Icebreaker

by Deirdre Martin

  “You survive your initiation by pasta?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “I hear my brother’s a good coach,” said Anthony, telling his bartender to pour him a scotch.

  “Haven’t been here long enough to tell, but that’s the rumor.”

  “Helluva hockey player in his day,” said Anthony proudly. “Tough.”

  “He was,” Adam agreed. “I went toe-to-toe with him more than once on the ice. He was a real grinder.”

  Anthony took a sip of his drink. “No family to rush home to, huh?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “I’m married to another chef. In fact, she owns and operates the French bistro across the street, Vivi’s. She’ll probably be over in a few minutes; then we’ll drive home together.”

  Adam nodded thoughtfully. “Married to someone in the same profession. That must be interesting.”

  “That’s a polite way of putting it,” Anthony chortled. He threw scotch down his throat. “Put it this way: there’s never a dull moment at our house.”

  “Telling your brother he looked like Shemp really got under his skin,” said Adam, still amused by the comment.

  “I knew it would,” Anthony said with a smirk. “He’s such a vain bastard.”

  “I take it you’re a Stooges fan.”

  “Huge,” said Anthony.

  “Me, too.”

  “Yeah?” Anthony looked pleasantly surprised. “Ever notice women hate the Stooges?” he asked philosophically.

  “I have noticed that.”

  “They think it’s mindless crap. They don’t have an appreciation for the art of physical farce.” Anthony shook his head despairingly. “I’ve got the complete DVD collection, right? But I can only watch it when Vivi’s not around. She hears one ‘Nyuk nyuk nyuk’ and she goes mental.”

  “Totally doesn’t get it.”

  “You should come over one night to watch. I’ll make a pizza, crack open a few brews . . .”

  “That’d be great.”

  Anthony drained his drink. “I gotta get back in the kitchen. Gimme your number, I’ll shoot you a call.”

  Adam gave Anthony his number.

  “Great meeting you,” said Anthony.

  “Ditto.”

  “See ya.”

  “Yeah.”

  Adam gave the bartender a nice tip and asked him to call a cab. It had been a pretty good night. Great food, good company, and to top it all off, he’d hit it off with someone who wasn’t a hockey player. He wondered what Sinead O’Brien would think of his liking the Stooges. She’d probably think he was a cretin. A vision streaked through his mind of her all prim and proper in her office, asking him, “I hear you like The Three Stooges. Do you think their violence influenced the way you play hockey at all?” The image amused him greatly. She wanted more info on him? Wanted to peel back the layers of his life? Maybe he’d volunteer the info himself. “Don’t know if this will be helpful, but I really love The Three Stooges.” He smiled, imagining her expression. That’s when he realized: he sure as hell was spending a lot of time thinking about Sinead O’Brien.

  5

  “So, tell me all about Captain Perry.”

  “They all think he’s the second coming of Christ.”

  Sinead wearily cleared away the mountain of papers obscuring Oliver’s couch and flopped down. She’d spent three days at Met Gar talking to virtually every player on the Blades about Adam—his reputation, their encounters with him off the ice, if they knew anything about his personal life that could help the case. To a man, all they had was praise. Adam’s a great player. Adam’s the best at what he does. The charges against him are bullshit. Adam, perfect Adam. All ideal for her case, but she found the lack of information on other aspects of his personality frustrating.

  Even so, she did find three things particularly interesting: no one seemed to know anything about his personal life, past or present; he was taciturn to an extreme, only speaking to the players when absolutely necessary; and everyone seemed a little frightened of him.

  Oliver was behind his desk, can of cola in one hand and a pastrami sandwich in the other. He held up a hand, indicating Sinead should let him finish chewing, then took a long slug of his drink before putting it down with a resounding thud.

  “Nothing? Seriously? Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hmm. Gotta be some skeletons somewhere. Always are.”

  “Well, if there are, these guys don’t know about it.”

  “Who else you planning to talk to?”

  “Guys he played with in Tampa. Sportswriters. Anyone I can find.”

  “Still planning to go to his hometown?”

  “Definitely, even though he told me he didn’t see the point.”

  “Maybe he’s got a few illegitimate kids running around up there. Secret wife.”

  “Why keep them a secret? God knows there are enough professional athletes with illegitimate kids, and everyone knows about it. It’s not considered a character flaw. And forget talking to him; it’s like pulling teeth. At first I thought he was a moron. Now I realize he’s just very, very guarded.”

  “Pot meet kettle!”

  Sinead was shocked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Sinead, we worked together for a year before I even knew you were divorced or came from a large Irish family. It took you forever to open up.”

  Sinead squirmed. “I just liked to keep my private life private, is all. Keep things on a professional level. His being so guarded is a detriment to me. My being guarded with you wasn’t a detriment.”

  “Yes, it was. We could have become friends sooner. We lost a whole year of intimacy. Think of the things we could have shared. Think of the nights—”

  “Shut up, Oliver. The point is, I did open up eventually.”

  “Once you trusted me. This guy just doesn’t trust you yet.”

  “Good point.”

  “Some people need to be wooed. Coaxed into telling their story. I’m the client whisperer; I know these things.”

  “So do I,” said Sinead, somewhat annoyed. “My coaxing method is just different than yours: it doesn’t involve Grey Goose and garter belts.”

  “Maybe it should,” Oliver murmured, raising one eyebrow seductively. He studied her closely. “You’re hot for him.”

  “What?”

  Oliver leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers. “You’re talking to a man who can smell female pheromones from a mile away. You’re interested in this guy.”

  “As a client.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “He’s a challenge. I’m not used to clients who don’t display even the slightest bit of anxiety and who don’t tell me their story, true or not, in the hopes it will help them out of a jam. It was like interviewing Lurch.”

  “A studly Lurch.”

  “An egotistical Lurch. He actually asked if I was really the best attorney for the case because I didn’t know hockey,” she said, smarting at the memory.

  “Maybe he’s uncomfortable being represented by a woman.”

  “Well, he has no say in the matter. His employers hired me. End of story. I’m hopeful that when I understand the game to his satisfaction, he’ll be more cooperative.”

  “You care what he thinks of you,” Oliver said slyly.

  “As a client. Even if I was attracted to him,” Sinead said with a sniff, “it’s not like I would do anything about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ethics, Oliver.”

  “Screw ethics. Has dating a client ever prevented me from being amazingly brilliant in court?”

  “I love your humility.”

  “Well?” Oliver prodded.

  “No, but I’m not you.”

  “Too true,” Oliver said with a sigh.

  “You’re such an ass,” Sinead said affectionately.

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got nothing going on, and I know for a fac
t you don’t, so why don’t we go have a drink at your parents’ pub?”

  “Okay.” She’d call Quinn and see if he wanted to join them, since he and Oliver got along well. Going to the Hart would let her see her folks, too, so if she needed to bow out of Sunday dinner, her mother couldn’t bitch that they hadn’t seen her all week.

  “What time do you think you’ll finish up here?” Oliver asked.

  “Sevenish,” said Sinead.

  “Perfect. We can head over there together.”

  “There’s a new part-time bartender now, you know. Christie. She’s actually a firefighter.”

  Oliver’s eyes lit up. “Hot?”

  “Yup.”

  Oliver looked mischievous. “Maybe I’ll set my head on fire, and she’ll throw herself on me to put out the flames.”

  “Bit extreme. I’m sure if you just exude your normal, manipulative charm, you could talk her into a date.”

  “Your faith in my abilities never fails to move me.”

  “See you at seven.”

  Mission accomplished, Sinead thought to herself. Leaving poor Christie to deal with Oliver, she popped back to the kitchen to chat with her folks. She loved them, but they worried about her too much. You look tired. How’s your blood pressure? Here with Oliver, hmm? Why don’t you go out with him? He’s nice. He makes money.

  She walked out of the swinging doors of the kitchen, wishing she could turn right back around. There, sitting at the bar next to Oliver, was Adam Perry. Shit.

  The smile on Oliver’s face was unmistakably impish as Sinead joined them.

  “Ah, here she is, the lovely Ms. O’Brien,” he said jovially. “I was just telling your client that your folks own this place.”

  Adam nodded approvingly. “Nice. Has a real neighborhood feel. Do you spend a lot of time here?”

  Not anymore, Sinead thought. If she could have gotten away with pinching Oliver hard, she would. She knew him: any minute now he was going to claim he had some work to finish up and he’d leave her alone with Adam, a ploy so painfully obvious that Mr. Ego would probably think she’d told Oliver she was attracted to him.

  “I’m usually here to visit my parents,” Sinead told him. “And I waitressed here with my sister when we were in high school.”

  “You guys play Toronto tomorrow night, right?” Oliver asked Adam.

  “Yeah. It will be a tough game,” said Adam, accepting the beer Christie handed to him.

  “Bullshit,” Oliver responded, shocking Adam. “Toronto blows.”

  “You a hockey fan?”

  “Not hard-core, but yeah,” said Oliver. “I was there when the Blades won their last Cup. Amazing night.”

  Adam regarded Sinead. “I can explain to you why it was such an amazing game, if you’d like.”

  “No thank you,” Sinead said politely. “I’m in the process of figuring out the game on my own.”

  “You should go to one,” Adam continued helpfully.

  “Will there be a quiz afterward?”

  Adam cracked a small smile. “No. I’m sure you’ll figure it out on your own.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  Sinead ordered a martini for herself, uncertain of what to do. She had never been in a social situation with a client before. Ever. It felt wrong somehow. Unprofessional. But her instincts were sharp enough to realize that casually chatting with Adam outside her office might loosen him up a bit and make him more willing to talk about himself. Maybe Oliver was right; maybe this was the way to go—sans seduction, of course.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Adam asked.

  “It depends.”

  “Why is there an urn with a picture of a parrot next to it behind the bar?”

  “That’s Rudy. He came in here for years and years with one of the regulars, Mrs. Colgan. When he died, she asked my folks if his ashes could be put behind the bar, and they said yes.”

  Oliver glanced around the bar, disappointed. “None of the regulars are here tonight. Pity. Usually there’s quite the group,” he explained to Adam. “The parrot lady, a guy who won’t shut up, some novelist who hit it big with a book about leprechauns and salmon . . .” He turned to Sinead, alarmed. “Wait. Where’s the Major?”

  “He passed away three months ago,” said Sinead sadly.

  “Bummer.” Oliver turned back to Adam. “Anyway, if you turned the regulars into fictional characters, no one would believe it.”

  Adam looked disappointed. “Sorry I’m missing them.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” said Oliver. “One night with them, and I think to myself, ‘Maybe I’m not so fucked-up after all.’ ”

  Adam laughed.

  “They’ve all started going to bingo together,” said Sinead. “Except PJ, the novelist. The rest of them could use the extra money.”

  Just as Sinead predicted, Oliver drained his glass and stood up. “Sorry, kids, but I’ve gotta run. I’ve got a ton of paperwork to do back in the office.” He wouldn’t look at Sinead. “Adam, good to meet you. You’re in good hands with Ms. O’Brien handling your case, believe me.” He winked at Christie behind the bar. “Call me, babe,” he said, putting his business card on the bar next to a twenty dollar tip.

  Christie snorted. “Yeah right.” But Sinead saw her casually slip Oliver’s card into the pocket of her jeans.

  I’m going to kill him, Sinead thought, as she watched Oliver leave.

  “Seems like a decent guy,” said Adam.

  “He’s a great attorney.”

  She was hoping that Adam would turn his attention back to the hockey game on TV, allowing her to make an excuse to slip away. But no: he was studying her like she was a pinned butterfly under glass. She didn’t like it one bit.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  Adam shrugged. “No.” He took a sip of his beer. “How’d the rest of your interviews at Met Gar go?”

  “As far as I can tell, you’ve got no flaws and can walk on water.”

  Adam laughed. “Divinity is a bitch.”

  “There were two things I found very interesting, though.”

  Adam turned guarded. “What?”

  “First, they all seem a little scared of you.”

  “Yup.” Adam looked pleased.

  “Why is that?” Sinead prodded, running an index finger along the rim of her martini glass. “Do you threaten them or something?”

  “Of course I don’t threaten them. I just refuse to stand for subpar playing, and they know it. I’ve got zero tolerance for lack of focus. Zero.”

  “I can identify with that.” She sipped her drink. “Here alone?” Oh, shit. Did that sound like a come-on?

  “Yeah, thought I’d check it out for myself.”

  “I would have thought you’d come in with the rest of the players.”

  “I might one night, just for a quick beer. I wasn’t brought to New York to be their pal. I was brought here to provide toughness and determination.”

  “Aren’t you lonely?” Sinead blurted.

  She could tell by the steely expression in his eyes that she’d crossed a line.

  “No.”

  Liar, Sinead thought. Anyone so singularly focused on their job usually let friendships fall to the wayside. She should know; her only friend in the world was Oliver.

  Adam changed the subject. “What’s the second thing that jumped out at you when you talked to them?”

  “How come none of them seemed to know anything about you personally, apart from the fact you’re Canadian?”

  “There’s nothing to know.”

  “I find that hard to believe. Everyone has a backstory. I need to know yours.”

  “Good luck with that,” said Adam, taking a slug of beer.

  “Can I point something out?”

  “Sure.”

  “I know we’re not in a professional setting right now, but I am your attorney. There’s no reason to be antagonistic. I’m on your side.”

  Adam looked grim. “Right.”
He rolled his beer bottle between his hands. “All right, since we’re on the same side, what’s your backstory? You need to know so much about me? How about you tell me a little bit about you?”

  Sinead’s guard immediately went up. “It’s not necessary for you to know about me in order for me to do my job.”

  “True, but I think it only fair. A quid pro quo.”

  Sinead hesitated, and then acquiesced. If this banter was the way to get him to trust her, then what was the harm?

  “I like jazz,” she said.

  “You can do better than that.”

  “I love kids.”

  Adam dropped his guard momentarily as his face lit up. “Really? So do I.”

  Sinead tried hard to hide her shock, but obviously she was doing a poor job of it: Adam looked insulted. “Why do you look so surprised?”

  “I’m not,” Sinead insisted.

  Adam changed the subject. “What else have you got on me?”

  “You’re pretty demanding.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Even off the ice?”

  Their eyes caught and held. Sinead saw something behind the steeliness but couldn’t quite put it into words.

  “I’m divorced,” she told him.

  Adam’s expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. He was a jerk.” Sinead’s heart was pounding. She was a private person. Why was she revealing something so personal so quickly?

  She sipped her martini. “Your turn.”

  “I love The Three Stooges.”

  “More than kids?” Sinead teased.

  “No,” Adam said without hesitation. “But I’ve sworn allegiance to the Stooges. I’ll always be a fan.”

  “I’ll try not to hold that against you.”

  Adam smiled.

  “You can do better than that,” Sinead continued. She put her drink down on the bar, folding her arms in front of her chest expectantly. “I’m waiting.”

  “I was engaged once,” he revealed.

  “Really? What happened?”

  Adam shrugged. “Just didn’t work out. We wanted different things.” He turned his attention to the TV, an obvious signal he didn’t want to discuss it further.

  Sinead made a show of checking her watch. They were dancing a little too close to flirting for her liking, even if it was under the guise of trying to get more comfortable around each other as attorney and client. The problem was, she was enjoying it.