Body Check

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Right,” she said. “The band goes first.”

  “Yes.” He slipped the diamond studded band on her finger. “And what about the second band?” He replaced her engagement ring, and then stacked the second, identical band on top.

  She gasped. “Hell in a hand basket! I am bedazzled!”

  “And dazzling.” He could never remember kissing while laughing before.

  Even the judge chuckled a little.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tradd looked at the scoreboard from her seat in the VIP suite.

  There was less than two minutes left in the game, and The Sound was winning by three points. Pulled goalie or not, the game was over. Lars had been fantastic—a Viking god on skates who let no man get in his way. And in an hour—two tops—he’d be in her bed. Tonight and every other night.

  The suite was packed. Luckily, her parents had been too busy playing hosts to pay any attention to her.

  She had considered staying home and watching the game on television, but this might be her last chance to see Lars play. A big part of her couldn’t believe her father would really fire Lars—after all, they were married. But Pickens had a streak of wildcard in him, so you could never be sure.

  Still, she had been careful to keep her left hand hidden, but she stole a glance at her rings before covering them with her right hand. She had more platinum and jewels on her finger than Queen Elizabeth II had on her head at the opening of Parliament. If she’d been asked in advance what kind of rings she would want, she would have said that she preferred something smaller and more elegant, perhaps vintage—something that didn’t shout, “My husband is an NHL star, dammit!”

  But she loved these rings and her husband was an NHL star. They were bigger than Amy Giroux’s or Emory Beauford’s—Jackson Beauford’s wife. And they were a damned sight bigger than Missy Bragg’s. She didn’t even care that Lars hadn’t picked them out himself but had asked Mr. Klepacki to get them. She’d just been surprised and impressed that he’d been able to come up with rings at all on short notice.

  And what rings they were.

  Since they didn’t plan to tell Pickens and Mary Lou until tomorrow, she should have probably taken her rings off before coming here tonight, but the truth was, she hadn’t wanted to. She figured she’d keep them hidden, and if anyone did notice, she’d say it was costume jewelry.

  The arena was emptying out. Tradd was tempted to join them. It had been a long day, but she felt lighter.

  First thing this morning, she’d met with her manager, Martel, and confided what was going on. Tomorrow, after she and Lars told her parents, they would give Carson the exclusive story for Twang Magazine. Then Martel would tell the label she couldn’t do the tour and they would tell the Chesney organization.

  That part still made her a little sad, but she’d learned a long time ago you couldn’t have everything. And there had been a time when she’d had nothing—no career, no one to crawl into bed with, and no baby on the way.

  No ring that looked like a giant fountain in front of some kind of famous building in subzero weather.

  “What is that on your hand?”

  Hell in a hand basket! Tradd hadn’t realized Mary Lou had come to stand over her shoulder. She also hadn’t realized that she—Tradd—had gone from sneaking a peek at her rings to holding her hand in front of her face so she could openly admire them.

  She quickly hid her hand. “Nothing. Just some costume jewelry I picked up at Nordstrom.” She didn’t relish lying to her mother.

  A ghost of a frown kissed Mary’s Lou’s face. “You do know they look like wedding rings, don’t you?” She glanced at her own rings—an antique emerald and diamond halo pave concoction that had belonged to Tradd’s great-grandmother Pickens, and a plain gold band. Which, more’s the pity, bore no resemblance to a fountain, frozen or not.

  “Do they?” Tradd looked at her hand. “I guess they do. I just started stacking rings on my finger, and this is what I came up with.” More lies, but Mary Lou would know the truth soon enough.

  “Well.” Mary Lou, having lost interest in the rings, looked around distracted. “Your father wants to put in an appearance at The Big Skate. He would like for the two of us to go with him.”

  No! You see, Mama, you have a new son-in-law and we haven’t had a chance to consummate the marriage yet. We are supposed to meet back at my condo after this game and get that done. And I’m ready. Maybe it’s because my hormones are raging, maybe it’s because I just watched him hand the Blue Jackets their asses, or maybe it’s because he is that good, but I am past ready. In fact, I went to Saks this afternoon and bought a pure silk, ice blue, slutty La Perla nightgown—if something that cost that much can be considered slutty. Either way, I’m ready to put it on and take it off. I am ready for him to— No. She couldn’t even pretend say to her mother what she wanted him to do to her.

  And just what would happen if she said all that? Better not find out.

  “That’s a change from, ‘Now, Sister, don’t you go over to The Big Skate. I don’t want you tempting my players into breaking rules.’” In view of what was about to go down, that probably wasn’t the best thing to say either, but at least there was no reference to slutty nightgowns. She tried to think of a plausible reason that she could not go to The Big Skate, but couldn’t.

  Mary Lou laughed a little. “You’re a good sport, Tradd.” Well, that did it. She was a good sport. There could be no excuse forthcoming. She was going to The Big Skate. Mary Lou went on, “I’m proud of you for your change in attitude over the past few years—and for your accomplishments in your career. Anyway, they probably won’t be his players for much longer.”

  Yeah that. Tradd’s gut clenched. She had put that on her list of things to worry about later, but here it was. “Why, Mama? All I ever hear when I ask is a lot of hogwash. He clearly doesn’t want to sell. He loves this team.”

  Mary Lou closed her eyes, seeming to consider. “It’s me. I want him to sell.”

  Tradd had not seen that coming. “But why, Mama? You love all this.” She gestured to the suite, the arena, and the jersey Mary Lou wore.

  Mary Lou nodded. “But not as much as I love your father. For the sake of his health, something has to go.”

  A cold feeling washed over Tradd. “Is Daddy sick?”

  Mary Lou hesitated. “Yes … no, not really. At least not yet. But the doctor has been telling him for over a year he has to make some lifestyle changes. He has an ulcer. Headaches. His blood pressure is too high. He doesn’t get enough sleep. It’s wearing on him. He needs to slow down, reduce stress.”

  Well, great. A stressful situation just got worse. She would have to ponder how to deliver the news in the best possible way.

  “So you see the dilemma,” Mary Lou said.

  “But isn’t there something else he can give up? He cannot be excited about that farm to table business.”

  “Right.” Mary Lou nodded. “He’s not. It’s something he believes in and believes can make money, but he has nothing to contribute—and that’s what he needs. That’s how it was supposed to be when he bought The Sound. He was supposed to be the owner and show up to glad-hand and smile. The day-to-day operation was supposed to be left to the others. But you know how that turned out.”

  Maybe he did need to sell. But where did that leave Lars? And her and the baby? Maybe there was another way. “What about the Brentwood and downtown real estate? Couldn’t he sell that instead?”

  Mary Lou gave her an indulgent look. “Tradd, that property has been in my family for three generations. It was our bread and butter, and Pickens has turned it into a gold mine. It’s as close to a sure thing as can be had, and the reason he could buy The Sound in the first place. The Sound has been good to us lately, but that wasn’t and won’t always be true. The Sound was supposed to be a fun investment. We were probably naive at the time, but we aren’t anymore—at least I’m not. I know what it takes to run that team.”

  Tradd nod
ded. “I had no idea.”

  “He didn’t want you to worry.”

  “I am worried.”

  Mary Lou smiled. “Don’t be. At least not tonight. Now come and help me gently coerce these people into leaving so we can get to The Big Skate.”

  Thor accepted the Gatorade and towel that Packi handed him.

  “You played a good game,” Packi said.

  “Thanks. And thanks for sharpening my skates.” It was nice to end the season on a high—not that it mattered. Playoffs started next week, and then it was just a matter of time.

  “How did you know it was me?” Packi asked.

  “I can always tell. Caleb and Marty do a fine job, but you put in a little magic.”

  Packi laughed. “There’s no such thing as magic.”

  “That’s not what the guys say. They say you appear out of nowhere knowing things you couldn’t know if you didn’t have some magic.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “I have never discounted your abilities. Thank you for all you did earlier.”

  “She was pleased with the rings?” Packi held his hand out for the skate Thor had just removed.

  “More than pleased. She loved them.”

  “Yeah?” Packi wiped down the skate. “Might be best to never let her know you didn’t pick them out yourself.”

  Thor handed him the second skate. “She knows.”

  Packi looked surprised. “See? I don’t know everything. You told her and she didn’t care?”

  “She was just happy I had gone to the trouble of making it happen on short notice.” He smiled at the memory of her reaction. “And she was happy they were more impressive than Jonteau’s. It didn’t occur to me to lie to her.”

  “Is that right?” Packi looked thoughtful. “Well, you have that going for you, anyway.”

  Thor didn’t like the sound of that. “Do you think that’s all I’ve got going for me?”

  “Not at all. There’s a bike waiting for your cool down. Get to it and I’ll go make sure there’s an empty massage table waiting for you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Tradd and her parents stepped onto the elevator that would take them to the closest exit for VIP parking. He father was insisting that Tradd ride with them to The Big Skate, with no plan about how she was going to get her car. But that was Pickens all over—he was more concerned with what he wanted now than what was going to happen in two hours, when she ought to be in bed with her husband.

  Husband. The word was foreign and delicious.

  Dammit, she and Lars had had a plan, and now it was all muddled up. She had to go rogue, and he wouldn’t know until she could steal a minute to text him—which probably wouldn’t be until she got to The Big Skate. If she tried from the car, Pickens would likely say, “Well, Sister, I thought you were here with us. Maybe you’d rather be with whoever you feel compelled to text while in polite company.” Right you are, father of mine. I would rather be with him.

  “It’s ridiculous for me to leave my car here, when I live right down the street from The Big Skate.” Might as well try again.

  “You let me worry about that,” Pickens said. “I don’t want you driving in this traffic.”

  “I am perfectly capable—”

  Just then, the elevator door opened, and as Tradd stepped out, someone took her picture, and a microphone appeared in her face.

  “Do you have a comment, Ms. Sanderson? Or will you continue to be Ms. Sanderson? Will you take Mr. Eastrom’s name?”

  Hell in a hand basket, fifty times over.

  When in doubt, lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Young lady,” Pickens said to the reporter. “How did you get back here? This area is off limits for non-Bridgestone personnel.”

  The woman ignored Pickens, held up her iPad, and turned it on. “So you deny that you married Lars Eastrom at the Davidson County Courthouse this morning?”

  And a picture appeared on the screen of the two of them leaving the courthouse—him in the buff-colored linen suit he’d worn and she in a pale pink sheath. She knew just the moment the picture had been taken. When they’d stepped out the door, a strong wind had hit them, she’d wobbled a bit on her stilettos, and he’d throw a protective arm around her and pulled her to him.

  “Where did you get that?” Tradd asked.

  “It went up on a Sound fan site the moment the game was over.”

  “Now, see here!” Pickens bellowed.

  “Two people coming out of a courthouse does not mean they are married,” Tradd said.

  “Ms. Sanderson, you are carrying a bouquet of flowers, and marriage records are public record.”

  Well, hell. It only occurred to Tradd after her face had, no doubt, given her away that the woman hadn’t actually said she had the record—only that it was public. But what did it matter?

  “My daughter has no comment.” That came not from Pickens, but Mary Lou.

  But it was Pickens who pulled Tradd back inside and closed the elevator door.

  They were now sitting in Pickens’s Bridgestone Arena office.

  Pickens gave Tradd a murderous look as he spoke into his phone. “Todd!” he bellowed. Todd Colton would be The Sound head coach. “Tell that son of a bitch to get his ass to my office pronto.” He paused. “What do you mean what son of a bitch? Thor. The Fair-Haired Child. My golf buddy. Send him up here now. Is that so? I don’t care if he hasn’t cooled down. I don’t care if he hasn’t had a shower. I don’t care if his leg was detached and the trainers aren’t done sewing it back on.”

  So much for delivering the news in a way that would minimize the stress. “I guess this isn’t going to go well,” Tradd murmured.

  Mary Lou gave Tradd a warning look. “Nordstrom, you say?”

  Tradd looked at her hand. “You can’t say he wasn’t generous.”

  “You don’t think it’s a little much?”

  “A little much? You of the guitar-encrusted, white satin halter top?”

  “The guitars were on the pants,” Mary Lou said. “There were musical notes on the halter top. Anyway, that was a costume. This is real life.”

  “And my rings are your chief concern?”

  Mary Lou rubbed her forehead. “No, of course not. I’m in shock. When were you going to tell us this?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “I can’t tell you how disappointed I am, Tradd.” Mary Lou said. “You didn’t have to get married like this—sneaking off like you’re ashamed. We should have had lovely parties, flowers …” Her voice trailed off as if she couldn’t remember other elements of a wedding. “Anyway, you didn’t have to do it like this.”

  “Didn’t we?” She glanced at Pickens, who had his nose buried in his phone.

  Pickens began to read aloud, not for the first time. “Sound forward Thor Eastrom and new country music sensation Rita May Sanderson (aka Tradd Davenport, who just happens to be the daughter of The Sound owner Pickens Davenport) were seen leaving the courthouse looking pretty chummy.” He had read similar items. Some thought the picture didn’t look like them. Some were sure they’d seen the two of them out together before. Many women hoped it wasn’t true, because they wanted Lars for themselves. “Hmm,” Pickens said. “Here’s one that thinks it was Photoshopped.”

  “Oh, please,” Tradd said. “We aren’t important enough for someone to Photoshop us.”

  The door flew open and Lars exploded into the room. He wore his compression undergarments with a pair of shorts over them and running shoes, and his hair was damp.

  He immediately went to Tradd and put a hand on her shoulder. He smelled like a hockey game and that was never good.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” Except for the odor you have visited on me.

  “Are you sure? You should not be upset. It isn’t good for you or the baby.”

  And for a split second no one—with the possible exception of Lars—moved or breathed.

  Mary Lo
u finally turned her head and looked at Tradd. She was marshmallow white and her eyes had never been so wide.

  Then they all looked at Pickens, whose face resembled a large maraschino cherry.

  “Baby!” he exploded. “Baby!” He stood up and rested his fists on his desk. “You not only went behind my back and married my daughter, you got her pregnant. And to think I was considering not firing you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Thor leaned on Tradd’s chair. He did not remove his hand from her shoulder. He was confused. Apparently he had let the cat out of the box about the baby, but wasn’t that what all this was about?

  “Calm down, Pickens,” Mary Lou said quietly. “Your blood pressure.”

  “Calm down?” He sat back down and rested his hands on the desk. “I’m not even close to calming down.” He grimaced and let his eyes rest on Thor. “Boy, you stink.”

  Thor nodded. “I do. Hockey playing always produces stink. I can return to the locker room and shower if you like.”

  “Your locker room days are over.”

  Once when he’d been swimming in the ocean, a huge wave had caught him unaware and slammed into him, leaving him helpless and at the mercy of a force of nature. That’s how he felt now. He wasn’t surprised, and he thought he’d been prepared for this moment. But when he’d imagined his career being over, he had thought about the skating out, the fights, the goals, the penalties, the victories, the losses.

  He hadn’t thought about the locker room. The locker room was home in a way the ice could never be. The ice was a stage where you brought your best, but you could take everything to the locker room. It was a private place where you got your pep talks and your ass chewed, celebrated victories, licked wounds over defeats, argued with your teammates, and made up with them again. It was the heart of the team. Funny that he’d never thought about the locker room and now he’d never be there again.