She heard rising voices from the inner office as Barbara’s door opened.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Griffiths,” Barbara said, shaking hands with the man. “Thank you for stopping by. I appreciate your insights on the direction of the team. I’m sure we’ll work very well together in the near future.”
“Likewise,” the man replied. “And call me Bernie.”
“Of course, Bernie. You’ve met my assistant, Kylie Rose?” The pair turned toward Kylie as Barbara gestured to her.
Bernie folded his hands in front of his rotund gut as he looked her up and down. He wasn’t tall but not as short as Murphy. Kylie pegged him to be in his mid-forties, with a bit of a paunch that wouldn’t stay hidden beneath his tweed suit jacket. He had salt and pepper gray hair but no beard, and while pleasant enough, his face bore all the charm and character of the Pillsbury dough-boy. Kylie stifled a giggle, imagining a giant finger reaching out to poke his puffy midsection.
He smiled and approached with his hand out in greeting. “Kylie,” he said with a nod. “I’m Bernie Griffiths, pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” she said, somehow uncomfortable with the ‘Bernie’ moniker but accepting the handshake. She immediately regretted the act as his clammy palm clasped hers. She’d touched dead fish with more warmth than Bernie Griffiths’ hand. Something about him was off. Her intuition never lied.
“I’m sure we’ll be seeing lots of each other as well,” he said.
Not if I see you first, pan-fry.
Kylie’s hand dipped below her desk surface as soon as he released it, wiping her palm on the fabric of her jeans. “Likewise,” she said, not meaning her statement in the least.
“Goodbye, Barbara,” Bernie said, exiting the office.
When the door clicked closed, Barbara turned to Kylie. “Well, he’s a piece of work.”
Kylie let out a chuckling snort. “No kidding. Do you need some Lysol spray to disinfect your office?”
Barbara laughed. “More like pest control fumigation. Do you know any reputable companies?”
Both women dissolved into fits of laughter. It was at that moment Kylie knew that her concerns over an incompatible relationship with Barbara Townsend were unfounded. The lady had her head on straight.
“Do you think Lou will give him the job?” Kylie asked.
Barbara shook her head, her short blonde locks bouncing as she did so. “I don’t know. It’s his call, I suppose. Bernie Griffiths has a ton of experience and credentials to back it up. But there’s a lot to be said for fit. I’m not sure he’s a good one for our club. Sheehan couldn’t be counted on to make that type of distinction, but Lou’s a lot more concerned with emotional intelligence since he works directly with the players.”
Kylie’s mouth formed a serious line. If the Riot had known the extent of her own background, she wasn’t sure she’d have been considered a good fit either. Thank the stars that shine she’d landed the job as Eloise’s PA. Her job was more than her livelihood – it was her lifeline, her saving grace. She’d do anything to protect it.
“Well, looks can be deceiving.”
Barbara nodded. “He hasn’t got much in the looks department. Let’s hope he doesn’t make up for it in the deception category.”
Kylie snorted in agreement. Barbara was becoming more and more attractive with each passing minute.
“If and when he makes some good business decisions, I might be convinced he’s the right man for the job,” Barbara concluded.
Their deliberations were interrupted by the shrilling of Kylie’s desk phone. “Excuse me,” she said, reaching for the handset. Barbara nodded and retreated to her office. The screen showed “unknown caller,” which always gave her pause. Unknown numbers usually meant either the police or the government, and neither party was a welcome caller in Kylie’s eyes.
However, her recent inquiries into her ancestral background sparked her hopes that it might be a positive call. A step in the right direction. Perhaps the adoption system agencies had some news for her on the identity of her birth mother. It was a long shot at best, having virtually no information to go on. As a doorstep baby, no reliable record of her parentage existed. Still, hope sprang eternal. She only wished she could afford her own private investigator.
“Rochester Riot Community Relations, Kylie speaking,” she said, answering by rote.
“Is that a rose by any other name?” a deep voice responded sending unwelcome flutters through her stomach cavity. She tamped them down. This was her place of employment.
The smooth low tones sounded as good as melted chocolate in Kylie’s ear. Wow. She could listen to that voice all day long – and all night too. A glimmer of recognition lit within her. She hadn’t forgotten her triumph at Blues & Brews, and apparently, her adversary hadn’t either. He’d actually taken the trouble to look her up. At the office. Instead of taking the easy route and sending a quick text to her cell phone. Men grossly underestimated the effect of their voice on a woman’s attraction. A smile touched her lips that began as a warm thread in her gut and spread upwards until her whole body erupted in delicious tingles of anticipation.
“This is Kylie Rose,” she said, unable to control her blossoming grin. “How may I help you?”
“Ahem, yes, maybe you can help me. I have a challenge, and I’m not sure how to deal with it. I’m not sure if it involves community relations, but one never knows. You see, I seem to have this stabbing pain in my heart from being bested behind a karaoke microphone,” the voice went on. “I seem to recall the cure for this malady being a date of your choosing. Yet the act remains unrequited. I’m afraid I will continue to suffer immense pain until I have paid my dues. Can you help me out? Put me out of my misery?”
Kylie’s lower lip protruded in amusement, despite the fact it would not be seen by her caller. “Oh my, that’s unfortunate,” she observed. “Even though we should probably call for a doctor, I suppose I might be able to relieve your distress. How long have you had these symptoms?”
“Feels like forever,” the voice said. “But maybe just the length of an unsuccessful NHL playoff run. I think I need to take my medicine. Have you decided on my punishment?”
“Hmm, let’s see…stabbing pain, feelings of humiliation, and inadequacy; bruised ego. Yes, I think I have just the thing.” Kylie reached for her day planner and the yoga class schedule tucked inside the front cover.
“Don’t forget strained vocal chords and a slipped disc from all my moves like Jagger.”
“You may have moves,” Kylie teased. “But Jagger can actually sing.”
“Ouch baby, very ouch,” he said, Austin Powers style. “Add mortal wounding to my list of ailments.”
“Yes. That is a very long list of afflictions. Perhaps I should just shoot you, end your suffering humanely?”
He laughed, a low rumble like faraway thunder, gentle in its distance but foreshadowing the storm to come. No one did storms better than wide open Minnesota. Hail. Lightning. Tornadoes. Swirling maelstroms of debris destroying everything in their wake. They could be brutal and damaging, but also cooling and cleansing. It gave Kylie a shiver.
“You forget I’m a goalie. Taking shots is what I do for a living. If you’re trying to kill my chances at a date with you, that’s not the way to do it. Haven’t you ever heard of reverse psychology?”
Okay, mister hot shot. Try this.
“Alright, alright. How does Thursday at eight sound?” Kylie said, referring to the schedule in her hand.
“That’s two days away. I suppose I can survive until then. What if my symptoms become intolerable?”
“I think you’ll live,” Kylie said, a satisfied smile curving her lips. “720 Maple Boulevard. Dress casual.”
“Okay, got it. Anything else?”
“Who is this?” she asked in mock ignorance. “I’ve had multiple calls of this kind today, and I barely had space in my social calendar to pencil you in. Mister…”
The distant th
under escalated into a full-on storm of laughter over the phone. Kylie wanted to stand in the middle of it and let it rain, rain, rain. She loved a prairie storm. She hoped he did too because he was in for one hell of a bolt, come Thursday.
“Just call me Mick,” he said. “See you there, Kylie Rose.”
“Oh, you will,” she replied, still grinning. “No backing out, remember?” A light blinked on her desk phone panel, indicating another call coming through. “Gotta go, Mick. My next suiter’s waiting to hear my tinkling voice.”
She disconnected and punched the incoming line without thinking. “Rochester Riot Community Relations, Kylie speaking.”
A pause. “Oh. Aren’t we fancy now,” the caller said in a sarcastic tone. Kylie felt the office begin to shrink around her, the identity of the voice coming to her with the painful certainty of a car crash in slow motion.
“Can I help you,” she said, her automatic response falling weakly from her lips.
“Seems like you’ve helped yourself, Rose.”
Kylie swallowed, but the lump of fear in her throat choked her. The past she’d tried so hard to outrun had ambushed her, cut her off at the knees. It felt like she’d been stripped of her armor to stand naked on the battlefield waiting for the death blow. Well, she wasn’t going down without a fight. If there was to be a shoot-out at the OK Corral, bring it.
“I beg your pardon? Who’s calling please?”
Come out in the open, you cowardly piece of shit.
“Oh, that’s the way you wanna play it, huh? So plumped-up and full of yourself that all your dirty corners are invisible? Out of sight out of mind? You owe me, Rosie. Throw me a gigantic bone, or you may find a few of yours broken.”
“Shut up, Denny, and don’t call this number again, do you hear?” Kylie forced down the fear that thrummed inside her being, summoning her wits. “You can’t threaten me. I don’t owe you anything. You made your choices, and I made mine. Get over it.”
“Get over yourself. Once a street rat always a street rat. Think a fucking cushy job changes who you are? At your core? In your soul? Think again.”
“Only one of us knows how to think, Denny. You should try it. I’m hanging up now.”
“You better watch your back.”
Click.
OMG. Denny Marston. A person and a name she’d hoped never to see or hear from again. Her heart thumped wildly. Once a street rat, always a street rat. She could run, but could she hide? Once upon a time, Denny had been her world; providing shelter, protection. Even love, in his own warped way. People called him her boyfriend, but it wasn’t truly like that.
Denny liked boyfriends more than he liked girlfriends.
She might owe him something, but he owed Jezz too, just like the rest of their ragtag group. Someone would pay up, one way or another.
Chapter Five
Shredder leaned back in the padded office armchair, waiting for the doc to say something. Anything. The silence hung heavy between them as Shredder’s mind raced with the possibilities. He caved first and broke the stilted quiet.
“Well? Is it any better?”
Doctor Marcus Haines of the world-renowned Mayo Clinic frowned in typical doctor fashion as he examined the x-rays. “Congenital spondylolisthesis is not something that gets better, Shredder, I’m sure you know that. You’ve had it all your life. Only a miracle or Mother Theresa could cure you, and one of them is dead.”
“You don’t need to remind me. There’s always hope. Just making conversation, I guess.”
Dr. Haines expression lightened as he pointed to an area of the illuminated panel. “The vertebrae slippage is still under five on the scale. You’ve managed it well considering your profession. I still can’t believe you made it to the professional ranks with your disability. It’s truly remarkable. You should be very proud of yourself.”
Shredder shifted his feet nervously. “Yeah. But I’m hoping to do more than ‘manage’ it. I intend to play hockey for a long while yet. I’m too young to give up. I’m in my prime, and I’m blessed to play for one of the best teams in the NHL.”
Haines gave a thoughtful nod. “How old are you now?” he asked, staring at the films and not consulting his chart.
I know where you’re going with this, Doc. You and my mother are in the same camp.
“I’m thirty-one. You know that. What’s your point?”
Haines shrugged. “Lots of players retire in their thirties without shame. Lots of able-bodied players. Knowing your family background, your income is certainly not dependent on hockey. Are you sure you want to risk more permanent damage by continuing to play beyond your safe years? What if playing a couple more years puts you in a wheelchair down the road? You’d lose your mobility and be forced to live a lifetime of agonizing pain. I just want to make sure you’ve considered all angles in your cost-benefit analysis.”
Shredder gave Doc a patronizing look.
Fuck you.
“Did you become a doctor because of the money?”
“No, of course not.”
Shredder nodded. “Of course not. You do it because you love it; you feel compelled to serve a higher purpose, be of service to humanity, right?”
“I hear you, Sheldon. I know your game is your passion. Just don’t let the passion consume you to the point where you become devoid of common sense. You still have a lot of life ahead of you, and you have to consider the quality of your future as well as your present.”
“You’re damn right. You know better than to ask about retirement. I went through a lot of shit to keep playing hockey. You think a scared teenager would have put up with all the surgeries, physio, and medications I did if I wasn’t crazy about the sport?”
“I understand. But there has to be a life after hockey, Sheldon. Even players in perfect health have to quit sometime. Don’t you want to make sure that life is enjoyable and relatively pain-free?”
His lower back buzzed with tension, and Shredder immediately relaxed into the chair. No need to aggravate things now. He had a date tonight. And yes, dammit, he wanted to enjoy it. His evening, his sport, his life, his future.
He didn’t want to spend that future alone, either. He could picture it, the bachelor son of a multi-billionaire living for no other reason than to steward the family fortune. He had no legacy to pass on if he stayed single. No brothers or sisters to inherit Natasha and Emil’s riches. Some lucky charity would be the beneficiary of it all if he crippled himself beyond repair. And what girl would want to hitch her wagon to that, except the manipulative gold diggers his mother railed against?
Ariana, that’s who.
He suppressed a curse as her exotic features flitted through his brain. Though classically beautiful, he would never feel at ease in her presence, even less so in the bedroom. She was just one more person who made him feel like merchandise, coveted and possessed. Someone he was expected to please and be loyal to, under penalty of uncomfortable public scrutiny.
Damn that fucker.
He still couldn’t bring himself to say his name. The apparition of his past rose once again to thwart his ability to trust, be too close to anyone.
He sighed and shook his head as if to erase the cobwebs of a life he’d wiped away years ago. One that could never belong to him.
“So what kind of shape am I in, Doc?” he asked in a voice just above a whisper. He didn’t really want to articulate the question or accept the inevitable answer. “How much time would you say I have?”
Haines sighed. “No one knows the answer to that. The surgery you underwent as a youth enabled you to continue your sport, but the newest laser procedure is much more sophisticated and shows greater promise. The anterior movement of your lower vertebrae is increasing again.”
Shredder perked up. “Back then, you said. Are you saying the new treatment has been approved?”
Doc nodded almost reluctantly. “Yes. It is much less invasive, and the materials used to create an interior spinal support very much improved. Very high
-tech. We can decompress the affected nerves and realign the vertebrae. The new stabilization devices will have a good chance of preventing future misalignment.”
Shredder gaped. The doc had been holding out on him. He’d agreed to see Dr. Haines on the auspices of his father’s relationship with the Mayo’s benefactors, and a desire to keep the primary ugliness of his condition away from the team’s doctor. This is what he paid for, and Haines was going to deny him this chance?
“Why the hell didn’t you say so before? Let’s do it,” Shredder said, becoming excited. “I’ll have the entire off-season to recover and get back to one-hundred percent.”
Haines held up his hands. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up. I’d rather see you tone down the lifestyle rather than risk further surgery. Though the new laser surgeries are less invasive, there’s still recovery time to consider and all the normal risks of any procedure. In my opinion, it’s better to leave well enough alone.”
“I’m a professional athlete. There’s no such thing as ‘well enough,’ Doc,” Shredder sputtered. “I have to be the best I can be. Now’s the perfect time of year for something like this. When can you schedule it?”
Haines looked at him, then sighed a long exhale. “I’ll have my staff put you on the waiting list,” Haines said. “It could be several months.”
“Bullshit. How much money do you want? You know I’m good for it. How much to move me to the top of the list?” Shredder asked, unblinking. “We’ll call it a donation.”
Haines studied him with his steely gaze. “As I said…my staff will call you.”
***
Kylie waited at the front desk of the studio, watching anxiously out the big glass windows as a spitting rain began to fall. Dark. Gray. Kind of like her mood. She didn’t even know what kind of vehicle to look for, but certainly couldn’t miss a big tall bald guy when he sauntered up to the doors. She fidgeted with the guest pass in her hands, her nervousness rising with each passing second. Maybe this was a bad idea, she thought. Maybe he wouldn’t even show up. It was hardly a conventional first date.
The Crease: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance Page 4
