Chapter Twenty-Seven

Emile hadn’t performed this poorly since he’d been a mite and played with the chicken pox. If Andre could see him, he would beat him for sure and lock him out of the house.

The score was 3-4, Ottawa’s favor with 2:20 to go in the third period—but all was not lost. Far from it. Senator rookie Able Killen, a big rawboned boy out of Idaho, had made the mistake of high sticking Thor. For once, Thor had kept his cool. So, off to the sin box with Able, and the Sound was on a power play.

If they could tie it up—and they could—overtime was a clean slate, a new beginning. If they could just get that point, they would win this. Nobody was better than the Sound in overtime.

Emile didn’t get much action on that power play. He didn’t expect to. A couple of times, the Senators got control of the puck and Emile skated out of the net and shot it back down the ice, but his teammates pretty much kept in goal range.

Though they shot time after time after time, Heinrich Muller blocked every single one. A fine piece of play. Win or lose, Emile would tell him. Five seconds left with five on four. Emile beat out the seconds on the ice with his stick to let his teammates know there was still time.

And then there wasn’t.

Twenty seconds left in the game. Emile poised to skate to the bench even before he got the signal from Coach Colton. He took his place on the bench and accepted the water bottle and towel Packi handed him. Pulling the goalie was what was done in such circumstances. This would give the Sound six skaters against five and the goalie. With any luck . . . 

But there was no luck. Ottawa scored an empty net goal with eight seconds to go. Emile skated back to his net. At 3-5, it was done. Even Emile, who never gave up, knew that.

And then it really was over. The clock and the buzzer said so.

The Sound skated out, circled up around their captain, and banged their sticks on the ice as they always did. No one would blame Emile. Win as a team, lose as a team, but the only thing worse than a locker room after a loss was his bed without Amy.

Baise-moi, merde, and all the rest of it.

Hands clapped his shoulders. Eighty-two regular season games. There was no such thing as undefeated season. In other sports yes, but it had never been done in the NHL. But that first loss was always bitter, because you always thought, it could happen. And maybe it will be this year and my team.

Swifty skated up beside him. “What you say we go get clean and go get some women?”

Emile shook his head. He’d finally told his friend today that Amy was not to be found. “What do you say we go get clean and go get a beer?”

“Man, you’ve got it bad.”

Emile paused at the tunnel entry to take off his helmet. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.” Someone handed him a towel, and he mopped his face as he went.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder from behind—and it was not the comforting hand of brotherhood and shared loss. It was a hand meant to stop him.

Slowly, he turned and looked over his shoulder.

Snow! How did he even get in the tunnel? Ah, someone had given him a VIP pass.

“It was good to see you fuck up,” Snow said.

“You annoy me, Snow. I thought you were in Milan annoying Italians until All Saints Day—Tuesday, is it?”

“I thought that, too. Unfortunately, when I didn’t fly back as expected after my meeting with you, my wife flew home—and she wasn’t happy. So the honeymoon was over. I have you to thank for that, among other things. So, we’re here in Nashville with her parents and her brother. Not what I had in mind.”

People milled all around them, oblivious to the storm brewing. Emile could have stopped the storm, could have walked away like he’d done a hundred times. But he was in no mood.

“Having everything stolen from her was not what Amy had in mind, either. You did not have to come when I summoned you. You made your choice.” But it was time to walk away, mood or not. Emile turned toward the locker room. “Go back to your wife. Go get some hot wings or something. I recommend blue cheese. It’s trés good.”

“I’m not through with you!”

Emile might have kept walking. A VIP pass would only take a person so far, and the locker room was beyond that boundary. But he was curious about what else Snow would have to say.

“Voleck fired me. But I guess you know that.”

Interesting. “Hmm. No, I did not know. But good for him. I like that boy. He is young and has made some mistakes. It is good to see him showing good sense.”

Snow closed the distance between their faces. “He was my only hockey player, and you were the cause of my losing him. He called me while I was in Milan. I told him I would return his call after the first of November. Then he saw me at the Staples Center with you and thought I had lied—that I was avoiding him.”

Now Emile remembered the short exchange with Jan on the plane. “Did you speak with him that night? Seek him out at all? Non? Then you were avoiding him. Or maybe not. Maybe disregarding him, which is much worse.”

“Giroux, this is all your fault, and I will find a way to make you pay.”

Emile was tired of this and ready to walk away, but there was one last jab rattling around in his brain that was determined to make its way to his tongue and out of his mouth.

“Where’s your Sound sweater, Snow? I guess you don’t need it since your face is already purple. Or maybe you would have liked a Senators sweater tonight. Perhaps a woman will buy one for you before next time.”

Emile might have seen it coming if he had not been turning to go.

Snow bellowed like an infuriated caveman—and landed a fist on Emile’s jaw.

Stand still, he commanded himself as he tasted blood. Stand still and take it, and it will be over sooner.

The second blow landed on his nose, and the blood gushed like a red waterfall.

Don’t react. Stand tough. While it was true that Snow was running to fat and balding, he had played in the NFL, however briefly. His punches had some power behind them.

“It’s your fault!” Snow bellowed again. “You made me come back from Milan. You made me ruin my honeymoon, made me ruin things with my only NHL client!”

It’s your fault.

Just like Andre.

If you had played better, I wouldn’t have had to lock you out of the house and the neighbors wouldn’t have called me out and humiliated me. Now I have to beat you for that, and that’s your fault, too.

If you had tried harder, you would have won tonight and I wouldn’t have made you walk home from the rink. Now your mother is mad at me.

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

Just like Andre.

The third blow landed on his eye. It began to swell immediately.

Just like Andre—but not Andre.

It must have happened faster than it felt, because later, Emile clearly remembered making a conscious decision. He was going to do what he had never done with Andre, what he’d never done on the ice, even when a full-force brawl was in session.

He was going to defend himself before someone intervened—and he had time. Maybe it was because this was a hockey crowd and they were used to fighting, or maybe it was because everyone around them was stunned, but no one interfered.

So defend himself he did, along with Amy, his mother, sister, and every child who’d ever suffered at the hands of a savage monster.

And he—Emile Giroux, the Excellent Wolf, the French Kiss—was not a savage. Or a monster.

He was a man who’d had enough.

The enraged bellow that rang out of Emile’s lungs made Snow’s sound like the mewling of a sick kitten.

He threw off his gloves and fell on Snow like a high-powered Weed Eater in a vat of cotton candy.

Snow did not land another punch.