Slap Shot, page 19
She wasn’t riding back to the city with Bryant. Disappointed rained down on her, which made no sense, because now that she thought about it, she shouldn’t have expected to go back with him. She’d lived with hockey all her life. She knew there was always morning skate. They would have had to leave an hour ago at the latest. Had she just been so tired from her long work hours that she hadn’t thought it through? Or had she wanted the two hours with Bryant so much that she had assumed there would be no morning skate so she could have what she wanted?
How had he carried her to bed without waking her? Come to think of it, how had he carried her to bed at all? She was nearly six feet tall. Obviously, he’d managed—and obviously she wouldn’t see him tonight at The Big Skate after the game. He would probably eat with his family at the hotel before taking his parents and sister back to his house.
And what was the TY thanks for? For agreeing to eat a Tour of Italy? For the sympathetic ear? The sex? She didn’t want to be thanked for any of that.
Overthinking. She was no stranger to it, but she’d never overthought a relationship with a man in her life. But she’d seen it in action. Amy, Hélène-Louise, Pam. They’d all done it when they were in love. Maybe it was fundamental to the process.
Only she wasn’t in love. She couldn’t be. Even if she had slain her demon and knew Bryant wouldn’t hurt her, he hadn’t slain his.
She swung her legs to the floor and stood. She was wearing the long cotton nightgown she’d worn across the hall last night, so he must have wrestled her back into it. Apparently he was better at undressing than dressing a woman, because her gown was inside out and backwards.
She set it right, combed her hair, and went downstairs to the kitchen. No need to worry about appearing in her nightgown. The oldest male in the house was five years old. The rest of them would be on the ice by now.
Sharon and Amy were sitting at the kitchen table eating pie.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Sharon said. “There’s coffee and hot water for tea.”
“And pie for breakfast?” Gabriella poured herself a cup of coffee. Usually, she was a tea drinker, but she needed a stronger jolt of caffeine this morning.
“Amy got up and made the guys a healthy breakfast, but I’m through cooking for the weekend.”
“I don’t blame you.” Gabriella sat down and cut herself a slice of apple pie. “I’m cooked out myself. But Eat Cake is closed until Monday. June says no amount of money is worth opening on Black Friday after we’ve worked so hard.”
“Your pies and cheesecakes were the best things we had. Don’t tell anybody, but I let my kids have pie for breakfast, too.”
“No worse than a Pop-Tart,” Amy said. “Probably better.”
Gabriella looked around. “Where are the kids?”
“Lucya’s asleep and the boys are watching The Lego Movie. Don’t judge me.”
Gabriella laughed. “I’m only judging you on the turkey and the hospitality, and you win.”
“Absolutely,” Amy said. “Everything was so good. But if you’re done cooking, what’s Mikhail doing for a pregame meal?”
Sharon wrinkled her nose. “Oh, that. I don’t really consider that cooking. I’ve done it so many times, I don’t even think about it anymore. It’s the same thing every game day. Rotisserie chicken from Trader Joe’s and ziti with marinara. I used to cook the chicken myself, but Mikhail can’t tell the difference. We always make gallons of marinara in the summer and freeze it in small portions for pregame meals.”
“Emile doesn’t eat the same thing every time. He likes marinara and Alfredo. It wouldn’t work for the Alfredo, but I could freeze a big batch of marinara.”
“Such good hockey wives,” Gabriella said.
“Do you think Wyoming makes Webber a pregame meal?” Sharon asked.
“She’s not a hockey wife,” Gabriella said. “She’s a hockey girlfriend.” But she—Gabriella—wasn’t even that. What was she?
“Wyoming’s a wannabe. But she’d better know it’s a full-time job,” Sharon said, “especially on game day and especially after the children come.”
Amy got that dreamy look on her face—no doubt thinking of babies again. “Maybe you can give me some advice.”
“I’ve found some shortcuts, like the chicken and freezing the game day pasta sauce. Mikhail and I make it together. I always have a few containers left when the season’s over, so I’ll give you some, Amy. And next summer you and Emile should come over so we can all do it together. It’ll be fun.”
It did sound like fun, though Gabriella had no reason to make game day marinara.
Sharon must have caught the wistfulness hanging around Gabriella. “And you should come, too, Gabriella. It wouldn’t be a party without you. You could make sauce and sell it to the single guys.”
“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
The hockey life: Practice, stretch, practice, high protein breakfast, early skate, pregame nap, pregame high carb meal, to the rink early for sewer ball, game, post game meal, bed, and start it all over again the next day unless it was the last game of the series. She knew this life, but she’d never live it.
Unless she did. There were still problems, sure. Opening up yesterday had to be a step toward healing.
As for Emile—in the scheme of things, that wasn’t much of an issue. She could deal with him.
She and Bryant had connected yesterday when he’d told her about Philie, and last night had been—well, phenomenal, and not just sex, even if he didn’t know it. And she was no fool. They weren’t going to stop having sex. So why not just settle back and see what would happen? You couldn’t rush baking a meringue for Pavlova. It had to be low and slow. Maybe this was the same.
“Speaking of pregame, we probably should think about heading back to the city.” Amy brought her back to the kitchen where there was one woman who was a hockey wife, one woman who was soon to be a hockey wife, and one who still didn’t know who she was, but might feel a little possibility blooming.
“Right.” Gabriella rose. “Just let me run through the shower. Fifteen minutes?”
“Perfect,” Amy said.
It was hard not to wonder what Bryant did about his pregame meal. His kitchen didn’t look like it had ever been cooked in. Maybe he went out or ate those terrible shelf stable pasta meals that Emile used to eat.
Or maybe a puck bunny delivered. Gabriella couldn’t say she hadn’t known that going in.
But, it seemed, she was in—at least to see what would happen.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I wanted to tell you again, Swifty, great game last night.” Sound team captain, Nickolai Glazov, clapped Bryant on the back as they headed to the locker room after Saturday morning early skate.
“Thanks, man. I owed the team after that Dallas game.”
“We all have a bad game sometimes,” Glaz said. “It is best if we do not all have them the same night.”
Bryant was a hero once more. He hadn’t had the game of his life again, but he’d held his own in the 3-2 win over Winnipeg last night with two assists. Maybe there was something to what Packi had said about him playing better when Gabriella was there. Though he hadn’t talked to her, he’d spotted her from the bench in the WAG suite. He had thought he would see her earlier when she came for her car, but he’d missed her. When he’d gone home yesterday after eating with Sparks, Scottie, and Webber, he’d found Pam Anderson hanging curtains in the newly furnished bedrooms, but Gabriella’s car was gone.
But still, it had been a good day—beginning with waking up with Gabriella. He’d taken it as a personal challenge to carry her into her own room without waking her or getting caught, and he’d won. Just like they’d won the game against Winnipeg.
And so far, so good with his family. They’d had a pleasant late dinner together at the Hyatt, and then he’d had a good visit with his parents back at his house. Turns out, he should have bought a couch or two in addition to the bedroom stuff, but he’d moved the mail off the kitchen table and they’d sat there.
And no one had mentioned Philie.
He accepted the Gatorade that appeared in his hand and sat down in his stall. “Thanks, Packi.” He drank the whole bottle in two gulps.
In the next stall, Emile said, “Ah, yes. There was a time when Packi handed me a Gatorade.” He was already out of his skates and was shucking his clothes.
“Uh huh.” Packi grinned. “There was a time.”
“I have figured something out.” Emile was totally naked now. Thank God he wrapped a towel around his waist.
“Most excellent,” Packi said. “I love it when my boys start to figure things out. What is it?”
“I sense that Swifty has a love interest. I even accused him of wanting spend time with my sister.”
Bryant’s insides froze.
“Is that right?” Packi asked benignly.
“I was wrong,” Emile said. “My friend would never do that. But, Packi, you helped me out when I was trying to find my way to Amy. Only I did not know that. Now you are helping Swifty out. I am thinking he has a secret lady. Oui, Swifty?”
Oh, hell. “Non, Mr. French Kiss. I have no secrets.” Plenty of lies, though, and that last statement was another one.
“We will see. I thought I had no secrets, but they were secret even from moi.” And he ambled off to the showers.
Packi leaned in and spoke quietly. “No secrets, huh? So you haven’t told him.”
“Packi, I’ve told you. There’s nothing to tell.” Bryant was way past pretending he didn’t know what Packi was talking about. “Gabriella is a friend—a good friend.” Was that a lie? He didn’t even know anymore. But no matter how he felt, there was still no future there.
“Uh huh.” Packi nodded. “My wife is my friend. That’s the magic. Attraction is good. Friendship on top of attraction is better. It’s the liking that gets you through the tough times.”
Could that be true? If so, he and Philie would have never gotten through tough times. Even in the early days when they were so wrapped up in young love, it was all chemistry. She had depended on her sisters and girlfriends for companionship, just as he had depended on his brothers and teammates.
“Do you want another Gatorade?” Packi asked.
Bryant looked down at the crushed plastic bottle in his hand. He didn’t remember crushing it. “No. I’m okay. I’m about to go meet my family for an early lunch.”
“How’s that going?”
“Good. Really, good, Packi. They loved the ice suite. The hotel rooms are great. The drivers and cars you found have been perfect. They appreciate it and so do I. I would have never been able to organize this like you have. I don’t know what I’m going to do when you figure out I don’t need any extra pampering.”
“Yeah? By the time I figure that out, you really won’t need any help.”
“Whatever.”
Packi laughed. “I’ll leave you to it. You don’t want to be late for your family.” He walked away, but turned back. “Say, did you tell your family you’re bringing Gabriella to lunch?”
Bryant’s head snapped up? Did he have some kind of magic power, like a few of the guys claimed? “How did you know that? Are you some kind of psychic?”
Packi laughed a shook his head. “See? That’s how these things get started. A guy makes an educated guess, asks a question, and he gets a reputation for being supernatural. So, did you tell them?”
Bryant bent to unlace his skates. “Why would I? When they travel to see me play, I always bring friends when I meet them for meals. They’re used to it.”
“Emile? Glaz? Mikhail?”
“Sure. Jarrett, Thor, Robbie, Sparks. As I said, friends.”
“Uh huh.” Bryant loved Packi, but he hated how he said uh huh, like he knew secrets. “Leave your skates out. They took a beating last night. I’ll clean them up and sharpen them.”
“Thanks, Packi.”
“Have a good time at Olive Garden.”
“You bet.”
Wait. How did he know they were going to Olive Garden?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dressing to meet Bryant’s family would have been easier had Gabriella not had her nifty little muddle-minded realization over coffee in Sharon’s kitchen yesterday—not that the realization had revealed anything except confusion.
Weren’t realizations supposed to unveil mind-blowing truths so grounded in confidence that there could never be any question of the rightness of them? Or was that an epiphany? She hadn’t had time to look it up since she’d been debating between a skirt and pants for her Olive Garden outing.
Last night at the game, she hadn’t even tried to look at anyone else when Bryant was on the ice. He hadn’t fought, though he’d taken at least one dirty hit from behind that the officials hadn’t seen. And he’d been pure hockey perfection in motion.
Once, when she had been at one of Emile’s college games, Gabriella had overheard one of the hockey girlfriends say to her friend, “Watching him play turns me on so much I want to sneak into the locker room between periods and have my way with him!” The girl and her friend had laughed, but Gabriella had been appalled. Over the years, she’d heard similar comments, but she’d never believed that prowess on the ice inspired sexual desire. She had certainly never understood it.
She understood it now. Yeah, buddy.
Watching a powerful, gifted athlete, who had actually had his hands on you and told you his secrets, play an extraordinary game was different from thinking in the abstract. When the game had ended last night, she’d been wrung out in every way imaginable.
She’d skipped The Big Skate and gone home to pick out her clothes—clothes appropriate for eating the Tour of Italy and meeting some people who were probably not going to be happy to meet her because they only had eyes for a dead girl.
That would be a tough battle to fight, but she’d armored for it the best way she knew how—soft leather gray knee boots over black leggings with a long grey cowl sweater and an ice blue pashmina shot with silver thread. For a little bit of the unexpected, she had added the platinum and diamond cluster earrings that Emile had given her two Christmases ago. Strictly speaking, the impressive earrings were meant for formal eveningwear, but with her height and long hair, Gabriella knew she could carry it off—especially at holiday time. Her tiny black shoulder bag was vintage Chanel—a high school graduation gift from Johanna and Paul. She always carried it when she needed a little extra luck.
• • •
“Please, God, don’t let her have gotten here before me,” Bryant prayed aloud as he drove around the Olive Garden parking lot looking for Gabriella’s car. He didn’t see it. That was good, anyway. He had meant to arrive twenty minutes ago, but he’d failed to factor in the Black Friday carryover shopping traffic, and now there was only five minutes to spare until eleven o’clock and Gabriella wasn’t likely to be late. Packi was right. He should have told them she was coming.
He’d tried to make a reservation, but Olive Garden didn’t take reservations and they didn’t give a damn that he was Bryant Taylor. He could have used his phone to get on the wait list—which he should have done, instead of just thinking he’d get here early. He should have asked Packi to handle it. Not only would he have had a reservation, there would be already be breadsticks on the table.
No Gabriella yet, but there were the two stretch Hummers that had been hauling the family around.
“Thank you,” he said to the perky little hostess as she was picking up a menu. “I’m meeting a large party.”
“Around the corner, in the back,” she said. So their reputation preceded them.
“Bry!” called his sister Molly. She spotted him first. They had placed long tables together to accommodate all of them—well, almost all of them. There was only one empty chair.
“We saved you a seat in the middle.” That was from his younger brother David. “That way you can talk to everybody.” Fat chance of that.
Regardless of what the last head count had been—and Bryant didn’t even remember—counting kids, there were twenty-two of them. Like the Last Supper nearly doubled. He had to hug and kiss his way around the table. Judas kisses.
“Sit down, Bry.” His mother pointed to the empty chair across from her. “We knew you’d be hungry, so we ordered. I got you chicken parmesan with double fettuccini Alfredo. They’ve already brought the salad and breadsticks.”
He hesitated. “We’re going to need another chair.” And another meal.
“Oh?” Maggie looked across the table at the empty chair. “What’s wrong with that one?”
“Nothing. I have a friend joining us.”
Except for baby babbling from his former sister-in-law’s twins, the table went quiet.
“Who?” baby sister Michelle asked. “Robbie?” Robbie had come out to dinner with them once when the Sound was in Minnesota playing the Wild, and Michelle had taken a shine to him.
“I’ll get a chair.” Luke, ever the Taylor peacemaker and perfect host, jumped up and headed to a table for four where only three people were seated.
“I don’t know if there’s really room . . . ” his former mother-in-law said. “Should we get another table?”
“It’s fine, Beverly,” his father said. “We’ll just get a little friendlier.”
“Whatever,” Maggie said. “Bry, if you had told us, we could have—”
“Who?” Michelle persisted. “If it’s Robbie, I want him to sit here by me.” She pointed to the empty chair beside her and looked at her boyfriend like she wished he hadn’t come.
“Here’s the chair,” Luke said. “Everybody shift.”
“No, Michelle,” Maggie said. “Bry will sit between you and Robbie.”
“It’s not Robbie!”
“Then who?” Maggie asked.
“Holy Mother of God!” David said, looking across the room.
“Wow,” John, Philie’s brother, said. “And all the saints.” John’s wife, Sandy, gave him a chilling look, and that was when Bryant knew it was Gabriella.
“David, was that necessary?” Maggie asked.
