose, riffling through some papers on her desk. “He’s from a small town in western Canada. Claresholm. I’ll have to go up there, too.”

  “That’ll be riveting,” Oliver deadpanned. “You talk to Perry himself yet?”

  “He’ll be here soon.”

  The thought made her nervous; she kept thinking back to her meeting last week at Kidco, his silent watchfulness, the way his hazel eyes betrayed nothing. There was something unnervingly primal about him.

  “How’s it going with the socialite gazillionairess?” Sinead asked.

  “She dumped me.”

  Sinead was shocked. “What? Who’s she getting to handle the case instead?”

  “She didn’t dump me as counsel. She dumped me as her boy toy.”

  “No offense, but you’re too old to be a boy toy Oliver.”

  “All together now: ouch.”

  “Well . . .”

  “It’s probably for the best,” Oliver said with a regretful sigh. “I mean, what if she’d fallen in love with me?”

  “They all fall in love with you.”

  “Too true.” He studied her face. “You look tired.”

  “Do I ever not look tired?”

  “Come to think of it, no. But I want you to know it in no way detracts from your beauty.”

  “Thank you.” She picked up the coffee cup on her desk and took a sip. Stone-cold. She’d gotten so involved in starting to assemble things for the case she’d forgotten all about her coffee.

  “How’s it going with the baby bonding?” Oliver asked.

  “I’ve got bad baby juju, Oliver. I think Charlie hates me. I’ve had him on my lap a couple of times, and both times you would have thought he was being lowered into a cauldron of boiling oil.”

  Oliver laughed.

  Sinead scowled at him. “It’s not funny.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “At any rate, I’m going to keep trying, not just for me, but for Mags. I’ve hurt her, and I don’t want to lose her.” She sighed. “Maybe the universe is trying to tell me I’m not mother material.”

  “It’s just a matter of finding the right man.”

  “I’m not looking.”

  “There’s always me. If you want a kid with none of the fuss of having to deal with a partner, I’ll gladly donate my sperm. That way, you’d know the kid would have superior intelligence, as well as wit and charm. And we could take turns watching it here at the office.”

  Sinead shook her head affectionately. “You always make me laugh.”

  Oliver looked mildly wounded. “You’re rejecting my sperm?”

  “In a word, yes. I don’t really think you’re father material. Sorry.” She checked her watch. “I need you to go so I can get ready to talk to Adam Perry.”

  “Sperm rejection, and now you’re throwing me out. You’re a hard woman, Sinead O’Brien.”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “M
aybe we can catch a drink one night this week. I haven’t been to your folks’ pub in a while.”

  “Sounds good,” Sinead said distractedly.

  “All right, I can see you’re done with me,” said Oliver. “Good luck with Perry.”

  “Thanks. I have a feeling I might need it.”

  He was punctual; she’d give him that. At exactly ten a.m., Sinead’s assistant, Simone, informed her that Adam had arrived. Usually Sinead was unfazed meeting clients, but she found herself a little uneasy, imagining that intense, unwavering gaze of his pinning her.

  She checked her makeup and smoothed her skirt, waiting for Simone to bring Adam into her office. Simone knocked once and then ushered him inside. Sinead came forward, extending her hand to shake his. “Thank you for taking the time to come in, Mr. Perry. The sooner we get the ball rolling, the better.”

  He seemed a little stiff. “I agree.”

  God, he’s huge, Sinead thought. She hadn’t realized at the Kidco meeting, with him sitting down at the opposite end of the table, how big and broad he was. Strapping, her father would say. A strapping man. An unnervingly handsome, rugged, strapping man.

  “Would you like any coffee?” Simone asked Adam.

  “No thanks,” he said.

  “Water?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Thanks, Simone,” Sinead said gratefully.

  Sinead gestured to the couch. “Please, sit. I appreciate your punctuality. One late client, and the whole day’s schedule gets thrown off.”

  “Someone wants a meeting at ten, I’m there at ten.”

  “Well, like I said, I appreciate it.”

  She could feel his eyes on her as she walked to her desk to get her laptop. She straightened her back a little. She wondered : was he mistrustful of her, and that’s why he was watching her? Or did he find her attractive? God, this is probably the way Oliver started, she thought self-deprecatingly. Get a grip.