“You aren’t pregnant. You can’t be.”
She looked up, surprised. “How do you know?”
“I know things.” He closed his eyes and prepared himself to tell what no one except Julia and an army of fertility specialists knew. “I have low sperm count and low motility.” When he’d learned that at twenty-four, he’d been ashamed of it, felt less masculine. He’d grown out of that, but it still wasn’t anyone’s business. Or hadn’t been. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that to yourself.”
Tradd nodded dismissively. She was apparently much less interested in sharing his business than being sure he was telling the truth. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.” Oh, yes. Very certain. He’d paid a small fortune to find it out and a large fortune trying to get around it.
“How?”
He supposed if anyone deserved to know, it was the woman he’d just spilled inside of without the benefit of a condom.
“You know I was married for a time?” For a time. Seven years—a mixture of happiness, despair, hope, and hopes dashed until they just couldn’t do it anymore.
“Yes. Julia, was it?”
“Yes. We married when I was twenty-one, four years after I came to this country to play for the Devils. A year later we tried for a baby. When it hadn’t happened in a year, we saw the doctors. That’s when we found out.” He could have stopped there, but now that it was flowing out of his mouth, he might as well finish. Just because he didn’t talk about it didn’t mean his marriage and divorce was a secret. It was probably on the Internet. He’d been a hot stick even back then. “We did in vitro six times.” And it hadn’t been easy a single time—physically or emotionally. “Finally, she got pregnant.”
Tradd smiled, obviously pleased at the positive outcome, despite the divorce. “I didn’t know you had a—”
“A child?” He cut her off before she could finish. “I don’t. There were twins. They were born three months early. Too small. The boy—Lucas—died that night. Sofia, the little girl, lived three days.” Thor worked hard to keep his expression neutral.
Tradd gasped. “I am so sorry, Thor.”
He nodded in acknowledgement and raked his hair out of his eyes. “There is a higher incidence of premature birth and death for IVF babies.” Even after all this time the lingo rolled off his tongue. “After that, Julia and I were done. In the beginning, we had been very much in love, but our whole lives had become about having a baby. We didn’t even know who we were anymore. Julia couldn’t go through it again. I don’t think I could have either, though I thought I could at the time. We tried to put ourselves back together. Talked about adoption. But there was no energy there, no real drive. We were worn out.”
“I’m sorry,” Tradd said. “How terrible.”
He shrugged. “The divorce was all very civil. She stayed in New Jersey. I came here to play. Julia is a nice person—married to a banker now. She has three children. Two boys and a baby girl. I had dinner with them last season when we played the Devils.”
Tradd nodded. He didn’t mind the pity in her eyes. Thor had never understood why people got mad when they detected pity in another person. Pity came from caring, and who didn’t want to be cared for? Not that he thought Tradd cared for him beyond this moment.
“So you see, you will not have a baby.” Not with me, not as a result of what we did.
She put a hand on his shoulder. When he didn’t resist, she slid over next to him and encased him in her arms. At first the embrace was only about comfort, but her skin was hot, smooth, and sweet, her little breasts soft against his chest. His penis stirred and her nipples pebbled against him almost at the same time. Comfort turned to desire and that wasn’t a bad place to go.
He found her mouth and kissed her slow, wet, and long.
“Will you stay?” he asked when their mouths parted. “And I wouldn’t want it to be because you just heard a sad story.” Pity comfort was one thing, a pity fuck quite another.
“Well.” She seemed to be pondering the question. “We have established that we are healthy.” She dropped a kiss on his mouth.
“True,” he said around her kiss as he pulled her to straddle him and rolled his semi erect penis against her belly.
“And I’m not going to get pregnant.” She reached between them and circled the tip of his penis with her finger until he wasn’t just semi erect anymore. “We both know it’s a one-night stand with no expectations. So I can’t see the harm.” She let her hand glide down the length of him and back again until he pounded against her palm.
“No harm,” he agreed.
“Lie back,” she demanded.
And she slid down his body and took the head of his cock into her hot, sweet mouth.
No. No harm at all. Nothing but bliss. She did have a way with her tongue.
Chapter Five
Three Months Later
* * *
It was a command performance, though Tradd wouldn’t be required to sing. Just eat. And talk. The only thing she wanted to do less than talk was eat—but that could change. These days she never knew if a whiff of grilled meat would send her running for a knife and fork or to the toilet to hurl.
Pickens stood up as soon as Tradd entered the Butter Factory and moved to hold her chair.
“Sister, you look pretty down in the mouth for somebody with a number one hit.”
Tradd had never understood why her daddy called her Sister when she had no siblings, though she supposed it was because he and Uncle Gibbs called Aunt Legare sister. But who knew? This was Pickens she was talking about. He might have a whole different reason. Generally, she didn’t question her daddy.
More than that, she didn’t understand how “Some Folks Say” was a hit. She’d written it in fifteen minutes in the wee hours of New Year’s Day. She’d been fresh from Thor’s bed and unable to sleep, so she’d sat down at the piano and banged it out. Then, expecting nothing, she’d trotted it out at an open mike night on Broadway, but it had been the right time, the right place, in front of the right person. Now, it had been on the charts for four weeks—but that didn’t make it good. The critics agreed, but they also said “there was just something about it—something very real” and it was perfect for her smoke and honey voice. She hadn’t even known her voice was smoke and honey.
And then things started happening. The next day, she wrote another song. And others followed—enough for an album. Her manager, Martel, had finally made a sweet deal with Tone Records.
“And let’s not forget—” Mary Lou beamed at her “—that she’s opening for Kenny Chesney’s tour this summer.”
Except she wasn’t, not anymore, though Martel, Tone, and the Chesney organization didn’t know it yet. She had to rectify that soon. The label had made that happen, and they weren’t going to be happy, but neither was Tradd. She should have already told them, but it was hard to give up something she’d wanted all your life—to stand on a stage and sing to hundreds of people. She cursed the day she’d told her parents about that deal. They finally believed she wanted to be a serious musician and that she had the talent. Now she was going to have to tell them that she couldn’t go on the summer tour.
And she was going to have to tell them why.
See, Mama and Daddy, I’m knocked up. Due in September—the twenty-third, to be exact. Yes, I do know the exact date, because I know exactly when I conceived. There’s a calculator on the Internet. So you see, by June I’ll be big as a barrel. By August, I’ll be a whale. Not the best look for prancing up and down a stage. The father? Oh, no. I’m not telling you that. Believe me, you don’t want to know.
She’d only seen a doctor two days ago. Despite the home pregnancy test, up until then, she hadn’t really believed it.
At least she hadn’t told them she was performing at The Neon Fiddle, the legendary Broadway honky-tonk, tomorrow night. That she didn’t need. They’d come and there would be more talk, more questions, and more evasions.
“So, we have a lot
to celebrate tonight.” Pickens motioned to the waiter who appeared like magic and filled their glasses with champagne.
Hell in a hand basket. She couldn’t drink that. Too bad, too. She loved champagne.
Pickens raised his glass. “To spring weather, The Sound finally sewing up a place in the playoffs, and—most of all—to Tradd’s success.”
Indeed, let’s drink to Tradd’s success, while she’s still succeeding. She put the glass to her mouth and pretended to drink.
“I hope you don’t have to leave for the tour before the playoffs are over,” Mary Lou said.
“I’m not sure,” Tradd said vaguely. Not that she intended to attend any games. She hadn’t seen The Sound play since before New Year’s Eve. Thor had been a little too much on her mind—maybe because his DNA was riding around with her.
She hadn’t believed it at first—hadn’t even noticed, which wasn’t surprising. Her periods had never been regular, and she’d been busy with her “overnight” success. But most of all—he had said it was impossible!
Turns out, according to what she’d read, it was only improbable—highly, highly improbable but not impossible. Some might even call it a miracle—and it was. Over the past few days, she’d felt every emotion from denial, to anger, to curiosity. She’d considered her options, but she kept coming back to the curiosity. What would the baby look like? Would it be smart? Somewhere along the way, she’d found that she wanted to see him or her. So the curiosity had settled into excitement of a sort—the scary sort. Sometimes her arms felt empty and she couldn’t wait to hold her baby.
Time to change to subject—in her head and at this table.
She pretended to take another sip of champagne. “You seem pretty happy that the team made the playoffs.” It had been a tough year for The Sound. This was the first time in a long time that the Stanley Cup playoffs hadn’t been a sure thing from early on. “Does this change your mind about selling the team?”
“I haven’t made up my mind, Sister. But it isn’t a question of their success. It’s a question of time—mine. I’ve got too much going on.”
That was the truth. Pickens was not an idle man, and he had some new deal in the works—something to do with the farm to table movement. He’d had been toying with the idea of selling The Sound to someone in Massachusetts for about a year now. Tradd hadn’t had much interest one way or the other, but that was before. Now, she was going to give birth to a little Swede who might have hockey in his—or her—blood. She rubbed her temple. She could hardly think of it as a person yet, let alone the gender. Would Thor want to be involved? Maybe he’d be happy to move to Massachusetts. Or maybe he’d want to take the baby with him—which was not happening. While she had never really imagined herself with children, now that it was happening, she had a whole different view. She’d never been good at sharing, much less letting someone take what was hers.
What she couldn’t even guess was how Thor would feel. Though he often shared holiday meals with her family and she occasionally ran into him at Greenwood, she didn’t know him very well. She wouldn’t know until she told him, but when that was going to happen, she didn’t know. Just not yet. Everybody knew you didn’t mess with an athlete’s head before a game. At least they weren’t fighting for the playoffs anymore.
Now that that was assured, they had two more games—one of them tonight—before the playoffs started next week. It would be best to wait to tell him until The Sound was either eliminated or they won, but that could take weeks. Sometimes the final game was played as late as June—June when she was supposed to be opening for Kenny Chesney but wouldn’t be, because she’d be as big as a barrel.
So it couldn’t wait until then.
“In a way, I’d hate to sell the team. It’s making money and the city is against it. Hell, the state is against it. The governor called again yesterday.”
“Then don’t do it,” Tradd said. If Thor wanted to be involved with this baby, that would make things easier. Though he was getting pretty old for a hockey player. She hadn’t heard any rumors about him retiring, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe he wouldn’t move with the team if it were sold. Maybe he would go back to Sweden.
“Time, Tradd. I don’t have enough hours in the day,” Pickens said.
“You could hire a general manager instead of micromanaging everything,” Tradd suggested. Pickens had gone through a couple of general managers when he’d first bought the team fifteen years ago, but nobody could please him. “You’re the only owner in the NHL who doesn’t have a GM. A little delegating would go a long way.”
Mary Lou and Pickens looked at each other and laughed.
“That’s not your father’s way, Tradd. You ought to know that by now.”
She did know it. She just hadn’t been able to keep herself from pointing out the obvious. “I’m surprised you aren’t trying to coach the team.” Tradd pretended to sip her drink again.
“I would if I could, but I know my limitations.” He had played club hockey in college, but—by his own admission—he hadn’t been very good. It was pretty obvious that owning The Sound was his way of succeeding at what he considered a past failure—failure being anything less than an NHL great. He would never be that, but he’d bought and paid for a whole stable full of them.
“Anyway,” Pickens said. “Enough hockey talk. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Not as big as the one I’ve got for you. You can bet your bottom dollar on that. And she wondered briefly what would happen if she told them right now. Probably the same thing that would happen when she finally did tell them. Hysteria. Demands to know who the father was. Threats of a shotgun wedding. And that would just be from Mary Lou. At worst, Pickens would kill Thor. At best he would fire him. Tradd had never given much thought to Pickens’s ridiculous demand that Sound players stay away from her. It hadn’t mattered, because she hadn’t been interested in hobnobbing with hockey players. She still wasn’t. She just happened be pregnant by one. What a mess.
“What’s the surprise?” she asked wearily.
“You’re singing the national anthem at The Sound game tonight!”
Hell in a hand basket! “No …” she began. She wasn’t going to that game. The next time she saw Thor Eastrom, it would be on her own terms, when she was ready to tell him about the baby. That was not tonight.
“Yes.” Pickens nodded emphatically. “Luke Bryan was all set to do it, but he’s come down with a stomach bug.”
There was no way around it. If Tradd wasn’t accustomed to asking her daddy questions, she damn sure never told him no.
Pickens handed her a bag. “Here’s the jersey I want you to wear.”
She lifted the jersey out. “This proves my point. Tell me another NHL team owner who runs around lining up singers and handing out jerseys.”
“Name me another team that has had the success The Sound has had in the last five years.”
She glanced at the jersey and then did a double take. Fucking hell. The number on the jersey was 17 and the name on the back was Eastrom.
“Anyway,” Pickens went on, “I don’t usually hand out jerseys. But I wanted to be sure you wore Thor’s number. Now that you’re making a name for yourself, I can just imagine what would be all over the Internet if you stepped on the ice wearing Sparks’s or Robbie’s number. I hate rumors, and everybody knows Thor wouldn’t dare go near my little girl.”
No. This wasn’t a mess. It was a nuclear disaster.
Chapter Six
The locker room was alive with chatter and high spirits when Thor entered and made his way to his stall in the corner. His hip was sore tonight, and he had to concentrate to keep from hobbling.
“Hey, Thor!” Sparks Champagne called across the room. “What are you going to do on your day with the Cup?”
“Do not say that word!” Nickolai Glazov, The Sound captain, exploded. Glaz was superstitious and did not allow any mention of the Stanley Cup until he was hoisting it over his head.
&nbs
p; Thor gave Sparks a half smile and a half-mast wave. He took off his shirt, sweaty from sewer ball. There was a time when he was younger and thought such things mattered. Back then at this point, he would have taken exactly three sips of water before he took off his shirt and shoes. But that was a long time ago. It was about the time that the babies died and his wife left that he’d decided that rituals and superstitions were about as useful as wishing on stars. He hadn’t had the energy for it anymore—and his game had gotten even better. Worse life, better game.
But none of that mattered this year. Glaz could have his wife text him exactly one hour and seven minutes before puck drop and forbid everyone from evoking the words Stanley Cup. Emile could rewrap his stick between every period and refuse to speak. Robbie could eat the same pregame meal, and they could all play sewer ball until they dropped, but it wasn’t going to matter. They would not win the Stanley Cup this year or even get very far into the playoffs. Sparks didn’t know it. Maybe Glaz didn’t either.
But Thor knew it and he suspected Pickens did, too. They were nothing if not realistic, and this was not The Sound’s year. Thor had lost count of the number of times he’d been to the playoffs in the last nineteen years, and he’d hoisted the Cup seven times—twice in New Jersey and five times here in Nashville. Two of those championships had come in the last five years. After all these years, he could taste a championship team, and he didn’t taste it this season.
And he was all right with that. A man shouldn’t get too greedy. He’d played nineteen years without a major injury. That was a miracle within itself. He’d made millions of dollars doing what he loved. He had an Olympic gold medal from the 2006 games and silver from 2014. He didn’t need another championship.
He finished stripping and started suiting up.
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