All he needed was one more year on the ice—one more year of morning skates, plane rides, pregame pasta, blades on ice, and raw knuckles from protecting his goalie. Maybe that was greedy. Most didn’t make it as long as he had. Sure, some of the legends had played well into their forties. Gordie Howe had played until he was fifty-two. Thor wasn’t asking for that, didn’t even want it. In the last couple of years, he’d noticed the aches and pains more. The recovery after a game was taking longer and longer. Those things hadn’t affected his game—yet. He wanted to go out when he was still at his best, could still hit hard, shoot straight, and skate fast. He wanted people to be surprised that he was quitting when he still had solid stats and a body that worked. He figured he had one more year of that, and he wanted that year—wanted to go down in the books as having played twenty years.
Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered to him if he’d had anything else—a wife, a child, or even an interest in something, anything, else.
But hockey was all he had and all he knew. His contract ended this year, but Pickens had already agreed to sign him for another year—provided Pickens still owned The Sound. If he sold, there was no guarantee. Given that Thor was still at his peak, they might insist on signing him for longer or not at all. Since he’d be thirty-seven in July, they might lean more toward the not at all. And even if he did get what he asked for, did he want to move to the frozen tundra that was Massachusetts? Considering that he’d spent his first seventeen years in Sweden and the next twelve in New Jersey, some would find that laughable. But he’d been in Nashville for going on eight years now.
He was used to warm autumns, early springs, and the rare snows that brought a holiday atmosphere to the city. Nashville might even be home, but what was home? Not the monster Transformer house. He wasn’t even living there anymore. After taking Tradd to the guest house on New Year’s Eve, he’d never left, hadn’t even been inside the big house except the brief times he’d gone to fetch his belongings until, little by little, he was completely moved in.
He told himself he stayed in the guest house because it was more comfortable and easier to navigate, but maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe there was a part of him that believed if he stayed there, she might magically reappear just like she’d disappeared—and disappeared she had. After the hottest night of sex of his life, he’d woken at dawn, dreaming of her, rock hard, and wanting her again. But when he’d reached for her, he’d come up empty. Like a teenager who couldn’t give up, he’d searched the house, but she had cleared out, leaving nothing behind except her scent on her pillow.
He hadn’t seen her since, though when he’d gone up to the house the next morning to assess the damage, he’d found an army of professional cleaners setting the place to rights. When he’d inquired about the bill, he’d been told it had been taken care of by Ms. Davenport. He’d considered contacting her to insist on reimbursing her, but he knew it would have just been an excuse to talk to her. Besides, she’d made it pretty clear when she’d sneaked out while he was asleep that she didn’t want to hear from him.
And that was for the best. He’d heard she had a hit record, but he hadn’t listened to it. The less he thought about her, the better. Thor wasn’t afraid of Pickens, but he understood him. Pickens meant it when he said that his players were to stay away from his daughter. There was no need to fear something that was a fact of life, and it was a fact of life that if Pickens Davenport found out Thor had had sex with Tradd, Pickens would burn his contract and dance around the fire. And yet, Thor couldn’t bring himself to regret that night. It was only supposed to be sex, but it had felt like more than that. Hell, maybe if he ceased to hang his helmet at Bridgestone Arena, he might even try to find out if it had felt like more than that to Tradd. Though that was fairytale talk.
Speaking of his helmet, he was almost ready for it.
But where was it? The other things he lacked—his gloves and skates—were where they were supposed to be, but his helmet was missing. He was going to beat the hell out of Sparks and Robbie. They knew he was serious about no one touching his gear.
“Champagne! McTavish!” he bellowed.
“Looking for this?” Oliver Klepacki, The Sound’s head equipment manager, held out the purple helmet with the silver 17 on the front.
“Oh.” Thor took the helmet. “Thanks, Packi.”
“Your visor was scratched after that fight with O’Leary Monday night.” Packi leaned on the wall next to Thor’s stall—though not because he needed the support. It was game night and no one was more up for it than Packi. Weathered and gray he might be, but no one could accuse Oliver Klepacki of being wizened or weak. He was straight, strong, and the best equipment manager in the NHL. He’d played minor league hockey in the days when bloody fights were practically required but helmets were not, and he had the scars to prove it. Thor suspected Packi also knew this was not a championship year for The Sound. He seemed to know most things.
“Thanks for having this done.” Thor held up his helmet.
“I didn’t have it done,” Packi said. “I did it myself.”
Thor caught his breath. Packi supervised two equipment managers and two locker room attendants. He ordered new equipment, made repairs on the bench during games at the speed of light, traveled with the team, and sharpened skates.
He did not replace visors, hang sweaters, or mollycoddle hockey players. Except when he did.
Every once in a while, Packi assumed taking care of a player when he needed a little extra care—sometimes when bad things happened, like when Jake Champagne was going through a divorce or when Mike Webber’s mother died. But sometimes it was because of good things. He’d catered to Glaz when Noel was pregnant and to Mikhail Orlov when he, Sharon, and their three children were moving to a different house. Jan Voleck had gotten special care during the time leading up to his wedding to Krystal, the puck bunny who was seven years his senior.
And it seemed now it was his turn. That could mean only one thing. He was looking at hard times in some way. Every time Packi picked the pet of the moment, he was in trouble—the pet. Not Packi. Packi had too much sense to get in trouble. The players never believed they needed help, didn’t believe that Packi had some kind of sixth sense and seemed to always know what was going to happen, but Thor knew better. He’d seen it too many times.
Although Packi had never picked him. Until now.
“So it’s my turn?” Thor set his helmet on his head and sat down to put his skates on. He was the only one in the locker room who fully suited up except for his gloves before putting his skates on, but that had nothing to do with superstition. It was just how he had always done it. It went back to the days before he could put his equipment on or tie his skates. His mother had always stood him on the bench to dress him so she wouldn’t have to bend over. Then she’d have him sit down and she would kneel in front of him to lace him into his skates. He missed her—and his dad and sister. He was planning to book a flight to Sweden as soon as they lost in the playoffs. He always went back in the off-season, and they usually visited him at Christmas, but this year they hadn’t been able to, because his mother had broken her ankle.
“Your turn for what?” Packi asked.
“To be Packi’s chosen one of the moment.”
Packi laughed. “Maybe.”
“Why now?” Thor tightened the laces of his left skate. “I might have expected it when Jonteau ran off with that soccer player.”
“You were better off. You didn’t need any help then.”
He couldn’t argue with that. “And you think I do now?” He flexed his feet to test his skates and stood up.
Packi shrugged. “Are you saying you don’t need a little extra attention?” Packi handed him his gloves.
“No. Apparently I do, or you wouldn’t have singled me out. But I warn you. I take care of myself. I’m not some wet behind the ears rookie who needs to be handed a Gatorade and a sandwich.” The locker room was empty now except for the two of them.
<
br /> “No,” Packi agreed. “You’re not. But if you don’t have to worry about your Gatorade and sandwich, you’ll have more energy to deal with what’s important.”
Thor put his gloves on. “What is that?” But he was sure that somehow Packi knew about Tradd. He didn’t even wonder how. Packi found out things. It made no difference how. Maybe the universe whispered in his ear. The real question was why now? It had been three months. Maybe he’d just found it out—or maybe the other boot was about to drop. Either way, for now, Thor intended to play dumb.
“I guess we’ll find out.” Packi glanced at the locker room door. “Go on. They’re waiting for you.”
Yes, they were. They always waited for him. Glaz might be captain, Emile the hottest goalie the league had ever seen, Bryant the fastest skater, Jarrett the most disciplined, and Sparks, Robbie, Mikhail, Jan, and the rest might perform fearlessly and—often—flawlessly. But Thor was the enforcer, the elder statesman who had bled, made others bleed, and spent more minutes in the sin bin than any other player in the league—all for them.
And he was always the last out, and they always waited for him.
His teammates were in the tunnel ready to skate out for warm-ups. They parted and he took his place behind Glaz, who was ready to lead them onto the ice. The music was loud, the lights were flashing, and the crowd was on fire—no doubt relieved that their beloved team had not been shut out of the playoffs after all.
He never tired of the feeling he got when his feet hit the ice on game night. The ice felt right and the air smelled like possibility. All around him, his teammates stretched, banged their sticks, and skated ritualistic, carefully choreographed paths—a loop round the goal, a sprint to the blue line, then a shot to the goal.
Thor just skated and emptied his mind until it was time to exit the ice.
He took his place beside Bryant “Swifty” Taylor, the other first line defenseman. As the starting lineup for the opposing team was announced, Thor and Swifty bumped gloves.
“As we play Washington tonight, may we be spared bloody blows,” Swifty said, like he always did.
“But if that is not to be,” Thor responded.
“May we kick every Capital ass in this arena.”
And they bumped gloves again. There was no denying that it was a ritual, but they’d been doing it so long Thor couldn’t have said whose it was or who started it. Either way, it would not affect the outcome of the game.
“And the starting lineup for your Nashville Sound!” the announcer’s voice boomed. “At center, number twelve, team captain Nickolai Glazov!”
Glaz skated out, made a loop, and took his place.
“Number ninety-one, forward, Jarrett MacPherson!”
Jarrett skated with his stick high above his head and blew a kiss into the crowd. He never used to do that, but he had a fiancée now. He’d been the most recent recipient of Packi’s special attention.
Jarrett settled in next to Glaz and the announcer continued. “And on defense, number five, Bryant Taylor.”
“See you out there, bro,” Bryant said over his shoulder as he skated out.
Now it would be Thor’s turn. “Also on defense, number seventeen, Lars Eastrom!”
Sometimes Thor almost forgot that his real name was Lars. During his rookie year, one of his fellow teammates who had been a comic book junkie had named him after the Norse god of thunder. He didn’t mind it, despite all those movies that had come out the last few years. Most hockey players had nicknames, but he was the only one who was never called anything else except by sports announcers and his mother—at least since his wife. Julia had called him Lars when they were married, but even she thought of him as Thor now—or he assumed so. When he’d seen her last winter, that’s what she’d called him.
Once he was in place, the announcer called out, “And in goal for the Nashville Sound, number thirty, Emile Giroux!”
The applause was nice, but Thor was ready to get on with it—but that couldn’t happen quite yet. He trained his eyes on the American flag and waited.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, “please rise, and gentlemen, remove your hats, for the national anthem. Tonight, we have with us Nashville’s newest sensation, Rita May Sanderson!”
Thor didn’t move for a moment, didn’t take his eyes off the flag. The arena broke into applause. That would mean she was walking onto the little rug they would have put on the ice.
What he ought to do was keep his eyes on the flag, not even look at her.
But it wasn’t what he did. He turned just in time to see her wave an arm to the crowd windmill style and put the microphone to her mouth.
She was wearing tight jeans and a Sound jersey. She looked good, though he liked how she’d been dressed the last time he’d seen her, which was not at all. She blessed the crowd with a smile for the ages, and he remembered how her mouth tasted.
Then she proceeded to belt out the song. Had he ever heard her sing before? She’d had a song on the radio last year, but he couldn’t remember if he’d ever heard it more than a time or two. He didn’t listen to the radio much. He’d always assumed she wasn’t very good or she would have succeeded by now. He’d been wrong. He’d heard “The Star-Spangled Banner” was a hard song to sing, but she wasn’t having any trouble. When she hit a high note, she closed her eyes, rocked back on her heels, and threw her head back.
That’s when he noticed it: the number 17 on the shoulder of the jersey.
The air went out of his lungs and he leaned on his stick. What was she playing at? The national anthem singers always wore Sound jerseys, but there were twenty-three names on The Sound active roster. That was twenty-two besides him.
Who the hell did she think she was, wearing his number? She had screwed him seven ways to Sunday and then left his bed without a word. And to add insult to—what was it? Pain? Hurt? Injury? Yes. Insult to injury. She had hired a cleaning service to clean up after his party. And what was that? See, Thor, I know it’s my fault the party went bad. I’m going to clean up this mess so I don’t leave here owing you a thing.
And he was fine with that. He wasn’t fifteen and they weren’t going steady. They were two grown adults who had wanted sex—with each other. And they’d had it. End of story.
But now here she was wearing his jersey. When he’d played juniors in Sweden, he’d given away jerseys like Pez. And, to be honest, even in his early days in the NHL, he’d taken advantage of the knowledge that a game worn jersey would buy a night in a puck bunny’s bed. But he’d been young, still a teenager. No one had worn his jersey since Julia, even Jonteau. Okay, especially Jonteau. She’d only worn haute couture, and he had the receipts to prove it.
But here was Tradd Davenport, aka Rita May Sanderson, aka Pickens Davenport’s little princess, all tricked out in purple, silver, and 17.
He was enraged.
Finally, finally, the damned song was over. Just as she uttered the last note, their eyes met. She cocked her head to the side, narrowed her eyes, and let her lips relax into a Mona Lisa smile.
His stomach bottomed out and he bit down on his mouthpiece, which was hanging out the side of his mouth. Tradd placed her finger to her face in the spot where his mouth piece was and raised her eyebrows.
The crowd went wild, but they always did. Maybe it was for flag and country. Maybe it was for Tradd. Maybe it was because it was time for puck drop. Maybe it was because they were drunk. Who cared?
What was important was that Tradd had turned and was walking away.
Thor should have been prepared for seeing his name emblazoned across her shoulders. He’d been wearing jerseys since he was five years old. That was a lot of jerseys, and they’d all had his name on them.
But he hadn’t been prepared for seeing his name on Tradd walking away from him.
His anger dissipated. He liked seeing it there.
What the hell?
He was frozen to the ice.
“Hey.” Swifty bumped him lightly on
the shoulder with his helmet. His mouth piece was hanging out the side of his mouth, much like Thor’s own.
“What?”
“It’s time.”
Right. No one had ever had to tell him that before—even when he was five years old.
Chapter Seven
Tradd entered the owner’s suite, removed the jersey, and handed it to LaVelle, the suite attendant. She knew it was a game worn jersey from the bloodstain on the neck opening, and it seemed too intimate to wear it—like looking in someone’s underwear drawer. But then, had she never seen Thor’s underwear, she wouldn’t have thought a thing of it.
“Something to drink, Ms. Davenport? A glass of wine or a cocktail?”
“Whiskey sour with Wild Turkey.” She wasn’t sure if she wanted to drink to celebrate her performance or calm her nerves at having been so close to Thor.
Thor. Right. Father of her child. She had forgotten for a moment.
“Uh, never mind about that drink, LaVelle. Could I have a sparkling water?”
Her parents only had two guests tonight, which was surprising even for a weeknight. Mary Lou was talking to the woman at the buffet, and Pickens was seated beside a man in one of the front row leather chairs, his eyes intent on the game. The other man, not so much. He was a little overdressed for a hockey game, too—suit and tie. If he hadn’t been small, someone might have mistaken him for a Sound player dressed to NHL regulation code for arriving at and departing from the arena.
Tradd waved to her mother, slipped into the chair behind her daddy, and patted him on the shoulder.
Pickens rose and gave her a hug. “Fine job with that song, Tradd. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you. I was afraid I would crack on that last note, but I held it okay.”
“Better than okay,” Pickens said. “Where’s your jersey?”
You mean Thor’s jersey. “I was hot.”
“Hot? Is it hot in here?” He looked around. “LaVelle? Could you turn up the air? Tradd’s hot.”
Great. Now they would all freeze to death.
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