Pickens turned to the man beside him. “Tradd, you remember Rich Donnellson from the governor’s office.” It was a statement.
“Of course,” Tradd said automatically, though it wasn’t true. She never seen this man before in her life, but Pickens always assumed she knew everyone he did. “How are you, Rich?”
Rich Donnellson, who looked to be on the south side thirty—a baby in Pickens’s world—looked confused. He hadn’t quite gotten with the program of going along for the sake of going along. LaVelle slipped a glass into her hand and Tradd took a sip.
“I enjoyed hearing you sing,” Rich said.
Before Tradd could thank him, the air horn blew and the announcer burst out, “And that’s a Sound goal! What do we like?”
And crowd responded, “We like The Sound of that!”
Music played; hockey players hugged and skated by the bench to high five the rest of the team.
Pickens scowled because he had missed the goal. “Who? Who?” he asked.
It was as if the announcer heard him. “That goal was made by Jake Champagne with assists from Robbie McTavish and Jan Voleck!”
“Well.” Pickens nodded with satisfaction and looked toward the ice where the face-off was about to take place. “Sister, why don’t you come sit up here so you can see better?” Which meant he really wanted everyone to leave him alone so he could watch the game. “You can sit on the other side of Rich.” Which meant he wanted her to entertain this Rich person so he wouldn’t talk to Pickens.
Fat chance. She sat down again in her previous seat. She wasn’t talking to this junior politician, and no way was she sitting where Thor could see her if he glanced in this direction. “I can see fine right here.”
And she could. Thor was on the ice again, blond hair hanging out the back of his helmet, bent over with his stick poised, probably spoiling for a fight. The Sound lost the face-off and a Cap skated out with it—and Thor was right there to teach him whose ice and whose puck it was. He shot it to Jarrett, who passed it to Nickolai Glazov, who broke away and put it in the net for another point.
More air horns, more hugging, more excited announcing, more crowd chanting, “We like The Sound of that!”
“What does the C on number twelve’s jersey mean?” Rich Donnellson asked Pickens.
“That he’s team captain.” Pickens spoke the words with no trace of judgment or impatience in his tone, but Tradd knew very well what was going on in her father’s head.
What the hell are you doing here, boy, if you don’t know or care a thing about hockey?
Tradd wondered that herself, though Pickens often had to entertain people he’d rather not. But she could relate to Rich Donnellson. She didn’t care about hockey, not really. After all these years, she had a nodding acquaintance with the fundamentals of the game, but she didn’t feel it deep in her bones the way real hockey fans did. But there was something to be said for the crash on the ice and the high spirits in the stands. She hadn’t seen a game since December, and she hadn’t realized she’d missed it.
Just then, Thor slammed a Cap against the boards. Her stomach tightened. Yeah, kid. That’s your daddy. He’s powerful. Majestic. And has a mouth any supermodel would sell her soul for. Did Ikea have baby beds?
Thor went back to the bench, and Tradd lost interest in the game. There was lots of puck passing, slamming, shooting, and noise. She ought to leave.
But on the other hand, something on the buffet smelled really good. Though she hadn’t thought she had an appetite when she’d been with her parents at the Butter Factory earlier, she’d ended up eating like a field hand. Even so, her stomach was rumbling. For a few weeks there, when she’d thought she had a stomach bug, she hadn’t been able to eat at all, but she seemed to be making up for lost time now that the morning sickness had decided to be confined to mornings.
Mary Lou was still standing and talking to, Tradd assumed, Rich Donnellson’s wife. She was overdressed, too—purple dress that looked like church, leopard skin high heels and matching belt, lots of big, chunky jewelry. She was pretty under all that big hair and makeup. She had probably logged a lot of time riding in the back of convertibles in parades.
“Hello, darling.” Mary Lou—who was wearing white jeans and a Sound jersey—brushed Tradd’s hair away from her face. “You did a wonderful job.”
“You did!” Parade girl flashed some perfect, blinding white teeth. “I love your new song. It’s so catchy. I have it on my exercise playlist.”
“Darcy,” Mary Lou said, “you obviously know her as Rita May Sanderson, but this is my daughter, Tradd. Tradd, this is Darcy Donnellson.”
Darcy had a glass plate with three shrimp on it. No tails. That meant she hadn’t eaten any. She was a professional pretend eater. Tradd was pretty good at that herself—or had been at one time. Lately, she just ate.
“Your mother was just telling me that you’re going to open for Kenny Chesney’s summer tour and your new album will be out next week,” Darcy said.
“Yes.” That was half true—at least she hoped the half that was true still would be when the label found out she couldn’t go out and promote it. “It’s very exciting.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Do you want something to drink, Tradd?” Mary Lou looked bored. She glanced at the ice. She wasn’t as big a fan as Pickens, but she enjoyed the game. Tradd suspected she was not enjoying chatting up this woman.
“I have something. Actually, I was thinking about getting some food.”
Mary Lou looked surprised. It had scarcely been two hours since they had eaten dinner. “I ordered that salad with the oranges and grilled chicken that you like.”
“I was thinking nachos.” There were always nachos on the buffet at games because Pickens loved them. They had never appealed to Tradd until now, but she had to have them. Besides, she didn’t so much like that salad as she liked fitting in her tight jeans. That was about to be over anyway, so why not have a little chili and queso?
Mary Lou widened her eyes. “All right. Would you like me to ask LaVelle to fix you a plate?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got it. Darcy, would you like some nachos?” Tradd asked.
The woman looked like Tradd had suggested she appear in public without makeup. “No thank you. I’m still working on my shrimp.” She held up the untouched plate.
“Well, I’m going to dig in.”
“I believe we’ll go have a seat,” Mary Lou said.
“I like the ice girls’ new uniforms.” It was between the second and third period now, Tradd’s nachos were history, and The Sound was leading 4-1. She’d returned to her seat with her nachos earlier to find that her traitor mother had situated Darcy Donnellson between them. Tradd was worn out trying to make conversation, and the purple and silver spandex pants and long sleeve tops the cheerleaders were wearing to clear the ice was as good a subject as any.
“Do you?” Mary Lou asked. “They aren’t very festive, but we needed to get something quickly. These will do for now, but for the playoffs, we’ve ordered some in a similar style, but with some sparkle.”
“Why did you need to get something quickly?” Darcy asked.
“One of our star forwards, Jarrett MacPherson, approached Pickens and respectfully asked him to reconsider the cheerleaders’ costumes. We had never thought much about it, because they dressed like most of the other ice girls in the NHL—in sequined shorts and halter tops. But Pickens talked it over with me, and we decided to go this way.”
Mary Lou wasn’t likely to share that Pickens had also fired an ice girl a month ago for fraternizing with a player—which was against the rules. But for the first time, the player had been fired, too. It had been kept quiet. The player had been a rookie who hadn’t seen much ice time, but Pickens swore that there was a new attitude in town and the outcome would have been the same if it had been any of the high-profile top scorers.
She put her hand on her stomach. Not good news for Thor.
“Do they like
their new uniforms?” Darcy asked.
Mary Lou laughed. “Probably some do and some don’t, but I’m sure they all like that they’re warmer. The new ones will have sequined musical notes, inspired by the old style spangled performance clothes that country music stars used to wear.”
“I’ve worn a spangle or two in my time,” Tradd said. “I’ll bet you have, too, Darcy.”
Darcy nodded. “Sparkle when you can.”
“So, Darcy, were you ever homecoming queen?” In the front row, Pickens seemed to have made it his personal mission to educate Rich on hockey by explaining every nuance of what was taking place on the ice. Rich looked like he wanted to gouge his eyes out, and Pickens looked like he knew it but didn’t care.
Darcy was even less interested in the game than her husband. Besides ice girl attire, they had already talked about where Tradd got her performance clothes, how long it took to record a song, buying makeup at Sephora verses Nordstrom or Macy’s, and whether dogs or cats were better. Tradd was running out of subjects, so she threw the queen question out. She suspected if Darcy had ever had a crown, she’d want to talk about it.
Darcy smiled. “As a matter of fact, I was lucky enough to be homecoming queen—twice,” she said coyly. “In high school and at Ole Miss. Were you?”
Tradd burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. “No. Not a chance. I wasn’t nice enough.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Darcy said. “You’re very nice.”
“She had her moments,” Mary Lou said. “Not all of them good.”
It was true, but did her own mother have to agree? “I am trying to reform.”
Darcy opened her mouth to protest, but the team skated back onto the ice and went into face-off formation, and the crowd went wild. Tradd stood and clapped, though no one else in the suite did. You really weren’t supposed to do a lot of standing at hockey games, and never when the puck was in play, but she did it anyway. She needed a break from Darcy—and she wanted to get a look at Thor. It had been hard to get a peep when debating the merits of the Urban Decay Naked Smoky eyeshadow palette versus bareMinerals.
Ah, there he was. Sweaty, mean-looking, and battling for the puck against the boards. He got it, passed it to someone (who cared who), and hit the Capital player in the back with his stick. That was bad boy business, but he didn’t get caught.
“This certainly is a brutal sport,” Darcy said.
“Yeah.” Tradd settled back into her seat just as Thor shoved an opponent out of the way and took off skating backwards. Her nipples tightened and passed that feeling right down the line to her groin. She’d never been horny at a hockey game before. Of course, she’d never known what could be at the end of horny before New Year’s Eve—with Thor. Because of Thor. Maybe her hormones were raging.
Darcy wrinkled her nose. “I hear hockey players stink.”
They might, but they taste great.
“Dammit!” Pickens cried in frustration. A Capital had the puck and was racing toward The Sound goal, with everyone else yards behind him. Emile was poised and ready, but he would get no help. The shot was in the air and sailing over the goalie’s shoulder. It didn’t look like he was going to be able to do a thing about it, but at the last split second, Emile raised his arm just enough and just in time. The puck was deflected, and by then the troops had gathered.
“That is a goalie!” Pickens pointed in the direction of The Sound goal. “Sometimes I think he’s superhuman.”
“You sure love this game,” Rich Donnellson said.
“Yes, I do!” Pickens emphatically agreed.
“Which makes me wonder,” Rich said, “why you are even considering selling.”
And then it became clear why these two were here and also why they were the only two guests. Rich had been sent by the governor to charm Pickens out of selling the team, and Pickens didn’t intend to have that conversation in front of anyone else.
The governor would have done better to send a hockey fan with more charisma. But Rich made a fair point and one Tradd hadn’t considered before. Why was Pickens considering selling? She found it hard to believe he was this passionate about goat cheese and organic tomatoes.
Tradd caught her mother’s eyes over Darcy’s head. Mary Lou barely nodded and dropped her head a bit.
“Now, Rich. I’ve told the governor that nothing is final.” Pickens turned his eyes back to the ice.
“I think you know what an asset this team is to this community. If you must sell—and we hope you won’t—would the new owner consider keeping the team in Nashville?” Rich laughed a little. “What kind of sense does The Springfield Sound make?”
“Maybe he’ll change the name,” Pickens said.
“You said will, like it’s a done deal!” Rich sounded panicked.
Pickens sighed. “I told you nothing has been decided.”
“I’m just asking you to keep an open mind,” Rich said.
“It’s as open as Nickolai Glazov is right now!”
Swifty stole the puck from a Cap, passed it to Glaz, and Glaz put it in the goal.
Air horns commenced and all the rest of it, but it did not detract from the Cap D-man who checked Glaz from behind.
Thor saw it. Gloves and helmets flew, punches were exchanged, and the crowd went wild. A stream of blood dripped from Thor’s mouth as the ref skated him to the penalty box, but the other guy looked worse.
They always did.
“That’s my enforcer,” Pickens said proudly. “Five for fighting.”
“But there’s just a little more than two minutes left in the game,” Rich said. “Will he have to finish the penalty in the next game?”
“No,” Pickens said. “But he wouldn’t have cared if he did. He does what is needed to protect his teammates. And he does it well.”
“He’s Pickens’s favorite,” Mary Lou said. “The boys don’t know that we know they call Thor The Fair-Haired Child. But it’s all in good fun. Everyone loves him.”
Everyone loved Thor?
Pickens laughed. “No, everyone does not love Thor. Mary Lou loves Thor. But the ones who don’t love him respect him.”
That was easier to believe.
“I fired my last GM over him eight years ago. The GM said he was a mess—his twin babies had died and he was going through a divorce. I figured if a man ever had reason to be a mess, that was it. I wanted to sign him. The GM disagreed. That’s when I decided The Sound was my kitchen and I was going to cook in it. Thor has never given me reason to regret it.”
Yeah? Well, Daddy, you just wait …
“Sounds like you’ll miss him if you sell the team to Massachusetts,” Rich said.
Tradd saw her father’s expression shift to surprise and freeze. So Rich had finally stumbled on something that Pickens hadn’t thought of.
“I’m sure it will be fine.” Tradd felt compelled to stir the pot a little. “Daddy has probably run across some tomato farmer he likes even better.”
Rich looked at Tradd, confused. “I don’t understand.” Of course he didn’t. He didn’t know about this farm to table thing that Pickens claimed to be so high on. Tradd wasn’t so sure he was. But then, she hadn’t believed he was really interested in hockey when he’d bought the team fifteen years ago. So what did she know—outside of the fact that The Fair-Haired Child was going to fall from grace?
Pickens looked at Tradd and raised an eyebrow, which was a warning to keep quiet. “I like a tomato as well as the next man, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”
The buzzer sounded and the game was over—final score 5-1.
Tradd suspected her parents would hang around and have another drink with the Donnellsons, and then Pickens would go off to do whatever it was he did after games—but she was done.
She made her polite goodbyes to the Donnellsons, kissed her mother, and accepted her daddy’s hug.
“Now, Sister, don’t you go over to The Big Skate. I don’t want you tempting my players into breaking the ru
les.”
He said the same thing after every game. He probably didn’t even run it though his brain anymore. She hadn’t let the words sink in for years—mostly because she had no desire to go to the team’s sports bar hangout.
But tonight, for some reason, the words snagged on her nerves. Though she didn’t advertise it, she was thirty-two years old. She had her own money. True, most of it was inherited from her maternal grandmother, but it was still hers. Though she lived in a condo in Star View Towers that her parents had bought from Emile Giroux as an investment, it wasn’t as if she had to. She’d had a townhouse in a nice gated community in Green Hills. She’d only sold when her parents asked her to move to the condo in Sound Town because they didn’t want it empty.
She was old enough to decide if she wanted to go to The Big Skate.
Not that she did.
Chapter Eight
Thor grabbed a Gatorade and sat down in his stall.
Asshole, Vokov. Who the hell did he think he was? Had he not known when he checked Glaz from behind that he was going to get the shit beat out of him? He tipped the Gatorade bottle to his mouth and winced. Though to be honest, he was glad it had happened. He’d been itching to hit somebody ever since Tradd had stepped on the ice.
There had been a time when he was younger, when his hip didn’t hurt and his knee didn’t swell, that he’d always come off the ice loaded up on testosterone and adrenaline, craving sex. He’d thought he was past that.
Apparently not.
“Does your mouth hurt?” Packi appeared without a sound.
“Are you a ghost or some kind of ninja?”
“Some kind of ninja.” Packi handed Thor a warm wet towel. “You’re bleeding again. Wipe the blood off your face.”
Thor pressed the towel to his mouth. It stung.
“I know the trainers cleaned you up on the bench, but do you need it looked at again?” Packi asked.
“No. It doesn’t hurt.”
Packi took the towel and handed him an ice pack. “Tradd did a good job on the national anthem, don’t you think?”
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