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.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sunday morning, Amy was still reeling.
After the Sound’s loss to the Senators last night, she had almost switched the television off. Her family had been due back any minute, and she hadn’t wanted to be caught watching Emile. But then the after-game interviews had started—first the Ottawa goalie and next Nicolai Glazov—but before Glaz could even open his mouth to respond to the question he’d been asked, the camera swung around and another announcer said, “Whoa, Kelton! There’s something going on over here!”
And, indeed, there was. Emile stood motionless with blood pouring down his face. “It’s Emile Giroux! And who is that he’s fighting with? A fan?”
“Not sure, Gino,” the other reporter said. “Not a Sound fan, for certain.”
But Amy could have told them. Cameron landed another blow to Emile’s face.
Then Emile wasn’t motionless anymore. His big goalie gloves went flying, and Emile dropped to the ground as quickly as he’d ever dropped to the ice, only this time Cameron was beneath him.
It didn’t last long—but long enough for Amy to say aloud, “Kick his ass, Emile! He’s got it coming!” Then there were people pulling Emile off Cameron and carrying him away, blood flying, fists flailing, mouth angrily moving, no doubt cursing in French. At least she didn’t have to worry about his injuries. Nobody that mad could be hurt ve
ry bad.
Amy completely lost track of what the announcers were saying, but that didn’t matter. They knew less than she did.
Security guards seemed to have Cameron in hand. It was probably too much to hope for that he would land in jail.
The announcers had calmed down some now, and the camera was back on a part amused, part perplexed looking Glaz.
“Any idea what that was about, Glaz?”
“No idea, Kelton.”
“Unless an arena burns to the ground before midnight, I would bet we’ve just witnessed what will be the top story in hockey tomorrow.”
Glaz laughed. “Is a better thing, then, for the Sound—better than the loss on home ice.”
Amy was scrambling eggs and frying bacon for her family when her brother came in the kitchen dressed for church with his jacket over his arm.
“I guess you aren’t going.” Terrance eyed Amy’s shorts and T-shirt as he poured a cup of coffee.
“Tomorrow’s Halloween. We’ve promised the high school three dozen pies for the carnival. I’m going to get on it.” A couple of college students would have already opened The Peach Stand to sell coffee, early morning muffins, scones, and Sunday dinner desserts. After church, business would pick up, and Mama, Mimi, and possibly Terrance and Daddy, depending on when the Falcons played, would show up. Grandpa steered clear of The Peach Stand, insisting he was a peach farmer, not a peddler.
“Can’t blame you.” Terrance leaned on the counter sipped his coffee. “Did you know your boyfriends have gone viral? Do you think it’s over you?”
Just when things couldn’t get better. Amy took up the bacon and put it on a paper towel-lined platter. “I don’t have any boyfriends. I have a former boyfriend, who robbed me blind and married someone else, and someone who might have been my boyfriend, but isn’t and never will be.” Never was a terrible word.
“Don’t you want to know what caused them to go viral?”
“I know. I saw it live.”
“I see. So you watched the game?”
“I did. I’ve been carbing Emile up for a couple of weeks now. I wanted to see if it was paying off.”
“Apparently not in the net, not last night. But they are saying he got the best of Snow.”
“So they know who Cameron is now. Are they saying anything else?” Amy stirred the eggs.
“No. Nobody seems to be talking. They’re speculating on whether Giroux will be suspended for brawling with a fan.”
“Suspended!” Amy slammed her spatula down. “That’s not fair! He didn’t start it. And Cameron’s not a fan.”
“Hey.” Terrance held up a hand. “I never liked the sanctimonious SOB.” There was noise on the stairs. “Here they come.”
Amy’s heart sped up. “Do you think they know? Since they’re not hockey fans?”
“Possibly. I know, and I’m not a hockey fan.”
She did not want to face this right now.
He held his hand out for the spatula. “Go. I’ll take credit for cooking breakfast.”
She ran out the back door, jumped in the golf cart, and sped toward The Peach Stand.
• • •
The filling was made and ready for the pans. The pastry for seventy-two crusts for thirty-six double-crust pies was mixed and chilled. Amy had just finished rolling and lining the fifteenth pie pan when Mimi came into the kitchen.
“You have company,” she said. “Up at the house.”
She’d been expecting this. There had been Fall Festival and a church service since Amy had hit town, and she hadn’t gone to either. The time was just about right for her cousin Becky and friends Lulu or Cassandra to show up. They would have talked among themselves and decided to wait a few days to see if Amy would call them first. Then they would have started calling, only to discover she wasn’t picking up her phone. Or maybe Emile had been answering. For all she knew, the four them had planned a BFF beach trip. He’d speak French and pass out wine. They’d laugh. He’d take his shirt off.
What was wrong with her? It wasn’t even beach season.
“I have pies to make,” Amy said. “Is it Lulu? Or all three of them?” Amy didn’t have to explain. Mimi knew well who she meant by “all three.”
“None of them. A woman in a rental car. Margaret, I think she said.”
Amy didn’t know any Margaret, except Margaret Teesdale, who would be more likely to be visiting Mama than her. Besides, Mimi knew her.
Mimi reached for an apron. “Go on. I’ll work on these pies. I gave her some iced tea and put her in the parlor.”
Might as well find out. Amy shed her own apron, went outside, and got in the golf cart. Surely it wouldn’t be a reporter, come to ask her about Cameron and Emile—though it was possible. Amy hadn’t heard anything new about that, even if Emile had been suspended. It was hard to know things without electronics.
She went in the back door and stopped in the kitchen to splash water on her face. She was still drying it with a paper towel when she went in the parlor door. People who came without calling first got what they got.
The young woman sitting in the middle of the couch was pretty—chestnut hair, slim, with pretty skin. She didn’t see Amy at first because she was intently studying her white-knuckled hands in her lap.
“Hello,” Amy said.
The woman’s head jerked up. She looked like a scared rabbit. Her eyes were clear amber, but there were dark circles under them. It was only when she rose and held out her hand that Amy noticed the barest suggestion of a baby bump.
“Marley Fallon.” Amy had only seen that one picture that one time. She’d never been tempted to go back and look at it again. Marley’s handshake was firm, and she looked straight into Amy’s eyes.
“Please sit.” Amy sat in the wing chair nearest the couch. When Marley sat again, she sat on the end nearest Amy. “So, not Marley Snow?”
She looked at her hands again. “Well, no. I didn’t take his name.”
“Some don’t,” Amy said.
Marley looked at her again. “Would you have? Changed your name if you’d married him? He wasn’t happy when I didn’t.”
“You can be sure of it. I let Cameron do all my thinking for me.”
Marley didn’t respond, but to be fair, there was no response that wouldn’t have been insulting.
“You’ve come a long way, especially since you couldn’t be sure I would be here.” The question was why was she here? And how much did she know?
“I was fairly confident I’d find you here. Where else but to her family does someone whose been robbed of everything go?
To Emile. She can go to Emile. He’ll take in anybody.
But at least that answered one of the questions. Marley knew—if not all, plenty.
Marley nodded. “I am so, so sorry. I wanted to tell you I never knew, never even suspected.”
“How is it that you know now?” Would Emile never leave well enough alone?
“Long story. The upshot is, our honeymoon was cut short when Emile Giroux summoned Cameron to L.A. for a meeting. Cameron assumed Giroux was going to sign him, but he demanded that Cameron send your personal possessions back.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I can still scarcely believe . . . Anyway, I ended up returning home—though understand, I was still in the dark. Then Cameron’s Sound client fired him. By now, Cameron’s nerves were stretched pretty tight. He didn’t want to come to Nashville, but since we were back anyway, I wanted to come and see my brother play football. So he came. Then Pickens Davenport—the Sound owner, he’s a friend of my father’s—offered us bench side seats for the Sound game. I didn’t care, but Reynolds and Dad wanted to go. So we all went. And then, after the game—”
Amy could stand it no more. She wanted this woman to get to the point—whatever that was—and leave. She had pies to make.
“There was a fight between Cameron and Emile,” Amy said.
“Yes, and all this came out.”
Amy’s gut clenched. “Publicly?”<
br />
“Oh, no. No. But I know now, as does my family.”
“And how do you know? Did Emile tell you?”
Whether he did or did not do the main thing she’d asked him not to—tell Marley and her family what Cameron did—wouldn’t make things better or worse, but she had to know.
Marley looked surprised. “No. It was Cameron. He came a little unglued and ended up confessing it all.”
“Emile didn’t say anything?”
“No, as a matter of fact, my father tried to discuss it with him, to find out if Cameron had done even more. Emile refused to discuss you or anything about the situation. And believe me when I say my father can be plenty persuasive.”
Amy nodded. That was something, she supposed. Too little, too late, but maybe Emile had learned something for the next time someone asked him to leave something alone.
“Anyway.” Marley reached into her purse. “I have this for you.” She handed Amy an envelope. “There’s a cashier’s check inside for what Cameron took from you. I think you’ll find it fair.”
Curious to know if Cameron had come completely clean about just how much he’d stolen, Amy looked at the check and gasped. “There’s almost eight million dollars here. That’s more than I had.”
Marley shook her head. “I had our accountant and attorney fly in last night, and Cameron turned the books over to them. For all Cameron’s shortcomings, he’d made some good investments. And that check also includes the cost of your car and interest from the day he left until this.”
“I can’t take this.” She held out the envelope toward Amy. “I can’t take your money—or your parents’. I did this to myself. You heard what I said when I saw the amount. I didn’t even know how much I had.”
“No,” Marley said. “Cameron did it. I won’t pretend that you shouldn’t have been smarter about it—and don’t tell me you’re not smart. Dumb people don’t sell a business for five million dollars at twenty-six years old.” She folded her hands in her lap again. “Anyway, it’s not my money. Or my family’s. This was in Cameron’s accounts. I made him turn it over.”
A little shiver of possibility went through Amy. If what Marley was claiming was true, she really was going to get her money back.
Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1) Page 20