Chapter Nineteen

The next morning, there was no one in the locker room when Emile entered to get ready for morning skate. Not even Packi—though he’d been there. Emile’s stall was in perfect order.

It was good that there was no one here yet. Being late yesterday had discombobulated his day—and what a day. Good and bad parts. But this was a whole new day. Last night’s win didn’t matter anymore; it was over. There was a whole new win to capture tonight.

He drank the bottle of water Packi had left for him and sat down to tape his stick.

“Stand up. Let me look at your bruises from last night.”

Emile jumped. How did that man appear out of thin air? “Good morning, Packi. Thank you for putting my things in order. I cannot show you my bruises.”

“Why not?”

“I am taping my stick. Once I start, I do not stop.”

Packi sat down in Swifty’s stall. “I can wait. Do you need breakfast?”

“No, thank you. I had a nice breakfast. Scrambled eggs, some grits with cheese, blackberries, and yogurt.” He hadn’t used a spoon for the yogurt or eaten it from the container. Amy had made an exceptional and erotic serving vessel, and his tongue an adequate eating utensil. Amy had seemed to think it was more than adequate.

There was no need to mention any of that to Packi.

“I never learned to like grits. Never even saw any ’til I came South to work for the Sound. That’s one thing I won’t miss if we end up in Massachusetts.”

Emile didn’t want to talk about the possible sale of the team. He preferred to talk about grits. “A good whole grain carbohydrate. That’s what Amy said.”

“Amy. Did she enjoy her seat in the WAG suite?”

Damn. Why had he had to bring up her name? But it didn’t matter. If Packi wanted to know something, he didn’t have to be reminded. Emile considered lying, but there was no point. Packi would probably know it, and if he didn’t, he’d nose around until he found out she hadn’t stayed for the game.

“Not so much.”

“That so?” Packi took his time taking a sip of his coffee. And waited.

Emile cut the tape at the heel of his stick. “No. She was not enchanted to be there.”

“Uh huh. What did she think of your game?”

There was no way to keep from telling the whole story. “She had no opinion. She left before puck drop.”

At least Packi had the decency to look surprised, though Emile doubted that he was. “Before puck drop? You don’t say. So she didn’t see you play at all?”

“Non.” He rubbed a puck over the newly taped blade of his stick without looking up. “But she will see me tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Oui. But she will not wear the sweater. There is no sweater anymore. She cut it into little pieces.”

Packi began to laugh. “Is that so? Does she know what it would have sold for on eBay?”

“Non. I doubt it. I think she would not sell something on eBay that she wasn’t sure was hers to sell. She has scruples. Too many scruples.” He wasn’t sure how destroying it was different from selling it, but it was.

“Can someone have too many scruples?” Packi handed him the stick wax, though Emile didn’t know how the man had known he was ready for it.

“Thank you.” He opened the wax. “Maybe not too many, but unnecessary ones. She insisted on buying her own ticket tonight. And she won’t accept another sweater.”

Packi nodded. “Good. I like this woman. I had wondered, but she really is in love with you—or at least well on her way.”

Emile’s head snapped up. “What? Non. There is nothing. She works for me. That’s all.” No matter that it didn’t feel that way to him. She’d reminded him often enough.

“Yet she’s sleeping with you.”

That didn’t sit right with Emile. “I will not speak of that, and neither will you. She is a lady—a very fine lady.” Like Gabriella and Johanna. Like Noel and Sharon. Like his mother must have been before life beat her into the ground.

Packi nodded and smiled. “Most excellent. You’re growing into the character that I know you have.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“It means that you love her, too.”

Did he? “Bah. Non. I have not known her long enough for that.”

“It doesn’t take long. I was nineteen playing in the minors. My wife was eighteen. She came up to the table for an autograph. It wasn’t even mine she wanted. She was in Brucie Holland’s line. They all were. Top hatter that season, but you couldn’t begrudge him the attention. Great guy. But anyway, she never did get Brucie’s autograph. We looked at each other, she jumped into my pitiful little line, and it was all over. We got married four months later. People said it wouldn’t last. We’re still waiting to see if that’s true. It’s been thirty-nine years now.”

It was a nice story, but you only ever heard about that kind of thing. It never happened to you. “Even if I did love her, what you say is wrong. She does not think of me in such a way.” He wanted Packi to deny it, even though the man couldn’t know the truth of it.

“Sure she does. She may not know it yet, but she does.”

“I wanted her to sit in the suite wearing my sweater tonight. I wanted her to at least let me give her a ticket. She is doing none of that.”

“But she is coming to your game.”

“Yes, but if she—as you claim—loved me, she’d do what I want.”

Packi laughed. “If that’s what you think love is, you have more to learn than even I thought.” He sipped his coffee. “Are you through taping that stick?”

“Yes.”

“Then stand up and strip. I want to see your bruises and make sure there’s no broken skin.”

• • •

Emile did not get a shutout, but the Sound won 4-1 so maybe that would be enough for him.

From where Amy sat, the team looked like a swarm of purple ants, but it had been fun to watch. She loved the music, the air horns, and the way the players on the ice, when they scored, swarmed together to hug and then skate by the bench to celebrate with their teammates.

It hardly seemed fair that Emile was the only one who never got a break. She hadn’t realized that teams didn’t usually change goalies. And he played so hard he had to keep a water bottle in the top of his net.

She’d promised herself that she would watch the whole game, but again and again, she found herself only watching Emile. And it was amazing—the way he contorted himself, rising to his feet and dropping to the ice on his knees or into full splits, and back up again, in a fraction of a second.

It was, well . . . arousing. What would it be like to press him against her in all his sweaty glory? The realist in her laughed at the thought. That might sound sexy, but it was sure to be a mood killer.

She waited until the Sound had skated off the ice to start making the long, long way down from the next-to-the-highest row in the arena.

Buying the ticket had been humbling. She’d been feeling so good about sticking to her guns about paying her own way and finding such a good price online. But then she’d realized she had to have a credit card to purchase it—something she’d taken for granted for years. It was a dilemma. She could wait and take her chances at the door, but what if the ticket was too expensive, if she could even get one? There was no getting out of going. She’d promised Emile, and also, Gabriella had called and made arrangements for them to ride together since the traffic and parking could be difficult.

So she’d waited until Emile returned home from morning skate and his meetings and asked to borrow his credit card.

She’d been fully prepared to have a fight on her hands about reimbursing him, and she’d been all right with that. She could win a fight. But when she’d counted out the bills and held them out to him, he’d only closed his eyes and sighed. “Ma chérie, if I argue, will I win?”

“No. But you might win later tonight if you don’t.”

That had gotten a smile out of him, though not much of one. But he’d folded the money and put it in his pocket. And then she’d had to ask to use his laptop so she could print out the ticket.

At moments like that—when she couldn’t be completely independent—she still felt frustrated and furious with Cameron, but not so overwhelmed. She was going to be all right.

Somewhere along the way, her mind had stopped going immediately to, “I must get on my feet and get a job.” She had a job. It wasn’t permanent, but it wasn’t bogus either, like she’d first thought. Emile worked hard every day, and he needed help. He’d rescued her at a time when she’d had no options, and she couldn’t just turn around and leave him now that the season was just starting.

She felt useful; she was useful. Though she hadn’t planned it and she certainly hadn’t been ready to talk about what Cameron had done, she’d told her family just this afternoon that she was working as a personal assistant to a pro hockey player. She hadn’t said who and they hadn’t asked. Like most Southerners, they didn’t know much about hockey and a name would mean nothing to them, but they’d probably assumed it was one of Cameron’s clients. They were just happy she was doing something constructive. And so was she, even if it was out of desperation.

Now, she was on her way to meet Gabriella at the main entrance—and there she was, wearing an authentic Emile Giroux jersey. Not a lot of women could get away with silver metallic leggings, but a lot of women weren’t six feet tall with legs up to their armpits and waist-length blond hair. Gabriella had urged Amy to come with her to the suite but hadn’t pushed when Amy had firmly declined.

“You beat me here,” Amy greeted her.

“You had farther to come than I did. Did you enjoy the game?”

“I did, though I don’t understand a lot about hockey. I suppose that would have been one advantage of watching from the WAG suite. I might have learned something.” Amy followed Gabriella out the door.

“Don’t count on it. And careful who you listen to.”

“I don’t think I’ll have occasion to listen to any of them.”

As they approached the parking garage, Gabriella said, “Just remember this: It’s organized chaos. The object of the game is to get the puck and put it in the goal. That’s it.”

“Unless you’re Emile. Then it’s to keep the puck out of the goal.”

Gabriella laughed and clicked open the locks on her BMW crossover. “He’s very, very good at it. He’s won the Vezina Trophy twice.”

Amy climbed in the vehicle. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means he’s very, very good at defending that goal.” Gabriella started the car. “It’s a little chilly. You have a seat warmer and your own temperature control.”

“I’m fine. This is a nice car.”

“A birthday present from Emile. He’s very generous. He tried to buy Paul and Johanna a new house last year and couldn’t understand why they didn’t want a new one. And imagine that—not wanting to give up a house that’s been in your family for three generations, even if it isn’t grand. But he did update their kitchen.”

“Sounds like my house,” Amy said. “Or the house I grew up in. I suppose it technically belongs to my grandparents, but we all live there together. It’s just an old farm house, though there’s plenty of room for all of us. But it could use a kitchen update.”

“Don’t tell Emile,” Gabriella said, “unless you want your family blindsided by an architect and interior designer showing up at the front door ready to go to work. It would take me a long time to tell you what Johanna had to say to him about that.”

“But ultimately, she let him have his way.”

Gabriella nodded. “Most people do.” She put her hands on the steering wheel. “So. How about it? Are you hungry? Big Skate? The guys will be along in about an hour.”

Amy laughed. “Is it open?”

Gabriella wrinkled her nose and nodded. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It’s just that Emile took me there one morning. He pounded on the door and made them open. Then he demanded eggs and bacon, even though they don’t serve breakfast.”

Gabriella’s eyes went wide. “You’re kidding. That doesn’t sound at all like Emile.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. He’s certainly arrogant enough. And he’s plenty willing to spend money on people he loves, but he doesn’t go to that kind of trouble for anyone.” She put the car in reverse and began to back out. “Or, he never has.”

• • •

Good. She was here—in his regular booth seated across from Gabriella.

He turned to Swifty. “You can sit beside my sister, but don’t touch her.” Swifty had taken his tie off and unbuttoned his shirt collar, but Emile was still tricked out like a show pony in a first class rodeo. Or would that be a horse show? He’d never been to either.

“Why don’t you sit by her if you’re so worried about it? I’ll sit beside your personal assistant.”

Like hell. What was wrong with him? He was cursing in his head in English, like an American Southerner. Gabriella slid out of the booth as soon as she saw them. She hugged Emile. “Tu étais formidable.”

“I was wonderful, too,” Swifty said. “I know because four puck bunnies and a preschooler told me so.” And he winked at Amy—winked at her! And offered his hand. “Hi. I’m Bryant Taylor, aka Swifty. Number five. Chief Sound Ass Kicker.”

Amy laughed like a music box and shook his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Emile maneuvered Swifty out of the way, unbuttoned his jacket just like that manners lady Johanna had sent him to had taught him, and slid into the booth beside Amy. “Do not say ass in front of the ladies. And you are not the chief ass kicker. That would be Thor.”

Swifty threw his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves, settled in beside Gabriella, and put his arm on the back of the booth. “No. He is the Ultimate God of Make You Hurt. I’m just the Chief Ass Kicker.”

Emile turned to Amy. “So, you watched tonight? Did you see me stop the puck and shoot it to Glaz? Then he scored on the breakaway. I got an assist. Goaltenders do not often get assists.”

She nodded. “That’s great. How many goals have you scored?”

Gabriella and Swifty laughed.

“What?” Amy looked around wide-eyed. “Gabriella said you’d won that Verizon trophy thing twice. I thought you must have scored a lot of goals.”

“Vezina,” he said. “And goaltenders do not score goals.” Though it had happened. Just not by him. “As a rule.”

Gabriella reached across the table and squeezed Amy’s hand. “I love you. You have no idea how much.”

There sure had been a lot of love talk tossed around today. He went to put his arm on the back of the booth, with a mind toward gradually sneaking it down around Amy’s shoulders.

But she turned and gave him a death stare.

Got it. I can do whatever I want to you in bed, but no public affection. Wouldn’t want to make people think we like each other.

But there was no time to give that any energy. Just then, two girls in generic replica Sound sweaters approached the table—and giggled.

“French Kiss! Swifty!” the redhead said. “Could we get a selfie with y’all?” Wasn’t it getting a little cold for shorts at night, even if they had kept their tans?

Usually Emile enjoyed this kind of attention and was the first to jump to his feet and say yes. Refusing was not possible or appropriate, but tonight he was in no mood. Maybe it was because he could feel the warmth radiating from Amy, even if she wouldn’t let him touch her.

“Sure can.” Swifty ambled to his feet. “Though why two lovelies like you would want to clutter up a picture with a couple of ugly old hockey players like us is light-years beyond my understanding.”

Gabriella rolled her eyes at Amy like they were sharing a joke.

“Yeah, right,” Amy muttered almost under her breath.

The fan girls didn’t notice the exchange for their giggling. It was true that people said Swifty was the best looking of all the Sound players, but Emile did not like his sister and his . . . his . . . Amy making jokes about it.

“Oui!” Emile quickly rose and buttoned his jacket. “You are very kind to notice us.” He tried to put extra enthusiasm in his voice to make up for his hesitancy.

When the blonde pulled a selfie stick from her big bag with the writing on it, Amy gracefully slid out of the booth.

“No need for that. I’ll be delighted to take your picture.”

The girls cheerfully handed over their phones. “Could you get one for both of us?” the redhead asked.

“Of course. I’ll take several so you can be sure to have a good one,” Amy said. “Okay.” She held up one of the phones. “Ladies in the middle, gentlemen on each side. Emile, put your arm around her.”

What the hell? He’d gotten the death stare when he’d tried to put his arm around her, but she was pimping out his arm to this other woman? Great!

“Yes,” Amy went on. “That’s good. Everyone lean in like you like each other. Say hat trick!”

So, she knew what a hat trick was but not that a goaltender wasn’t expected to score goals?

He wanted to run through the place turning over tables and pouring beer on people. But he only smiled and leaned his cheek against the top of the blonde’s head.

He did not like feeling so angry. He didn’t understand it. But at least he didn’t want to hit anyone.

But later—after many autographs, many photos, a rare steak, and more beer than he probably should have had, Emile and Amy returned home together, since Amy had ridden with Gabriella and his sister had opted to return to Beauford rather than spend the night.

They had been quiet in the car—Emile, because he was still nursing his anger, and Amy, because . . . Who knew? Not him. He didn’t even know why he was angry or how long it would last.

But he didn’t have to wonder long. As soon as they entered the condo, she caught him by the arm. He drew her to him—hesitantly, because he wasn’t certain she would allow it. But she did.

“I like your sister,” she whispered, “but I’m glad she didn’t stay over, because if she had, I couldn’t do this here and now. She pushed him into the nearest chair, knelt before him, and reached for his zipper. “I seem to remember an episode this morning with you, me, and some yogurt.”

Yes. He replayed it in his mind, which was probably what she intended—her writhing against his mouth and then her urging him to plunge into her and take his pleasure quickly, because there wasn’t much time and she was beyond satisfied.

“Tu me rend si difficile.”

“You were incredible tonight,” she said. “Just relax. You don’t have to do anything. For once, take. You don’t have to give anything.”

And he didn’t. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and waited for her sweet mouth to close on him.

He didn’t have to wait long. His anger was a distant memory.