“Emile,” she called after him. “Do you need a birthday gift for Sharon?” He’d given her a credit card to use for household purchases. She left the receipts on his desk, but she couldn’t tell that he ever looked at them.
His eyes widened in surprise. “Yes. I did not think of it. You can get something nice? And wrap it pretty?”
“Oh, yes. That’s well within my skill set—especially the wrapping.” She’d get that autumn leaf paper she’d seen at Foolscap and Vellum and embellish the package with moss green velvet ribbon, a cluster of artificial acorns, and some dried wheat. Perfect for a fall birthday. As for the gift—maybe some lovely linen napkins or a crystal liquor decanter. Emile said Sharon invited him for holidays, so she must like to entertain.
“See? You are so good at doing the things I need done. I should give you a gift—a bonus. Perhaps of sparkly clothes. Oui?
“Non.”
“If you change your mind, you have the card.”
“I won’t.”
“I tried.” He turned to go but called over his shoulder. “Ma chérie? I will be going alone.”
And I’ll be waiting for you when you come home. But she wouldn’t have dared to speak those words aloud.
• • •
By the time Emile got in his car, he was firm in what he was going to do. First, he found Snow’s website and dialed the number listed. It went straight to a voicemail message that informed Emile that Snow would be out of the country until November, but he would return all calls then. Just leave a name and number.
No fucking way. He was Emile Giroux, best goaltender in the league according to Sports Illustrated, and Sports Illustrated didn’t lie. He wasn’t leaving a damn thing.
Out of the country. Even better.
“Miles?” he said as soon as his agent answered. “Get me Cameron Snow’s private cell number.”
“Emile, are you about to do something stupid?”
“No, my friend. I am going to do something very smart.”
“I’ve told you,” Miles said. “He had every legal right to the money. It sucks, but it’s true. She did it to herself.”
“You’re right about the money. I know that. But I’m going to get Amy’s belongings back. They are hers, and she had a right to them.”
“Does she want you to interfere in this?”
“She wants her things back.” Technically, Amy had told him to stay out of it, but as long as he didn’t rat the bastard out to his wife and new in-laws, Amy would be all right with it—especially when she had her things back.
Miles was quiet for moment. “You didn’t answer my question, but all right. I’ll get back to you.”
“Text me the number. I’m going to stretch.” Not that he intended to go into class until he took care of this. He just didn’t want to talk to Miles about it again.
His mind was made up, and he was surer that he was right than he’d ever been in his life. The very idea of Amy only having—what was it? Five? Seven garments? Garments that she was grateful to have!
Sure enough, just as he pulled into the parking lot of the yoga studio, his phone signaled that he had a text. Most excellent, as Packi would say.
If he was quick and lucky, he wouldn’t even be late for the class. He could be quick, but lucky was out of his hands.
But luck showed up. “Snow, here.”
“Bonjour, Cameron. We met last year, and you gave me your card. This is Emile Giroux.”
This was met with silence.
“I am a goaltender with the Nashville Sound. You are the agent of my teammate, Jan Voleck.”
“I know who Emile Giroux is. I’m just trying to decide if this is someone pulling a prank on me.”
Yes, it is—but not as you think, connard.
“I have no time for pranks. I am late for stretch, and I go on the road tomorrow.”
Snow laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. He had no right to laugh, to feel happy. “Sorry. This is a surprise, a welcome one to be sure. What can I do for you?”
“I wish to meet with you. We play the Ducks tomorrow night and the Kings on Saturday. I can give you a half hour immediately after the game either night. You may choose.”
“Well, the thing is . . . ”
“Yes?” Emile said impatiently.
“I’m not in California. I’m in Milan. On my honeymoon.”
“I see.” He’d be damned if he’d congratulate him.
“So I can’t make either of those days.”
“Ah,” Emile said shortly. “I understand. Have a good day. Or evening. I do not know of the time in Milan. Goodbye.” Or care. It was too bad that it didn’t sound as if he’d wakened him.
“Wait! Wait.” The sound of desperation in his voice was sweet.
“Oui?”
“I will make meeting with you my first priority when I get back in the country on November first. I can fly straight to Nashville, or wherever you are. Or any other time and place that is acceptable to you.”
“The times and places that are acceptable to me are after my games tomorrow night and Saturday night in California.”
There was silence.
“I must go now,” Emile said.
“Wait. I’m thinking.” There was another moment of silence. “All right. I’ll be at the game in L.A. You say right after the game?”
“Oui. Directly.” He intended to meet him sweaty and in full pads. “Meet me in the tunnel.”
“Wouldn’t you rather go someplace where we can sit and have a drink? There are some good restaurants in the Staples Center. You’ll be hungry.”
Hungry to see the look on your face when you find out I know Amy and what I have to say to you. “No time for that. I will have to get on the team plane and leave for San Jose. I will be fed.” Did this man know nothing of how a hockey team operated on the road? “It will be fine. I’ve done my homework. It won’t take long for us to come to an agreement.”
Snow laughed in a very satisfied way. “Glad to hear that. Thank you for tracking me down. I look forward to our meeting Saturday night.”
“I assure you, no more than I. Au revoir.”
Emile chuckled. Never once had he said he was looking for an agent.
Chapter Twenty-One
Emile was waiting on the steps when Amy pulled up in front of the Music City Ice Center at a little after 3:30 p.m. He’d skated at two o’clock and was to board the bus for the airport at 4:30 p.m. Originally, he’d planned to come home, change clothes, and get his luggage, but he’d called to ask if she could bring it. He’d come off the ice with a sore calf muscle that needed some treatment.
“Are you all right?” she asked after popping the back hatch.
“Oui. It is nothing. I’m just careful to not let nothing become something.” He slung his leather carry-on over his shoulder and set his suitcase on the pavement. “Packi and one of his assistants, Caleb, took my car home. Packi offered to collect my things, but I admit it. I wanted to see you before I go.”
That pleased her probably more than was healthy. “Your phone charger is in the side pocket of your carry-on, and your headphones are inside, on top.” She reached into the back seat and removed the suit bag. “Here are your dress clothes. Are you sure two suits will do?”
“Oui. There is an arrangement with the hotels to have them dry cleaned and returned to us quickly.”
She nodded. “Your ties are in your jacket pockets, and I put in an extra shirt. Just in case.”
He took the bag and smiled. “Just in case of what, chérie?”
“Just in case of marinara.”
He touched her arm lightly with his fingertips. “It could happen. You make me laugh.” His smile faded. “Well . . . ”
His mouth went into kiss mode. She knew the look. No public displays of affection. That was her rule. Just now, she’d forgotten exactly why she’d made that rule, but it was a good one. She was sure of it.
He leaned in. She put a hand on his wrist and squeezed. “Have a g
reat trip! And good luck.”
“Amy, I—”
But Emile’s voice was drowned out by a gruff, angry bark of a voice from behind them. “I don’t want to see any slacking off in there today!”
Emile tensed and let his gaze follow the voice.
As young hockey players and parents streamed into the rink, a father and son stood still ten feet away from Emile and Amy. The boy could not have been more than fifteen, and he carried a huge goalie bag.
“Dammit, Chase, did you hear me?”
The boy nodded.
“What did you say?”
“Yes, sir.” He set his bag on the ground.
“Pick up that bag!” His voice rang out so loud, so angry, that several people turned to look. Amy’s stomach recoiled. Clearly, this man did not care that he was publicly humiliating his son.
The boy slung the bag over his other shoulder.
“Thousands, thousands of dollars, I spend for you to play this sport. And what do you do yesterday? Go out there and dick around. How many got past you?”
“I don’t know.”
Emile stood motionless, taking it all in. His face was completely neutral. How could that be?
“You don’t know! How can you not know?”
“It was practice, Dad.”
More people slowed and looked at them. By the logos on the boys’ bags and their ages, it was clear that some of them were this boy’s teammates. Why didn’t one of these parents stop this?
“And you call yourself a hockey player! Maybe you ought to quit. Get yourself a set of toe picks and try to join the Ice Capades. Because with an attitude like this, you’ve got no prayer of even making juniors, forget a higher level.”
The boy looked as miserable as Amy had ever seen a person look.
“Dad, just let me go get dressed and go to practice. You’ve said all this before! That’s all I heard last night and in the car coming here!”
The man raised his hand but put it down again. “If we weren’t in public . . . ”
“Can you hold this please, chérie?” Emile handed Amy his suit bag and set his carry-on at her feet. “And excuse me.”
Amy’s heart beat faster. Thank God. Emile was going to defend that child and put this man in his place!
As Emile approached the pair, he turned on the charm. “Hello! Chase is it? You play for the Ice Griffins.”
The boy looked up, eyes wide. “Yes, sir.”
Emile reached to shake the boy’s hand. “I am Emile Giroux. I play for the Sound. We share a practice facility.”
“Y . . . yes . . . ” the boy stammered. “I mean, I know. I know who you are.”
Amy stole a look at the father. He looked as impressed as the boy.
Emile extended his hand to the man. “Emile Giroux.”
What? He was supposed to be defending this boy—not sucking up to that bully from hell.
The man laughed and shook Emile’s hand. “Fine games against the Blackhawks and the Bruins. Chase, I’ll bet Mr. Giroux here knows how many pucks—if any—get by him in practice.”
Emile laughed. “Non. No. And I assure you, there are plenty. Now in a game, I know. But only because it is lit up on the scoreboard for the entire world to see. Practice? It is just that.” Emile leaned in companionably toward the father. “I often watch the practices of the junior and youth hockey teams.” He laid a hand on Chase’s shoulder. “You have a fine budding hockey player here. Much promise, much promise. And I give credit where credit is due. Parents are the backbone of hockey. The money, the time, the getting up at dawn, all the driving. It’s a hard life, but a good life. Worth it don’t you, think Mr. . . . ” He laughed a bit, continuing to pour out the charm on his new best friend. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember the last name.”
This can not be happening!
“Allen,” the man said. “Charles Allen. Call me Chuck.” And the man had the nerve to clap his son on the shoulder. “Worth it for sure.”
Emile turned to Chase. “I saw you and wanted to say hello. Come to a Sound practice soon and wait for me. We will skate together a bit, no?”
“Really?”
“Of course. We are goaltenders—brothers of the net.”
“Could we get a picture?” Chuck Allen waved his phone in the air.
“My pleasure.”
Amy stood astonished as the two took turns posing with Emile.
How could Emile have done that? Praised a man who was clearly a lunatic? When father and son walked away, Chuck had his hand on Chase’s shoulder.
Emile briefly leaned his head against his hand and sighed before turning and walking back toward Amy.
She didn’t know what to say, but unlike Emile, she could not pretend any of this had been acceptable. She took a deep breath. “That man is a monster.” Amy could hear the quiver of fury in her voice.
Emile nodded. “Oui. The worst kind.”
“Then I don’t understand. I thought you were going to tell him to leave his son alone, to stop humiliating him in public. How could you stand there and praise him?”
“And if I had chastised him? What do you think would have happened? I will tell you. That boy would have gotten the beating of his life when he got home. It would have become the boy’s fault for causing the man humiliation.” Emile put up a hand. “No. People are well meaning when they interfere, but they say their piece and leave. It is the boy who must go home with the father.”
It wasn’t the words that Emile spoke as much as the look on his face that told the story.
“Emile, who beat you? Who treated you like that?”
He shrugged. “Andre. My stepfather. When I played poorly, he beat me for embarrassing him. When I played well, he beat me for not playing better, he claimed, but really because he was jealous that my talent surpassed his. Sometimes he would get me up in the middle of the night, lock me out of the house, and make me run for miles in the snow.”
The thought of the beautiful child Emile must have been, outside in the cold in the middle of the night, made Amy want to take him in her arms and promise him that no one would ever hurt him again. Would he have been allowed a coat? Would he have been bleeding from the beating?
“Dear God. Where was your mother?”
He shook his head. “Beat down. Sometimes she tried, but it never worked. And she stopped trying. Andre might have meant well in the beginning. He played on a minor team—not very good, him or the team. He taught me hockey. I remember being happy with him on the ice. He used to make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before games and tell me how he always had the same for luck. That’s why I don’t believe in luck—or peanut butter and jelly. Andre was a very good-looking man and people liked him. Gabriella’s beauty came from him. He had much to be thankful for. But by the time I was seven, he was working at the rink, driving the Zamboni and cleaning the rink—playing men’s pickup and reliving his glory days. Not that they had been glorious. It made him mean.”
“Where was your biological father?”
“Dead. Skate to the neck before I was a year old. I like to think things would have been different.”
Was there no end to what he’d endured as a child? “And your mother died, too.”
He nodded. “Not long after I left to play juniors. I had many offers, some close to home. But I thought if I went away, the household would be peaceful for Gabriella and my mother. I thought I was the cause of all the unhappiness. But Andre was a savage; he wanted to hit. I never thought he would hit his own child, but he broke Gabriella’s arm. When my mother tried to intervene, he knocked her down the stairs. Her neck snapped and she died immediately, without pain. At least that’s what they told me. Andre went to prison, and it was over.”
Was something like that ever over? Amy’s gut twisted into a thousand knots. It was no surprise that Emile and Gabriella had had a hard childhood, what with missing fathers, a dead mother, and Gabriella’s broken arm, but she would have never imagined such horror. How did they endure and ac
hieve? How did they smile every day? This made her problems seem miniscule.
“Emile . . . I can’t even imagine. I am so, so sorry.”
“We were lucky, Gabriella and me. Johanna and Paul loved me from the start. I don’t know why. I did nothing to deserve it. But they loved me so much that they took Gabriella—and they loved her, too.”
“I’m not sure deserving and love have much to do with each other.”
“Ah, well.” He looked at his phone. “A discussion for another day. But, I know of what I speak. When I pandered to the ego of a man who was trying to live through his son, I bought the boy a few days of peace. But it is frustrating, to not do more. All I can do is skate with him and tell his coach to keep an eye out. And those things, I will do. I was asked to be the face of Open Heart and Arms—the abuse prevention agency. The ads and commercials are done, and the campaign launches in January. I was glad to donate my time, but do those things help? I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either, but it certainly can bring about awareness.”
“Yes. So that well-meaning people chastise monsters who will take it out on the child? Is it a circle? I don’t think men such as this one will see Emile Giroux on TV and say, ‘This great hockey player says I should not hit my child. So, I won’t.’” He ran his hands through his hair. “But I must go. I have to change clothes.”
The smile he gave her was full of heartbreak, but something else too—triumph.
“You are so strong.” And she didn’t think twice. She took him in her arms and brought his mouth to hers. It was a different kind of kiss, not one meant to ignite a fire, but to convey warmth and give comfort.
When they broke the kiss, he spoke quietly. “Amy. I know it has been a short time, but I care for you. Do you think—?” He stopped, maybe because he didn’t know the words that should come next. But she didn’t need the words to know what he meant.
Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1) Page 16