Body Check

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  In the back of the plane, her band was having a high time with Jackson’s.

  She had thought she would sit with her band members, but from the first flight, they had joined The Barroom Brawlers as if it was expected of them. She didn’t know them that well anyway. She’d only hired them two months ago, and they didn’t work exclusively for her. Maybe they needed a name. Maybe the Pips.

  Jackson and his people had invited her to sit up front with them, but they always seemed to be working on something. So she’d chosen to sit alone. It was a good time to nap and reflect.

  She played over and over in her mind that last confrontation with Lars.

  Lars. Maybe she should try to revert to thinking of him as Thor. After all, they wouldn’t be special to each other anymore. Or he wouldn’t be special to her. All she’d ever been to him was a roll in the hay and an incubator. She’d said what she had in anger, but she’d meant it.

  Still, they needed to get on. Maybe she would text him and apologize. But he might take that as an indication that she wanted to stay married, live together. They should probably stay married until the baby was born, but living together? That was out. Her heart wouldn’t take it.

  Heart wouldn’t take. What the heart can take. What the heart can’t take. Not quite right. What the heart won’t take. There. That could be a song. She reached for her iPad.

  “You’re looking pleased with yourself.”

  Tradd looked up to see Jackson Beauford standing over her.

  She laughed a little. “I just got an idea for a song.”

  He smiled. “I can relate. The idea is exciting. Finishing it is exciting. The work in the middle—not always a lot of fun.”

  She nodded. “That’s the truth. But sometimes it comes easy.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes it does. You know you killed it tonight.”

  Her head snapped up, surprised. “You saw?”

  “Sure.” He let himself down in the seat across the aisle from her. “I saw a bit. You’re going places. I’ll say I knew you when.”

  “Oh, right. But I really appreciate this opportunity, Jackson. Opening for you would have been a dream come true if I had even considered it—which I did not. Your cousin is not my biggest fan.”

  He laughed. “That’s an understatement. But if I’d let Missy dictate my actions, I don’t know where I’d be, but certainly not here.”

  “Not with me on your plane, for sure.”

  “Missy’s not always fair.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Tradd said. “But she wasn’t unfair to me. I had it coming. I treated Brantley Kincaid abysmally.”

  “It takes a big person to admit that.”

  “I like to think I’ve grown.”

  “And see how it’s all turned out. Brantley is married to Missy’s best friend, which makes his life easier. And now you have your own happy marriage and your baby on the way.”

  “Yes. I’m very lucky.” Her heart felt hollow. She smiled. “And lucky to be here.”

  “We’re lucky to have you.” He rose and took a step toward the back of the plane. “Hey, Rita May?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shoot me a copy of the words to ‘Scattered, Shattered, Fractured’ and I’ll pay you a little visit on stage tomorrow night. If that’s okay.” He gave her what the press referred to as his million-dollar smile. “Your album releases tomorrow. I’ll mention that. Might sell a record or two.”

  She caught her breath. “Thank you. I’ll get that right to you.”

  For the first time, she felt like she was really on her way. She had just gotten the Jackson Beauford stamp of approval.

  But somehow, it didn’t mean as much as it would have in a different time and place.

  Thor lay on the couch in the guest house watching the Bruins/Maple Leafs game. It was the second game of the series, and the Bruins were up 3-2. They’d won the first game, too.

  Not that he cared. The Sound was back in town. It hadn’t gone well in Minnesota. They had lost both games and would face the Wild on home ice next. That might help.

  He hadn’t called Tradd. He almost had, more than once, but she’d been pretty resolved the last time he’d seen her. Somehow, he thought if he rocked the ship, he would end up in the water.

  Not that he wasn’t already.

  The doorbell rang. Great. Just what he needed. It would probably be the wild twins wanting get drunk, be loud, and complain about the refs in Minnesota.

  But when he opened the door, he found none other than Pickens Davenport.

  “You’re a hard fellow to track down.” Pickens walked in without being invited. “I went to the condo first, then up to the big house. Finally, I saw lights on here.”

  “You could have texted me. I would have told you where I am.”

  “I don’t have a phone. I threw it against the wall and broke it. Haven’t had a chance to get another one.”

  So Tradd had come by it honest—the breaking things when she was displeased. “Drink?” Thor held up his beer.

  Pickens sighed and sat down on the couch. “I’d better not. Mary Lou’s got me on a one drink a day diet, and I’ve got some making up to do. I drank way too much in Minnesota.”

  “Understandable.”

  Pickens nodded. “The fans are calling for my head for firing you.”

  “You didn’t fire me!” Thor exploded. “Why does everybody keep saying that? I resigned!”

  Pickens shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. The fans are upset. Two up and two down is hard to take.”

  “My presence on the ice wouldn’t have mattered.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Pickens said.

  “Ultimately, it wouldn’t have mattered.”

  “They’re always unhappy about something,” Pickens said.

  “Wait until they find out their team is moving to Massachusetts.”

  “That remains to be seen. I haven’t signed anything yet.”

  Out of habit, Thor almost swallowed the words he wanted to say to Pickens but changed his mind. “I’m going tell you what I think about that, Pickens.” And why the hell not? Pickens wasn’t his boss anymore and, if Tradd were to be believed, he wasn’t going to be his father-in-law much longer either.

  But he didn’t want to think about that.

  “Go on,” Pickens said.

  “Stop jerking everybody around. Sell the team. Don’t sell the team. But decide and come clean. I know Mary Lou wants you to sell and I know why. Tradd told me.”

  Pickens frowned. “I didn’t want Tradd to know that.”

  “Well, she does. And she’s concerned. Make up your mind.”

  “My mind is made up. I don’t want to sell, but the doctors have a point. I don’t exercise. I eat junk. I drink too much and I let The Sound take over my life. I don’t want to fall over dead either.”

  “Then stop trying to do it all yourself.” Maybe this was something he could do for Tradd since he seemed to have screwed up everything else.

  “That’s not my way.”

  “You might want to consider that somebody else might know something. Take this year’s draft. Dietrich Wingo is a mistake.”

  “What? Wingo was the best goalie on the board.”

  “Maybe. But he’s not better than Emile.”

  “I never said he was. But Emile can’t play forever.”

  “That’s true. But Wingo has never played second fiddle to anyone, from mites on up. He’s going to come in here like a little prince expecting to get his due. And when he finds out he’s not to going to be the goalie in charge, he’ll be angry and disgruntled. That breeds dissension on the team.”

  “So who would you have taken?”

  “Oliver. He is nearly as good as Wingo, but he’s had to learn to wait his turn. He would have learned from Emile and been ready when the time came. Wingo needed to go to a team who needs him now.”

  “How do you know all this?” Pickens asked.

  “I make it my business to know every
thing about who I might be playing with or against.”

  But it turns out, for next season, it’s no one.

  Thor hadn’t spoken the words, but they hung in the air like a dark cloud anyway.

  “Well. I guess it’ll be Baker Blackstone’s problem,” Pickens said.

  “No,” Thor said. “It will be the problem of the General Manager that Blackstone hires.”

  On the screen, the Bruins scored again. “Are they going to win the whole thing?” Pickens asked.

  “Too early to tell, but if I had to bet.”

  “I hate to see my team relocated to a state that already has an institution like the Bruins—especially on the heels of a Stanley Cup win.”

  “Then don’t do it,” Thor said. “Find another way to cope.” He was weary of this conversation. He had real problems.

  “How is my daughter?” Pickens asked.

  In for a penny in for a dollar. “Hell if I know. She’s not speaking to me. Threw me out of the condo.”

  Pickens’s face turned red. “What did you do to her?”

  “If I knew, I’d fix it.”

  “Sounds like you need to find a better way to cope, too … What the hell?” Pickens’s eyes were trained on the screen and Thor followed his gaze.

  It was a picture of Tradd and one of him in his hockey gear. “This just in,” the announcer said. “Country music star Rita May Sanderson and wife of former Nashville Sound player, Lars Eastrom, reportedly fell off the stage during rehearsals in LA earlier tonight. She is on tour in California with Jackson Beauford. She was taken to the hospital. We don’t know her condition, but we have reports that she was taken to surgery.”

  A thousand bricks landed on Thor’s chest.

  Pickens jumped to his feet. “Let’s go. We’ll take the team plane.”

  “Mary Lou?” Thor barely managed to get the words out.

  “She went back to Charleston with my sister.”

  Right. The sister he had never gotten around to meeting. But he might get another chance—at Tradd’s funeral.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The flight was the longest four hours of Thor’s life, and he learned that there were no words that deserved to be hated more than still in surgery.

  That’s all he had been able to find out before his phone died. He didn’t even know what the surgery was for.

  “I cannot believe there’s no phone charger on this airplane,” he said not for the first time.

  “We are two phoneless sons of bitches. I know why I don’t have one. What I don’t understand is why you let yours die.”

  “I’ve been a little distracted.” He got up and started toward the cockpit.

  “Where are you going?” Pickens asked.

  “To get the pilot’s phone.”

  “Don’t bother. He won’t have one.”

  “Of course he will. Everybody has a phone.” Everybody but them.

  Pickens shook his head. “When the FAA ruled that pilots can’t use electronic devices while in flight, I took it a step further and banned the crew from bringing phones onto The Sound plane. They didn’t like it.”

  “A lot of people don’t like a lot of things you do.”

  “Can we not bicker?”

  Pickens was right. This was hard for him, too. “I can’t stand this.”

  “I know, son. I know. There’s nothing worse than not knowing if the person you love most in the world is all right.”

  Person he loved most in the world?

  Was it possible?

  “How are you doing?” Ginger, Jackson’s manager, adjusted the pillow under Tradd’s arm—the one with the IV.

  “Feeling like a fool. One minute I was singing and next I was sailing through space.”

  “You tripped on a cord,” Ginger said. “It should have been secured better.”

  “I should have watched better.”

  “You were lucky.”

  That was true. She’d really done a number on her wrist when she’d tried to break her fall, but after several hours of surgery, they had put it back together with a few pins. Aside from that, all she’d suffered were some scrapes and bruises.

  “So lucky.” She put her unhurt hand on her stomach.

  “According to your mother, your husband and father are on their way here, but no one has been able to reach them by phone. They should be here any time.”

  Great. Just what she needed. Lars saying he told her so. It was just like them to be flying around like a couple of keystone cops with no phones and no plans. If she were lucky, they’d end up in Louisville, Little Rock, Lubbock, or some other place that started with L. She was in no mood. She might get a restraining order—except she doubted if there were any lawyers doing business this time of night. Too bad.

  “It’s late, Ginger. Why don’t you go? I know you’re exhausted.”

  “Are you sure?” The woman looked like she’d been given a reprieve—a reprieve she deserved. She’d been here for hours.

  “I think I could use some sleep myself.”

  “I’m sure you could. Hospitals are weird places, right? They practically throw you against the wall until you wake up from the surgery anesthesia. They put something in your IV to make you sleep. Then they wake you up every fifteen minutes to check your vitals.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been through it.”

  “A time or two.” Ginger moved Tradd’s cell phone closer to the edge of the bedside table. “I’ll be back in the morning. I charged your phone, and I have your jewelry and credit cards. There’s ten dollars in bills and change in your nightstand drawer in case you want something from the vending machine.”

  “That was thoughtful.” Though she doubted she was going to make any pilgrimages in search of Mountain Dew and Snickers bars. You couldn’t say Ginger didn’t cover all the bases.

  Ginger laughed. “Just a habit. After he cut his first record, Jackson Beauford never charged a phone or kept up with a single personal item until a few years ago. Call me if you need anything.”

  If she needed anything.

  She needed to throw her water glass against the wall, but it seemed to be plastic and what kind of satisfaction would she find in that?

  She needed to be unhurt and looking toward the next show.

  She needed her marriage to not be added to one of those slide shows of the shortest celebrity marriages in history.

  Yet, here she was with a shattered wrist, a signature away from being a single mother, and not a piece of crystal in sight to throw.

  And she never had gotten to sing with Jackson. The only bright spot in this day was her album had been released and, the last time she’d checked, was selling like biscuits at a jelly convention. And according to Ginger, Jackson had come out on the stage tonight when she would have been performing, sang three of her songs, and plugged the album.

  Yes, indeed. Everything was working out so well. Ha.

  Lars would probably accuse her falling off the stage to get publicity. But what did it matter? He was never, ever going to love her.

  She prided herself on not crying, but she wasn’t ashamed when the tears slid down her cheeks. She’d earned them.

  Maybe she deserved this. She probably did. What had she expected after spending the better part of her life acting like a spoiled brat? A clean slate? Just because she thought she deserved it? Maybe if she apologized to everyone she had inflicted misery on, she really could start over.

  It would be a long list—a list she couldn’t even write because it was her right wrist that was broken.

  Maybe she could start with Brantley. His number was probably still in her phone. It was awkward scrolling through with her left hand, but there it was. It was late here and later still in Merritt, Alabama. The pain meds were doing their job and she couldn’t work out the time difference, but what did it matter when apologies and her future karma were at stake?

  She pressed the button—and was shortly informed that the number was no longer in service. Well, of c
ourse not. It had been years. He’d probably changed it after that time she’d answered when Lucy called and then smashed his phone.

  She couldn’t even apologize right.

  Well. She continued to scroll looking for other wronged parties.

  And just then, the door opened and Lars filled the room like he’d filled her heart.

  Turns out, she was no longer in the mood for a restraining order.

  He slowly walked to the bed, letting his eyes drift up and down her.

  “I thought you might be in Lubbock, Texas,” she said.

  He frowned. “Why would I be there?”

  “No reason.”

  He looked at her for a long moment. She braced herself for the tongue lashing that was bound to be coming: I told you so. You’ve risked the baby for your career. You are an unfit mother and I will sue you for sole custody. Failing that, I will steal your baby and run away to Sweden. It’s not like I have a job here—and thank you very much for that.

  He took her hand—the unhurt one—dropped to his knees, lowered his head and whispered, “Thank God!”

  “Yes,” she said. “The baby is fine.”

  His head popped up and he met her eyes. “He is? Then thank God for that, too.”

  Confusion set in—confusion that went beyond the drugs pouring into her body from the IV. “They didn’t tell you?”

  “No! I don’t know anything. And I didn’t slow down when Pickens stopped to talk to the nurses. We didn’t have phones on the plane—it doesn’t matter why. I knew you were in surgery. That’s all. I didn’t know for what. I still don’t know anything except you’re alive. And that’s enough.”

  Enough? And he hadn’t known the baby was all right. Nothing made sense.

  “It’s only your arm? Nothing else?”

  “My wrist is broken—shattered, really. But other than a few bruises, that’s it. I can leave the hospital tomorrow. There will be some healing time and physical therapy, but they said it shouldn’t slow me down much.”

  He stood up and kissed each of her cheeks, then her hand, and then her lips. “I don’t know what I would have done. All the way here, I thought you could be dead.”