Suddenly, the atmosphere in the locker room got a staticky feeling, like the air before a summer storm. Thor put the ice pack to his mouth and raised his eyes to Packi’s. There was a knowing look there. Not only did Packi know, he was now intent on making Thor acknowledge that he—Packi—knew. But Thor wasn’t ready for that.
“I didn’t notice,” Thor said.
Packi nodded and crossed his arms across his chest. “Is that right?” They regarded each other for a beat. “Do you need anything?”
Nothing you can give me.
“No.” Thor held up the ice pack. “Thanks for the ice pack.”
“All right then. You’d better cool down, shower, and hit the massage table—else you’ll be stiff in the morning.”
Stiff in the morning was a way of life for him, had been for a few years now. That might be one of the few things Packi didn’t know.
Later, Thor was tying his tie and dreaming of pizza in bed when Sparks and Robbie exploded into his personal space like two puppies who’d been locked up all day. Their hair was messy, their ties crooked, and there was water dripping off their faces. Robbie’s jacket didn’t match his pants—something he’d been fined for before and probably would be again.
Thor reached for his own jacket—which did match his pants. “Did you even dry off after showering?” Thor leaned over to sniff. “Please tell me you showered.”
“What do you think we are?” Sparks asked. “Cretins?”
“Yes. That’s what I think.” But you’ll grow out of it. Probably.
“Come to The Big Skate with us,” Robbie said.
“Oh? You aren’t meeting ice girls there?”
Sparks shook his head. “After what happened to Tate? We’re done with ice girls. Come with us.”
“I’d rather swallow a pound of nails and walk through a magnet factory.” He seldom went out with the guys after games. “Too many puck bunnies and autograph hounds.”
“I like giving my autograph,” Sparks said. “Though not as much as I like puck bunnies.”
“I stopped giving autographs except to kids when I found out people were selling them on eBay,” Thor said.
“Why do you care?” Robbie said. “Maybe those people need the money. Not everyone makes as much money as you do. Me, for instance.”
Thor leaned on his stall to give his hip some relief. “When you’ve played as long as I have, you’ll make as much money as I do—probably more.”
“When I’ve played as long as you, I hope I don’t act old and grumpy and refuse to go out with my teammates. More than that, I hope I don’t refuse to give fans my autograph because they might intend to sell it—maybe to be able to afford to pay the outrageous cost of NHL tickets.”
That struck a raw nerve.
Sparks burst out laughing. “Robbie, he’s going to beat your ass so hard you’ll think it’s a drum.”
Is that what they all thought of him, that he was old, grumpy, and would beat up anyone who crossed him?
“Since I don’t make as much as you do,” Robbie said, “could you give me an old jock strap to sell on eBay?”
It was all Thor could do to keep from laughing. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Seriously?” Robbie said. “You’re going to The Big Skate with us?”
“I’m going to The Big Skate. It remains to be seen whether I am going to associate with you after I get there.”
After all, why the hell not? If he couldn’t have Tradd in his bed, pizza wasn’t going to be much company.
Chapter Nine
Tradd stood before the heavy, dark wood, brass, and glass door. The Big Skate, followed by the hours of operation, was etched on the glass in gold.
She shouldn’t be here; she hadn’t even planned it. When she’d parked in her spot in the Star View Towers parking garage, she’d fully intended to go up to her to condo and go to bed. But when she’d gotten out of her car, she’d gone out on the street instead, started walking, and hadn’t stopped until three blocks later when she’d landed here.
She’d never been one to understand her own motives. Maybe that’s why she had some bad behavior to come back from. Maybe she was here to defy her father. Maybe she was here hoping to run into Thor.
Maybe she was here because she wanted some Buffalo wings.
Yeah. That was probably it. After all, Buffalo wings were a glorious thing—tasty, hot, and satisfying. She’d had them only once, but they were impossible to forget. Having never been to The Big Skate before, she wasn’t absolutely sure that they had Buffalo wings, but it stood to reason that they would. After all, it was a sports bar. Buffalo wings belonged here with all the other bar food.
Of course, she didn’t need Buffalo wings, should not have them. In the last five hours, she’d had a filet mignon with truffle butter, a lobster stuffed baked potato, a mushroom and artichoke medley with sage compound butter, four rolls, a piece of coconut pie, three fake sips of champagne, and a plate of nachos. That was more than she used to eat all week. So she had no business thinking about wings, unless they were the kind that could fly her away.
And she should fly away. What had she been thinking anyway? She wasn’t the sort who could go into a restaurant and eat alone. Did she think she was going to just go in there and say, “Table for one, please. Bring me a few dozen Buffalo wings and a bib”?
She almost stepped away from the door, when she looked through the glass and saw a blond head attached to a body wearing a navy blue suit. That might or might not be Thor.
Maybe she could go in and get her wings to go. Or she could leave.
Hell in a hand basket. There was a gaggle of people walking up behind her now, and they were about to want to go in. She either had to go inside or leave. The people were all wearing Sound jerseys—not game worn jerseys, but purchased-in-the-gift-shop jerseys. No doubt they had been to the game and had headed here in hopes of catching sight of a player. Or players.
Or Buffalo wings.
She could flee, but then the people behind her would think she was crazy. And they might know who she was. They would have heard her sing at the game, and she had a little face fame now. One of them would put on social media tomorrow: “We saw Rita May Sanderson peeping in the window of The Big Skate. Then she turned around and left. Who does that?” Likely, they would take her picture. She’d be all over Instagram and Snapchat.
Nothing to do but go inside, order her wings to go, and take them home to eat in bed. Tasty, hot, and satisfying wings. In bed.
She took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. The fans were right behind her.
“Table for nine?” the hostess asked.
Now, that wasn’t a bad idea. There were already eight of them. What was one more? They might not even notice she was with them.
“No,” said one of the men from the octuplet. “There are eight of us, but this lady was first.”
So they didn’t want her either, and they weren’t even all that picky. How could they be, traveling in a pack of eight? What’s more, they had no idea who she was and didn’t take her picture.
“Go ahead and seat them,” Tradd said. “I’m just—” Just what? Leaving? Looking for Buffalo wings?
“Waiting for someone?” the hostess said, smiling.
Tradd tossed her head in a way that could have meant yes or no—and when she tossed her head she caught sight a familiar blond head, though not as blond as the one that had been on her mind.
No, that head was more caramel and with highlights from the sun.
Brantley Kincaid. Hell in a washtub, because there wasn’t a hand basket big enough to hold this amount of fire and brimstone.
She had to get out of here—now, before he saw her. A few years ago, they had dated off and on for nearly two years. He was a carefree soul—easy to please and eager to make those around him happy. She had been horrible to him—demanding things for the sake of it, smashing his possessions, and breaking up with him with the idea she could have him back at will. He had always t
aken her back, too—until the day he’d had enough. For the first and only time, he ended the relationship and there was no going back. There hadn’t been any broken hearts involved. He’d been too mad to be heartbroken, and she’d been more perplexed than anything else—and downright shocked when she’d tried to go back to him because she didn’t want to be alone for the holidays. It was then that she’d begun to take a hard look at her life. She would deserve anything he might say to her, but that didn’t mean she wanted to hear it.
She started to back away, but his head snapped up and their eyes met. His mouth dropped open with surprise. He didn’t look any happier to see her than she was to see him, but he raised his hand to wave anyway. Always the perfect gentleman, with the perfect manners—which was the reason that Mary Lou still lamented every once in a while, “I cannot believe you let that man get away!”
Well, Mama, you see, I didn’t so much let him get away, as I drove him away. Hitting him in the head with a taco wasn’t my worst sin. It was just the final straw.
She put up her hand to return the wave and was about to turn to leave, when Brantley stood up. Yeah, he would. Years of cotillion and his Big Mama’s, Miss Caroline’s, instruction had programmed him to stand when a woman was in a fifty-mile radius.
It was only then that Tradd broadened her view and noticed who he was with—his wife, of course, Nickolai and Noel Glazov, and (damn, damn, damn) that hellcat of a best friend of his, Missy Bragg and her unfortunate husband, Harris.
They were all looking at her now. There was nothing to do but walk over there. As she approached, Harris rose. Apparently, his cotillion class had had a more relaxed and reasonable distance requirement for standing for a lady. Either that, or Missy had threatened to disembowel him if he stood any sooner. Glaz clearly hadn’t been to cotillion class at all, and only stood when he looked around and realized Brantley and Harris were on their feet.
What was this Merritt, Alabama crowd’s connection with The Sound captain, anyway?
Then it came back to her. Missy, of course; it was always Missy. She was first cousins with country superstar Jackson Beauford. Jackson’s wife was best friends with Glaz’s wife. And where Missy went, Brantley followed like a little dog. Well, how nice. Weren’t they all just one big party waiting to happen all the time?
“Rita May,” Brantley said as she approached. She had never allowed him to call her by her real name. That was a time when she’d been more concerned about building her brand than her music.
“Brantley. It’s good to see you.” The tension was as thick as lava from a spitting volcano.
She and Brantley regarded each other for a moment, and he bent to kiss her cheek. (More cotillion training.) She meant to turn her mouth farther away from him, but they blundered—which had been the story of their lives—and his mouth brushed hers.
They jerked apart.
“Sorry,” she said.
He wiped his mouth.
“I don’t believe you’ve met my wife, Lucy.” Brantley put his hand on the shoulder of the cute, dark-haired woman beside him.
“Actually, we did meet once.” Lucy’s face had a sweet look about it, but she wasn’t directing any honey in Tradd’s direction—not that Tradd could blame her. “At the Merritt Country Club Father’s Day Brunch. I was with my aunt.” Tradd didn’t remember that, though she had gone to Merritt with Brantley a few times during their on-again, off-again non-relationship. “And we spoke on the phone once. Briefly.”
Yeah, that—though there hadn’t been any speaking on Lucy’s part. That had happened a few months after Tradd and Brantley’s final breakup, though Tradd hadn’t known it at the time. Again, she’d assumed he was hers for the taking whenever she pleased. Turned out, he had not been delighted to see her when she’d sought him out to make up. In fact, he’d been so not delighted that he’d threatened to call the police if she didn’t leave immediately—and then, he’d left the room. Mistake on his part. When his cell phone rang and she saw a woman’s name come up, Tradd had answered and identified herself. When Lucy hung up, Tradd had smashed the phone and left. Not her finest moment—though not her worst either.
“Well, Rita May,” Missy said. “It’s been a while. I didn’t recognize you without the sound of objects breaking against the wall.” She turned to Nickolai and Noel. “Rita May has been known to get in a temper and destroy property—always other people’s property.” Hey, Missy, you don’t know that. I’ve broken plenty of my own stuff. There was some uneasy laughter around the table. Missy sipped her wine and passed a smile around the table.
But to be fair, Tradd had broken a respectful number of Brantley’s belongings—coffee cups, picture frames, a lamp or two—the usual stuff. No doubt he had shared it all with Missy. Missy had probably made a list of said items and read them out loud every All Soul’s Day like a priest remembering the recently deceased. She probably had a gong that she banged after every item.
Tradd could hear her now:
Waterford liquor decanter. Gong!
iPad. Gong!
Blue iced tea glass. Gong!
Bose headphones. Gong!
Half-empty jar of Smucker’s Strawberry Jam. Gong!
Tradd had the urge to throw something now—preferably something of Missy’s.
“I saw your video,” Harris said. “Congratulations.” Cotillion must teach when a change of subject was in order.
“Thank you,” Tradd said.
“Really?” Missy said. “Rita May has a video? I hadn’t heard. Well.”
Tradd knew the definition of well in this context. If you’ve got a video, you bought or slept your way to it.
“Yes,” Noel said. “And a hit record.” The no player/daughter fraternization rule applied to a lesser degree to married players and not at all to wives, so Tradd knew Glaz and Noel a little from team functions. Noel was one of the nicest, friendliest women Tradd had ever met, but she was going to be neutral here, and who could blame her? These people were her friends.
Maybe she should talk hockey a little and run. She turned to Nickolai. “Nice game tonight, Glaz. Two goals. That’s great.”
“Actually,” Noel said, “he got a hat trick.” She beamed at him.
One of those goals must have happened when she’d mentally checked out.
“I always play better when my Noel is watching.” Glaz stroked Noel’s cheek.
Nice. Glaz had learned the Pickens Two-Step well. He’d answered her politely but paid her no attention.
“Well, it was a great game.” Tradd took a half step backwards to disengage. “I’ll just let y’all get on with your evening. Nice to see everyone.”
“Good luck with your little song, Rita May,” Missy said. “Don’t break anything on the way out.”
This time the laughter was heartier, probably because they were relieved this horrible moment was about to be over.
And they couldn’t be any more relieved than she was.
Then she felt a hand on the small of her back. Lightning flashed and she felt like she’d been pushed off a cliff and saved all at the same time.
Tradd turned her head. He had a bruise the size of a quarter on his left cheekbone, and his bottom lip was split and swollen, giving him the look of a petulant child—a very beautiful petulant child. (Would her child look like this?) He gave her a level look then directed his attention to the table.
They were all smiling now, real smiles. How dare they smile at him?
“Thor!” Glaz said. “Good that you came out!”
“You seldom come yourself these days.” Thor kissed Noel’s cheek. “Noel.”
“Yes,” Glaz said. “We do not like to leave Anna Lillian for long periods of time.” He put a hand on Noel’s shoulder. “But tonight, we make an exception.” He gestured to the table. “Our friends are here and Anna Lillian is sharing a babysitter with Brantley and Lucy’s Eva Caroline and Harris and Missy’s Lulu. Their Beau stayed in Merritt with a friend. Everyone will spend the night with us at ou
r home in Beauford. Noel is making a lovely brunch in the morning.”
Well, wasn’t that just as cozy as cornbread next to a pile of beans? Maybe she could get in on some of that babysitting sharing in the future. But probably not. She wouldn’t want to leave her baby with any spawn of Missy.
Now Glaz was introducing Thor around. When he took his hand from the small of her back to greet them, she felt ungrounded. What kind of sense did that make?
“Would you like to join us, Thor?” Missy asked.
That was clear. He was invited, but she was not—not that she wanted to join them, oh, no. Hell, no. She’d rather sit on a stack of brimstone and have tea with Satan.
“No, thank you,” Thor said. “It was nice to meet all of you. I must go.” He turned and gave Tradd a look that said follow me.
So she did. Of course she did. But not too close. She didn’t want to give Glaz, or anyone else who might be watching, the idea that they might be leaving together.
Then she caught sight of the little alcove where The Big Skate sold souvenir T-shirts. Brilliant. She would go in and buy some stuff. That way, if anyone had noticed her arrive and leave without Buffalo wings, they would assume she had come in for merchandise.
She intended to buy a T-shirt but got caught up in the coffee mugs, bumper stickers, beer koozies, shot glasses, and bottle openers. She took so long picking out stuff that she figured Thor would be gone by the time she left. Maybe that was the point.
But when she emerged with her $273.49 worth of goods, he was standing by the door like a stone angel guarding a mausoleum—no wings, of course, though you couldn’t rule out a halo hidden in all that hair.
He looked at the huge bag she carried and frowned but didn’t comment.
“You waited for me,” she said.
He nodded. “I wanted to ask you who those horrible people are.” Had he heard the whole thing? “I’m going insist that Glaz pay a huge fine in kangaroo court for being friends with them.”
She shook her head. “Don’t do that. They aren’t horrible. At least most of them aren’t. Missy might be horrible. But she’s loyal. I’ll give her that.”
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