by Meader, Kate
“Double-O!” Theo Kershaw, his roommate for this trip, bounded in like a big puppy. “You headed out?”
“Yeah, I-I’m meeting an old friend.”
Theo narrowed his eyes. One of Gunnar’s favorite people—though he would never tell him—Kershaw had skated with him three years ago when Gunnar was captain of the LA Quake, the team they were playing tomorrow. Brimming over with self-confidence and good humor, Kershaw had gone through some health problems and had clawed his way back to his peak on the Rebels’ roster. There was a lot to like about the guy.
“What old friend? Someone in the Quake camp?” Theo grabbed his shoulder. “Are you consorting with the enemy, G-man?”
“No. This is someone you don’t know. Not a player. Just a friend.”
Theo stripped off his T-shirt, damp from the run he’d just taken. He had a lot of energy he needed to expend after the four-plus hour plane ride. “Was hoping you’d hang with us for dinner. You haven’t been the most social since you came on board.”
Gunnar had assumed no one had noticed, cared, or was tactless enough to speak his mind. But this was Kershaw. Good kid. Filter, nonexistent.
“It’s just taking me a while to get into that groove again. It’s not personal.”
“Yeah, got it. We’re buds, I know you love me!” He hauled his suitcase up onto the bed and started digging around in it. “Just know that I’m here for you if you need anything. I’ve been trying to do a better job of listening, so I can be—” He stopped short, biting back something.
“So you can be what?”
Theo shook his head. “Some stuff going on. Nothing I can talk about just yet. But when I can, you’ll be first on my list because you’re in the inner circle.”
Gunnar couldn’t help his smile. “Good to know. I’ll text you later.”
“You do that. Let me know if you’re staying out late, young man.”
Angel had sent a text earlier, suggesting a coffee shop near Pershing Square, a couple of miles from the hotel. In the cab, he tried to relax, but traffic was stop-and-go, and about four blocks out from his destination he asked the driver to pull over so he could walk the rest of the way.
Gunnar had never been a fan of LA with its perpetual sun, dismal air quality, and never-ending sprawl. But he’d built a life here once, a life that was shattered in a heartbeat. Memories of that life had entangled around his nerve endings, so LA was heaven and hell at once. He walked on, toward Angel, each step heavier and heavier.
His phone rang, and for a moment, he hoped it was Angel canceling the meeting. Fuck, really? It was his brother, Kurt. Gunnar had been dodging his calls for a week, so now that he wanted to slow his roll toward this meet-up, he answered.
“Hey,” he said, stopping outside a shoe shop window. A pair of red heels caught his eye, the kind Kelly would wear.
“You ready for the game?”
That was his brother. Straight into the conversation though they hadn’t talked in several weeks.
“Probably won’t even get on,” Gunnar said. “Coach thinks I’m rusty.”
“For Christ’s sake! How are you supposed to get un-rusty if they don’t play you?” Gunnar let Kurt rant a bit on his behalf while he waited for him to get to the point.
“How are things at the lodge?” The ski season was wrapping up and they were getting ready to switch to hiking and ATV tours.
“All right. Carrie’s pregnant.”
Gunnar froze. So this was why he’d called. Another niece or nephew on the way.
Kurt went on. “Figured I’d tell you in person. Well, y’know. With a call.”
Gunnar found his voice again, though it came out scratchy. “How far along?”
“Due in August.” His brother cleared his throat. “She’d love you to come visit—when the season’s over, of course. I just mean there’s no need to head back to the cabin. You could come here for the summer.”
I’d rather dip my left testicle in molten lava.
His reaction horrified him. Why did the thought of spending time with his brother’s family make him physically ill? Almost three years later, and his body was still in charge of his heart.
“Let’s play it by ear. Listen, I’m on my way out with the guys. Tell Carrie congrats and—just, congrats. And hi to the kids.”
“Sure, Gun—”
Gunnar hung up and started walking. His heart was pounding, the air was soup, his scalp prickled with the heat of the still-warm evening sun.
After a couple of minutes he stopped and looked around. He’d walked in the wrong direction, away from the coffee shop where he was supposed to meet Angel.
He hauled in a breath, then another, and tried to calm his pulse rate. Nothing doing. The people walking toward him were watery blurs, then invisible as darkness edged out the light. He stumbled a few feet further and turned into an alley just to get off the street.
He raised one fist to the wall and held it there, trying for balance while filling his lungs. He’d always assumed he had a decent pair. Hell, he’d bellowed the fuck out of them when he was trapped in that car, trying to get the attention of anyone driving by. Anyone who would save his family, because he was incapable of doing it himself.
How had he thought he was ready to meet someone new? Because let’s face it, that’s what he was doing. Angel had become important to him, and here he was, hoping that this connection he had with her could be built upon. He could fool himself that it was a casual meet-n-greet, but no. He couldn’t even hear the news about his brother’s new baby without having a meltdown. Couldn’t find a sliver of joy in his heart for these good tidings.
And now he wanted to meet this woman who was propping him up by text to do what exactly? Use her to make himself feel better?
Can’t do this. Can’t fucking do this. Just. Can’t.
Gunnar stood there for a while, breathing himself out of his panic attack. His pulse rate slowed. His vision returned. And his heart, that useless fist of muscle? It turned a little harder because that’s what he would need to get through this.
Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he stepped back into civilization. Then he flagged a cab and headed back to the hotel.
7
June
“How long was I out?”
Kelly reached her hands up to the roof of the SUV and pressed her palms there, earning the stretch. I could almost hear the subtle shifts in her spinal column as she forced her body awake.
“Only an hour.”
She glanced at the car’s clock. “More like three. You should have woken me to take over.”
“I don’t mind driving. Gives me time to think.”
She smiled, knowing I liked these moments to organize my thoughts. We’d been married for seven years, right out of college, and together for the full three years before that. I met her at a frat house party, though a quality woman like her shouldn’t have looked twice at a bruiser like me.
“You’re a hockey player?” she’d asked, not with the usual gush I’d become accustomed to when meeting women for the first time at Vermont. Kelly was a studious type, a brainiac, pre-med, and resolutely unimpressed by jocks.
“That’s my side gig,” I’d said. “I’m pre-law in case it doesn’t work out.”
But it had worked out. Drafted number five straight into the LA Quake. Assistant captain by year three, full captaincy by year five. No Cup yet, though we’d come close this year, only to be denied a conference finals berth. Our top D-man, Theo Kershaw had an aneurysm on the ice that knocked him on his ass and threw off our dynamic.
But the team, and Kershaw, would rebound. In the off-season, I wanted to enjoy my ten weeks of down time with my wife and terrors—sorry, angels. We’d spent the first month at home in LA, grilling and chilling. Now we were road-tripping, on a slow ride north from LA to San Francisco on the Pacific Coast Highway. Today was July 4th, so traffic was a little denser than usual.
Danny was asleep, making soft, snuffling snoring noises. I checked
the mirror, but I couldn’t see him. Why couldn’t I see him?
Janie let out a huge sigh, distracting me from the mystery of why Danny wasn’t in my sightline. She might be his twin but she was determined to be the opposite to him in everything. Louder, funnier, a total daddy’s girl. She caught me spying on her.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hi, baby.”
“I’m not a baby. I’m four.”
Kelly smothered a chuckle.
“I know you’re not,” I soothed. “But you’re my favorite girl so I can’t help thinking that.”
Janie considered for a second, then accepted this as her right. Kelly wiped her brow and mouthed “Phew!” Tantrums were a relatively new thing.
“How far to the lodge?” Our next stop was a luxury cabin in Big Sur.
I checked the GPS map on the phone, clipped to the dash. “About forty minutes.”
“I can’t wait to hit that hot tub.” Kelly reached over and squeezed my thigh. “Of course, I might fall asleep before these two.”
I smiled through the beard I should have shaved off once our season ended. Kelly liked how it felt against her thighs, and I liked how she tasted on my lips.
“I’ll keep you awake, honey.”
“I don’t know. One glass of wine and a bedtime story for these two …”
“I have ways, Kel. Let me take care of it.”
She gave a small moan of appreciation, and dammit, I was hard already, thinking about fucking my beautiful wife in a hot tub. I was one lucky sonofabitch.
“Maybe, we’ll work on Number Three,” I said.
“There goes my lady boner.”
I wanted more kids. Kelly wasn’t sure, given that she was left holding them while I travel so much. But I could bring her around. I had ways.
Traffic was more spread out along this section and I slowed down as the curves of the road turned more winding than before. Though it was only about 5:30 p.m., the road ahead appeared dim, the usual summer evening light fighting to filter through the trees flanking us on either side. It was a surprise when the flash of a car’s headlights in my rearview momentarily blinded me. The guy had come out of nowhere and was obviously in a hurry.
Tough. He’d have to wait until we got to a straighter stretch to overtake me.
He didn’t like that. He made sure I knew with a slam on his horn.
I kept the same speed, steady as she goes. Asshole stayed right on my tail.
Kelly looked over her shoulder, her brow ridged with concern. “Someone’s not happy.”
“Screw him.”
“Gunnar …”
“He’ll survive the next couple of miles.”
But that wasn’t good enough. Less than a minute later, he spotted a window to pass. He sped up, so I slowed down, suddenly acutely aware of my precious cargo and anxious to get him out of my hair.
It happened so fast. Lights ahead. An oncoming car. Shit. My tailgater jerked back into the right lane ahead of me and barely missed clipping my SUV. I swerved to avoid the inevitable.
No one got hit, thank Christ. But I’d overcorrected, off the road and through a gap between the trees. The lights on the road behind us dimmed, then went dark as we dropped at a sheer angle. We slammed into something—a rock or a tree or a bank of dirt, maybe—and came to a halt. The airbags went off, plastic clouds that knocked the wind out of me.
Instinctively, I reached for Kelly. “You okay?”
She nodded slowly, her head swiveling to take in the twins. Wherever we’d landed was darker than the road.
“Daddy, we crashed,” Janie said.
“Just a little bump, baby—”
The car jerked forward, its stop merely temporary, and now we were plunging down, down, down—
Gunnar shot up in the bed, sweat-drenched hair in his eyes, his cheeks soaking wet. Not sweat. Never sweat.
He swiped at his face and tunneled fingers through his hair. Once he’d signed on to the Rebels and moved to Chicago five months ago, he’d stopped having the dreams, his brain more focused on his new team and working his way back to form. Getting into a routine—training, practice, travel, games, hanging with the boys—had driven those demons out. Now with the season over, they’d come back, not just with a vengeance but pissed to all mighty. Returning to the cabin, the refuge he’d sought after his life imploded, was too tempting for his subconscious.
Maybe he wanted the dreams.
Maybe he needed them because he was in danger of forgetting.
Why couldn’t he see Danny in the back seat? That was new.
In a fugue, he picked up his phone. A little after six in the morning and already two texts from Kershaw. Since the season’s end, his Rebels teammate had taken it upon himself to check in with a “wakey, wakey, rise and shine” text every morning. Usually it was a link to a video of cats being assholes or a flash mob in a train station in Europe.
Gunnar rarely responded to his texts. Kershaw could see he’d read it, which apparently was sufficient to convince him that Gunnar was okay.
He checked the latest message, a thirty-second clip of a community college version of that showstopper number from Cats. Toward the end, Theo’s voice could be heard in a stagey whisper. “Double-O, this is only the rehearsal. There’ll be a ticket at the box office for the opening and I know Aurora would love to see you there.”
Sure, an amateur version of Cats starring Kershaw’s grandmother was exactly what he needed to pull him back to the Midwest long before the season started. No thanks.
Nothing from Angel this morning, but then he hadn’t heard from her in a couple of weeks. It was strange how reliant he’d become on those morning funnies, the opening they created, and even stranger how much he missed them. He was trying to give her space after she mentioned she had some family stuff going on. She could have talked to him about it. God knows he’d unloaded on her often enough.
He swung heavy legs out of bed and headed to the bathroom to take care of business. One look in the mirror took him this close to smashing the thing. He needed to shave but the beard partially covered his scar, not that the bullfrogs and bats cared what he looked like.
It was weird to be back at the cabin. In those early weeks in Chicago, he hadn’t spent much time on the ice but by the time they made the playoffs, Coach had seen the light and given him the shifts he needed. They’d lost to the Edmonton Chucks in the conference finals. A decent showing by all accounts, given that the Rebels weren’t quite as exalted as they once were.
The next day, he was on a plane to Logan. Away from Chicago and the media and people. So he was a surly prick. He wouldn’t apologize for it and no one would call out the grieving widower. Win-win.
He headed to the counter and started the coffee. The cabin wasn’t exactly luxury—no hot tubs, four-poster beds, or even a wireless router. A cell tower nearby kept his phone connected, if need be.
The scent of coffee activated the neurons in his brain, and by the time he’d downed half a cup, he felt human again, or an approximation of one. The day stretched out ahead. He had firewood to chop, a gutter to replace, chores to do. Like Little House on the Prairie, but with alcohol and swearing. He’d probably go for a run in the woods later, to kill time and counterbalance the cell death from the ethanol.
A couple of hours later he’d hit his push-up quota, dunked a couple of chicken breasts in a lime-cilantro marinade, and was whisking eggs for second breakfast when his phone rang. Recognizing the name, his curiosity bested him enough to answer it.
“Isobel.”
“Hey, Gunnar.” Co-owner with her sisters of the Rebels, Isobel Chase was a great player, whose career was stunted by injury before she inherited the team with her sisters. She’d married Russian powerhouse left-winger and Rebels captain, Vadim Petrov, and now provided skating consultancy for the Rebels. “How goes it at your serial killer cabin?”
“At my what?”
“That’s what Kershaw calls it.”
Of course. Angel call
ed it his Unabomber Hideaway, and the thought of her warmed a spot in his chest. “It’s the perfect, cozy spot for planning murders and cataloging human specimens.”
“Awesome. I’ll get right to the point. I need you in Chicago.”
“Pretty sure my contract says you have to give the players the summer off.”
“It doesn’t but I can understand why you’d assume your time was your own instead of your ass being mine.”
His mouth curved. He didn’t know Isobel well but he’d always enjoyed her direct approach. “Does your husband know you’re talking about my ass?”
“He loves when I get mouthy about my ownership of the team he captains. It’s a good bedroom dynamic.”
“TMI, Isobel.”
She laughed, and a flash of those mischievous green eyes she shared with her sisters popped into his mind. “Now that I have you squirming, here’s what I need. You know I run the youth hockey camp at Rebels HQ. We usually have a couple of the players visit and spend time with the kids, just a few hours, but we’re short one. Kaminski’s wife kicked him in the nuts, threw him out, and he’s useless. Kershaw’s more involved this summer and he suggested you.”
Theo Fucking Kershaw. Was there any man’s business he didn’t think worthy of sticking his nose in?
“Don’t you have a couple of brothers-in-law and a husband who could fill in?”
“Vadim had knee surgery and needs a lot of handholding. Kind of being a big baby about it, to be honest. I’d ask Remy or Bren but uh, they’re sort of, well, oldsters.” At his snort, she hissed, “Don’t tell them I said that! Basically, we need someone on the current roster who the kids would recognize. Most everyone else has left town for the summer—”
“As have I.”
“Kind of lonely up there, I bet.”
“Just how I like it.” Was it, though? The dreams were definitely worse when he was alone. Neither was he feeling exactly useful. Rudderless was the word that came to mind.
“That’s what all the crazed murderers say.”
He played along. “I probably should get back to fixing the gutters in my serial killer cabin.”