Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1)

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “They will not accept Krystal because she was a puck bunny and slept with half the team. Amy has slept with no one.”

  Packi opened his mouth to speak but stopped short and narrowed his eyes. “She slept with you.”

  “No,” Emile said emphatically. “She did not.” And it was true. She had refused to go to his bed to sleep—probably a good thing, considering he’d wanted her again and he’d overslept as it was. But it had still bothered him.

  But Packi was onto him. “Okay. So, you didn’t sleep.”

  Best to change the subject. “If you do not want to make the arrangement, I understand and respect that. I will call Charisma in the ticket office. She likes me.”

  “You are being belligerently obtuse and stubborn. You know I don’t mind making the call. You just don’t want to listen to me.” Packi began to walk away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To call Charisma.”

  “Her name is—”

  Packi waved him off without turning around. “I know her name. You’ve said it often enough. I’ll see you after you skate."

  Emile sat down, raised one leg, and began to ease on his compression pants.

  Bryant Taylor—Swifty—approached his own stall and began to strip. Maybe he hadn’t heard.

  “So, you’re screwing that girl.” He’d heard.

  For some reason, Bryant’s wording didn’t set right with Emile, though he couldn’t fault Bryant. The two of them were best friends, and they had said that and worse many times about the puck bunnies that drifted through their beds. But Amy wasn’t a puck bunny, and he didn’t like that kind of talk about her. But to take issue with Swifty would be an admission, and he didn’t want to admit that he’d slept with her. It was private.

  “Packi doesn’t know anything.”

  Swifty laughed. “Since when? I admit he may not know everything, but he knows you’ve got a hickey.”

  Impossible. Emile’s hand flew to his neck. “I do not. I haven’t had one of those since I was a teenager.”

  The big defenseman removed the last of his clothes. “You’ve got one now—on the inside of your thigh.”

  Emile finished jerking up his pants and put his leg down. Damn. That would have been when they were on the floor. She’d given the insides of his thighs lots of attention while she’d worked up the courage to do what followed—what he’d been doing to her. He pushed the thought away. Wouldn’t do to think of that now. Compression pants left nothing to the imagination.

  “If you’re not careful, your ‘personal assistant’ is going to be a permanent fixture.”

  Maybe that would happen if he were careful . . . and very lucky. Where had that come from? But would it be so bad? He must think on this. He’d known her a short time, but what did time matter?

  “Can she speak French? You always say you won’t marry someone who can’t speak French.”

  He did say that.

  “Put some clothes on, Bryant. We’ve all seen your cock more that we want.” Emile finished dressing. “I’m going to stretch.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I brought you this to wear to the game tonight.” Emile held out a purple and silver Sound jersey. His eyes were bright, and he was talking very fast. It reminded Amy of her brother when he was in high school and was pumped for a football game.

  “Thank you?” She took it from him. “I think.” He expected her to wear this? It was huge. And when she turned it around, she discovered to her horror Giroux was plastered across the back above the number 30. “This is yours?”

  “Non. Yours, now. It was mine, but it’s for you now,” he said proudly.

  “Non is right. If it was mine, it would have my name.”

  Emile laughed. “Silly Amy. You do not play hockey.”

  “Then maybe I shouldn’t wear a jersey.”

  “Have you never been to a hockey game before? Everyone wears the sweater of their team.”

  She thought back to the one game she had attended with Cameron. She didn’t know about everyone, but there had been a lot of jersey-clad people.

  “But it has your name.”

  “Right. Most have to buy their sweaters in the Sound fan shop. They are replicas. You have a real one—my sweater that has been in a game.” He pointed to some little holes. “See? It is a bit worn where it rubs against my pads. No blood though. Sorry about that.”

  No blood? And he was sorry?

  “Noel has a sweater with Nikolai’s bloodstains. Sharon, same, except it is Mikhail’s blood.”

  “That’s . . . charming.”

  “I seldom bleed on the ice. Goalies are protected and must get out of the way when there’s a fight. When goalies do fight, it is usually with each other when a mass fight breaks out. But that doesn’t happen much. And I do not participate if it does. I don’t hit people. Hitting is barbaric, for savages.”

  Her head was spinning. Blood . . . wives with bloody jerseys . . . and he wanted her to wear his?

  “Emile, I’m not sure I should wear your jersey. Does it . . . signify something?”

  “Oui.” He nodded. “It signifies that you know me and I gave you a jersey. People will be jealous. And they will see that there is someone there to see me play.”

  Surely he did not read more into what happened between them than was possible. “But you were talking about women wearing their husbands’ jerseys. I’m not your wife. Or your girlfriend. Or anything. I work for you.”

  Was it her imagination, or did his smile dim just a bit?

  “Oui. I know. But you are my friend. Do you not feel that we are friends?”

  “Well, yes, but . . . ”

  “And it isn’t only wives with sweaters. Gabriella has my sweater. So do my billet parents from my junior days—Paul and Johanna. They wear them when they travel to see me play.”

  “I see. I guess it’s okay then. Is Gabriella coming to the game tonight?” Maybe they would sit together.

  “Non. Usually she comes, but there is a big party. She must make cakes and pastries. She will be at the game tomorrow night.”

  Amy had not realized there was another game so soon. Would he expect her to go to that one, too? And if he did, would she? There was a thin line between doing the job he’d hired her for and putting herself in his control. But whether she went or not, she had another game day ahead of her. It was a good thing she had plenty of supplies for it. She needed to write the schedule in the purple bullet journal she’d bought yesterday.

  But she’d think about all that later. “Your lunch is ready. You’d better come and eat so you can get on with your nap.”

  “What am I going to eat?”

  “Caesar salad, grilled chicken, and quinoa and brown rice, not from a microwavable pouch.”

  “Perfect,” he said happily. “Everything is perfect. Nice. Johanna always had everything ready for me on game day. I worried for nothing. This is the same.”

  What now? First, he likened her to his teammates’ wives and now to a mother figure. What did that mean? Or did it mean nothing at all? Amy decided to go with the latter.

  “I made you some Jell-O, too.”

  • • •

  The traffic around Bridgestone Arena was insane. Amy didn’t remember it being like this when she’d come before. Maybe it was because this was the season opener. She finally found a parking place in the deck, climbed out of the Land Rover, and made her way inside the building.

  A ticket was to be waiting for her at the box office near the main entrance, and she was to ask for Charisma.

  Emile had told her all this when he’d appeared after his nap looking like a gorgeous dream in his suit and tie. She’d almost forgotten herself when he’d smiled and said, “A little kiss for luck,” but she’d remained strong and turned her cheek just in time. Problem averted.

  The line was long, but it moved quickly. When she reached the window, Amy said, “I’m Amy Callahan. I’m supposed to ask for Charisma.”

  “Yes,” the
young man at the window said. “If you’ll step to the side, she’ll be right with you.”

  An older woman wearing a blazer with an in-charge look about her appeared. “Miss Callahan?”

  “Yes?”

  “You will have to forgive me in advance, but I’m going to need to see some ID.”

  That was odd. She hadn’t shown ID when she and Cameron had come before, but maybe this was because she was getting a free ticket. She fished her driver’s license from her wallet and showed the woman.

  “Good. That’s fine.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a lanyard with an ID holder. “Again, sorry. But you have no idea what some of these people will do. Here, put this on.”

  The card in the holder was printed with her name and VIP in big purple letters.

  “There must be some mistake. I’m not a VIP.”

  Charisma smiled. “You are tonight. But I like your style.” She looked over her shoulder. “Anthony, you can take Miss Callahan down now.”

  What in the hell? An escort? And why?

  “Miss Callahan, come with me.”

  “Wait. I was supposed to get a ticket.”

  “It’s okay,” he assured her. “Come this way.”

  She expected to go through one of the doors directly into the arena, but Anthony unlocked a door with the words “staff only” and led her down a long, empty hallway that seemed to go nowhere. Her heart began to race. There was no one around. What if he was taking her back here to rob, rape, and kill her? After Charisma had handed her off to this Anthony, she’d gone about her business. Maybe this Anthony was new and he’d sought this job out for the sole purpose of robbing, raping, and killing?

  “Are you sure I’m supposed to be back here?” she asked.

  He laughed. “It’s fine.”

  Finally, they came to an elevator, and he used a key card to open it. Surely they wouldn’t give criminals key cards at the Bridgestone Arena.

  She got on. Why had she done that? She’d felt uncomfortable to the point she’d questioned her safety, but what had she done? Toddled off after this boy/man because he’d told her to. She’d kept following him because it would’ve been impolite to refuse.

  And now she was on an elevator with him, and it was too late to get off because he’d pressed the button. They were going down.

  It was Cameron all over again, except this time she might end up dead. Would she never learn to take responsibility for herself?

  She stepped closer to the elevator door so she could get out as soon as it opened—if it opened. She glanced at Anthony to gauge his reaction at her moving.

  He just smiled and nodded. “Looking forward to the game?”

  She relaxed a bit. He was going to let her live. But wait—why would she assume that? Because he indicated that she was going to see the game? Well, Cameron had indicated that he was going to marry her, not steal her money and wrapping paper, and come back and pick her up from Piece by Piece after getting coffee. Instead, he’d sold her car, gone to San Francisco, and married the mother of his love child.

  Love child? She must truly be insane. Wasn’t that an archaic phrase? Or was it just one she’d never had occasion to use before? Who the hell cared?

  But Anthony had asked her a question.

  “Yes,” she answered. “It should be exciting. Will you see the game?”

  “Some. We’ll close the box office about an hour after puck drop. Then I’ll go watch.”

  “That’s good.”

  He smiled again. “Mr. Giroux is nice. He brings us boxes of that candy he advertises.”

  “Au Chocolat.”

  “Yes. I suppose they give it to him, but it’s still nice that he thinks about us.” The door opened. “Here we are.”

  There was noise—noise of an arena. That was good. She wasn’t in the bowels of the arena about to be tied up and left for dead beside an antiquated boiler that could blow at any minute. She could see the ice.

  “Just there.” Anthony pointed. “That’s the WAG suite.”

  “The what?”

  “The WAG suite.” He walked her to the entrance, where an attendant stood. “Yvette, this is Mr. Giroux’s guest.”

  Amy turned to Anthony. “Thank you.” For not killing me. Should she tip him? If so, how much? Oops. Never mind. He was gone.

  “Enjoy the game,” Yvette said. “If I can get you anything let me know.”

  Damn, damn, damn. Where was she? Not in a narrow, plastic, fold up seat, that was for sure. This enclosed area had big, plush chairs, and there was a restroom and a little kitchen in the back. Some of the seats were already taken, and there was a group of women milling around in the kitchen area—some with children—visiting and eating from a small buffet. Some wore jerseys and jeans, and some were dressed like they were going to a Paris fashion show—or had been to one.

  Did she really belong here? At least no one had noticed her yet. And if this was where she was supposed to be, which seat was hers? How could she tell since she had no ticket? Should she just sit down? Maybe there weren’t assigned seats, but this crowd seemed to all know each other. Maybe it was like church—no assigned seats, but everyone knew not to sit in Johnnie Ruth Hovater’s pew. She’d been sitting there since the day she was christened eighty-six years ago.

  But there were no eighty-six-year-olds here. No men either, unless you counted that toddler in the miniature jersey with Orlov across the back.

  Orlov. Amy knew that name. He was a teammate of Emile’s.

  The WAG suite, Anthony had called it. Suddenly it came to her. Wives and girlfriends! Oh, she was going to kill him, kill him dead. She didn’t belong here. She was no one’s wife or girlfriend. Maybe there was a jilted-girlfriend-former-millionaire-personal-assistant-suite. She could get on board with that. Of course, it wouldn’t have a kitchen or a restroom. It would be more like a plastic fold up chair for one, because there was no one else in this arena stupid enough to be that person.

  Her stomach tied itself in knots until it was the size of a marble. And just when she thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, a voice called out across the way, “Noel! We were beginning to wonder if you were going to make it!”

  Oh, damn. Now her humiliation was complete—or would be when someone finally noticed her and she had to face the woman who’d witnessed the moment her life started to unravel.

  A sweet bit of laughter rang out. That would be Noel. Amy remembered her laugh. “Miss the first game of the season? Not a chance. Anna Lillian needed to be changed just as we were about to leave.”

  Amy didn’t dare look, but she could imagine the scene from the erupting sounds. Squeals. Coos. Gushes.

  “Let me see that sweet baby!”

  “Let me hold her!”

  “She has Glaz’s eyes!”

  More coos. And squeals. Gushing all around.

  “Noel, she is so beautiful!”

  “And look at her little jersey with Glaz’s name!”

  “And that precious quilt with the Sound musical note and her daddy’s number!”

  Gush. Squeal, squeal, squeal. Gush some more. Coos for days.

  Amy took a deep breath. She had to get out of here.

  Then she got a break—the first one she’d had in what seemed like a millennium. The place went dark, the ice turned purple, and images of spinning silver music notes danced across the ice.

  She slipped out as unnoticed as she’d entered.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A win was always good, but the only thing better than a season-opening win was a championship win.

  The reporter interviewing him in the tunnel, Kelton Reeves, was one of his favorites, though Gabriella said they were all his favorites because he liked to be on TV. That wasn’t completely true. He hated them all after a loss, but loved them all after a win. Tonight was a night of love.

  “You must be feeling pretty good after the 3-0 shutout in the Sound season opener,” Kelton asked.

  “Oui. Is a happy moment for t
he team and the fans.”

  “And a happy one for you as well. You were on fire tonight. What do you attribute your outstanding performance to?”

  “Always the leadership of Coach Colton and our captain, Nickolai Glazov. Tonight, the excellent defense deserves much credit.” Emile had learned early on to never take personal credit. “Taylor, Champagne, Voleck—they make a goaltender’s job easy.”

  “You’re modest. What about your personal performance?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes things just go better than others.”

  But he did know. He’d played better because Amy had been there watching him.

  She’d been shy today, and after last night, he understood why, but he was really hoping to get her in his bed tonight. In the kitchen, on the couch, and on the floor had been more than incredible, but he was hoping for even better tonight. He was too pumped to sleep, and he wanted sex like he’d never wanted it before. Or was it that he wanted sex with Amy?

  Interesting.

  Emile grabbed a Gatorade and went to the stationary bike for his cooldown. He pedaled and pondered. In the best of all worlds, she’d sleep with him and they could have a marathon night with naps in between.

  Swifty saddled up on the bike beside him. “You didn’t suck tonight.”

  “Neither did you. But you stink.”

  “We all stink.” And that was the truth. Johanna had always said there was no smell like hockey smell.

  “What do you say we unstink ourselves and go to the Big Skate? I could use a burger and a beer.”

  “Not tonight,” Emile said. “But tomorrow night after the game for sure.” He would ask Amy to come.

  “Here comes your nursemaid, F. K.,” Swifty said.

  Packi was headed toward them, towel in hand. Emile laughed. “You’re just jealous because I’m the special one right now.”

  “Totally,” Swifty said. “But it won’t last.”

  Packi said, “Great game. Both of you. Emile, Vinnie is ready for your massage.”

  Emile briefly considered foregoing the massage, but knew if he did, he’d be a stiff as the tin man left out in the rain.

  Packi tossed Emile a towel. “How did Amy like her seat?”