Hot on Ice: A Hockey Romance Anthology

by Avery Flynn

  “Archibald, point of order. I’m doing you a favor, not working for you. Watch your tone.” There was a girl he remembered from school. Arrogant, entitled, and full of herself—problem was, she was exactly as good as she believed herself to be.

  “Either way, you’re not my mother.” No one was. Not anymore. “I did the right thing. Maybe it wasn’t the most politically correct and maybe not the most media savvy or expedient thing, but it was the right thing. That girl needed help, and I gave it to her. Now, what else have you got for me?”

  Frankly, he was done with her line of questioning and conversation. Tossing the used towel toward the bathroom, he returned to his suitcase. Normally, he would have allowed the staff to unpack for him, but his new low profile meant privacy for his trip. Since, Felicity wanted him out of the city, he supposed not having to repack was a good thing. Sitting right on top of his clothes was a photograph of his mother, the one item he made sure to take with him wherever he traveled.

  Damn, he missed her. Turning it over, he spared her the vision of her son naked. It took him no time to pull out briefs, slacks, and a shirt. He considered jeans, but he needed to dress for the occasion. His jacket hung in the closet.

  “Are you even listening to me?” The strident note Felicity hit managed to penetrate his ruminations. No, he hadn’t been listening to her.

  “Sorry, no, what’s up?”

  “What time are you leaving? I’ve got reservations for you up in the Adirondacks. Really nice place, you’re gonna love it. It’s quiet, there’s lots of nature, hiking, and fishing.”

  Because when one thought of Archer Durham, they thought of hiking and fishing. He simply shook his head. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Hey, here’s another fun fact—this mountain lodge place, it’s a real popular destination, but also family oriented. There’s no reason for the press to be there, and no partying, but you might learn how to merengue.”

  Archer didn’t have the heart to tell Felicity that no way in hell was he going to some mountain retreat in the middle of the Adirondacks. Summertime or not, nice weather or not, he had a date with Broadway.

  “Okay.” He chose the path of least resistance. Not arguing would keep her happy, then he would simply do whatever the hell he wanted to anyway. “Text me the info.”

  “All ready done. I also emailed it, and put a copy of the reservation in the doc box. I’ve ordered a car to be at the hotel at seven. I figure that would give you time to sleep and let the press quiet down. Slip out when they’re dealing with the evening news.”

  It made sense. The local press had to take a breather when the news aired, and their competitors were on, so they see what leads they had. Others would have to file their stories, so their attention would be elsewhere and not on who was coming and going. Decent plan. Jacket on, he checked his watch.

  “Sounds good. I need food. I will talk to you later, Fel.” Before he could hang up, she coughed. Finger poised above the disconnect button, he waited.

  “Archer, I need your word that you’ll be in the car tonight, on your way to the Adirondacks and out of sight. This is important—for your team and your family. We need time for that scandal to die down. We need time for people to stop using you as the butt of jokes on late-night television. Capiche?”

  Gritting his teeth, he didn’t say the first three things that came to mind, at least not aloud. Blowing out a breath, he shook his head. “I got the information, Felicity. Thank you for your assistance.”

  “That’s not an ans—” He hit the red disconnect. He hadn’t given her a direct answer. Keeping that in mind and knowing how she was, he went ahead and shut his phone off. It made him feel kinda naked to be that disconnected from the universe but it was better than checking social media, and he sure as hell wasn’t watching the news. At this point, going dark seemed to be his best option. He could go dark at the Johnson Arms just as well as he could in the Adirondacks. After tucking his wallet into his inner jacket pocket, he left his phone in the room.

  Downstairs, the lobby was relatively quiet, and it looked as though a chunk of the media had abandoned their posts out front. Too bad, there were a few, diehard souls. Diverting away from the front, he headed to the concierge desk.

  “Good morning, sir. How can we help you today?”

  Flashing his best, and hopefully most charming, smile, Archer said, “Could you have a car brought around for me downstairs? I like to exit via the garage.”

  “Absolutely, sir. If you’ll give me just one moment, we’ll make sure that they’re distracted and don’t see the car leaving.” Trust the concierge to be the soul of discretion.

  Archer tapped the man’s desk and said, “Good man.” He headed downstairs. The nice thing about the Johnson Arms old world style hotel was it still possessed a servant’s entrance of sorts. In the past, guests arrived through one entrance and employees through another. Exiting through the parking garage wasn’t popular, but it did provide him a way out that didn’t involve pedestrians and stragglers out front. His only audience was one bored looking security attendant who kept watch over the vehicles.

  He didn’t have to wait long for the town car. Once inside, he gave the driver the address. First he had to go pay respects, then he had a lunch. Afterward, he would make his way back to the Johnson Arms to ride out the turbulent storm. The Keeper would be there later that afternoon, hopefully before the so-called seven PM deadline for his vehicle, and then he could see about switching his tickets out. But one way or another, he was taking the Cup to see one of the best musicals for his mother.

  “You sure you want to go all the way out to Long Island?” The driver glanced at the pair of addresses on the slip of paper. “It could be cutting it close to make it back for lunch in Midtown.”

  “I know. I don’t have to be in Long Island very long. You’ll be well tipped.”

  The driver shrugged. “Whatever you say, sir.”

  Surprisingly, traffic proved light. They made it all the way out to Long Island and the cemetery. When the driver parked, he gave Archer an expectant look.

  “I’ll be about fifteen minutes. There’s a coffee shop about three blocks from here.” He leaned forward and passed him a $100 bill. “Would you mind grabbing me a latte while you’re at it? Keep the rest. Don’t worry, you can keep the meter running.”

  Not that the car had a meter, but the driver seemed to appreciate the gesture. Stepping out, he let the warm sunshine wash over him. The afternoons might heat up, but mornings remained cool in the shade of all the trees.

  It was a short walk to the family crypt of Deanna Campbell. Her family hadn’t allowed her to be buried with Archer’s father, something the rest of the family hadn’t fought, either. The contentious relationship between his parents never resulted in true divorce—because of their generation, it hadn’t been allowed. Soon, he stood before her headstone. With a sigh, he squatted to stare at her name. He paid good money for attendants to keep the stone clean and fresh flowers always in the pot. But he had brought a rose, and he placed it in the empty pot. Roses had always been her favorite, though she insisted she never wanted Archer to buy them for her until she was dead. A morbid thought, but one she insisted upon because she thought it would make it special.

  “Besides, my darling, roses should always go from a gentleman to his lady, not his mother. If you want to get me roses so badly, you can bring them to my gravestone. Many, many years from now.”

  A pity her many, many years from when she’d made that statement had turned out to be less than five.

  Cancer sucked.

  “Hey, Mom, I know it’s been a while since I got over here to see you. Been pretty busy. But I wanted to be the one who told you, we did it. We won the Cup.” Seemed rather a paltry thing to offer his mother, in light of everything. “It’s pretty cool professionally, and for the team. We—they deserve it. I’m just happy to have been part of it.” Humility had never come easy to him, except when talking to his mother. Maybe beca
use, out of everyone, she accepted him for exactly who he was, flaws and gifts combined. She didn’t judge, she didn’t issue proclamations, and she’d never demanded he be anything but who he was. “I know you would probably like me to have my birth name etched into the Cup, but I think you would have forgiven my preference of Archer to Archibald.” At least he hoped so, because if no one ever called him Archibald again, it would be too soon. “I miss you, Mom. You would have known how to deal with all this video nonsense. You probably would have laughed. I’m pretty sure, anyway. It’s the only thing that keeps me going. The family’s been great, more supportive I think of me than they ever were with you.” Maybe more supportive of him than they’d ever been of his father, but he didn’t bring that up. His father had been known to have numerous affairs, despite his marriage, and while Archer held cancer responsible for taking his mother, he held his father’s behavior responsible for breaking her heart in the first place. Maybe if his father hadn’t been such a dick, his mother would’ve had more impetus to survive.

  Swiping at the burning sensation in his eyes, he straightened and said, “I did something chivalrous today. Hope you caught that. I made sure a lady got to her car. And I’m taking the Cup to see Hancock. I know you would’ve loved that musical, and I got tickets—I got them a year ago, because I wanted to remember you on your birthday. Then I thought, if I won the Cup, I’d take it in honor of you.”

  He felt awkward, and he didn’t have much else to say, so he shook his head. “I’ll try not to be such a stranger. Try to get here more often, and I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

  A curious scratching sensation in the back of his throat left him on the edge of tears, but he forced them away. He hadn’t cried when she died, he didn’t deserve to cry right now. Squaring his shoulders, he headed away from her grave. His car would return shortly. He needed to have his coffee and ride back to the city then get on with life as he knew it.

  He really did need to get out to see his mother more often. She’d always deserved better from everyone, especially him.

  “The new princess of pop is in New York this week to film a Christmas special. It may seem too hot outside to be celebrating the holidays early, but she’ll be pre-recording her variety show debut. More to come…” – ACE News Clip

  Rehearsal got off to a rocky start, but she made two discoveries that helped. One, the studio security kept the paparazzi and press out, and two, she was so busy learning what marks to hit, which stage cues to follow, and how to work with her backup singers and dancers that she couldn’t worry about what was going on with her family. The busy rehearsal also kept her mind off of Adonai’s issues, or at least preoccupied enough she didn’t stare at her phone, waiting for an update or arguing with herself over whether to call her parents.

  Singing on television was different than performing on a live stage, particularly because of the way they queued up the sound systems and needed to lay down the soundtrack. As she ran through her number a dozen different ways, the director and one of the producers discussed the best lighting, the best set design, the best dance, and even the best key for her song—along with a dozen other issues that had nothing to do with her.

  Hoshi liked to think of herself as a good sport, and she agreed to most anything, whether it was blocking keeping her on the left side of the stage, or the director’s decision she needed to be framed throughout the performance by all of the background performers while illuminated in bright red. The only place she drew the line was about what key they preferred. She knew her vocal range better than they did, and no amount of pre-recording could make her sound like a high soprano.

  She sang squarely in the mid-range, particularly middle C. It kept her voice fun and it allowed her the breath needed to be engaging. Though she could hit those high notes, it took every ounce of effort she had. Not to mention breath. She could go into the lower registers then, and it took more concentration to combine walking and talking while not coming across breathless.

  By the time they broke for lunch, she dripped with sweat and could have sworn her stomach gnawed on her backbone in hunger. That french toast breakfast seemed decades rather than hours before. She had to have danced off at least five thousand calories easy.

  “You’re doing good, kiddo,” the director said as he gave her a quick squeeze. His attention seemed elsewhere, and he didn’t meet her gaze once as he texted on his phone. “I know it’s tough, but you’re doing great. The best thing to remember is keep putting one foot in front of the other and don’t slow down for anybody, got it?”

  He didn’t wait for her response. After another quick squeeze, he was off, yelling for one of the producers as they left the set for lunch. Hoshi grabbed a bottle of water and a seat in the second row. It was insane to see how the studio they worked in included an audience area much smaller than she expected. Which meant the audience would be right on top of the stage where she performed, if they used this particular rehearsal stage for the live show.

  It was just after one, so she wrapped a cool towel around her nape. It helped with the overheating. She pulled her phone from her purse and switched it on.

  The cell buzzed and vibrated as though it was having a seizure. Message after message appeared on the screen. From friends. From family—though only her cousins, not her parents or her brother.

  She had more than a dozen missed calls, more voicemails, and her email’s inbox had gone from two messages to two hundred while she’d been in rehearsal.

  A part of her wanted just to skip right over all of it, open an app then play a game and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.

  “Miss Sato?” one of the stagehands called.

  “Yes?”

  “We need to reset some lights overheard, Probably better if you weren’t in the set area while we were. Safer.”

  Her heart sank. She’d been considering hiding on the set for her lunch in order to avoid any possible run-ins.

  “Security will keep the press out, and the lunch room is on the tenth floor. Trust me, you’ll be fine.” It was like the stagehand read her mind.

  “Is it really that obvious?” She wasn’t trying to be disingenuous, she truly just wanted quiet.

  “Happens a lot. More than you think. Head down in the elevator, grab some food and just relax. Let the door staff know you’re here for this show, and they’ll take care of you.” Whether it was his advice or the fatherly smile he offered, she felt better.

  “Thank you…?”

  “J.J.” The man supplied his name and she smiled again.

  “Thank you, J.J. Now I’ll get out of your way so that you can get lunch, too.”

  He waved her out. She turned the screen on her phone then hurried to the elevator. All the way to the lunch level, she totally ignored anything to do with reading her messages or emails. At her height, everyone loomed over her, which meant they could read over her shoulder. Talk about a lack of privacy.

  When she arrived on the tenth, it occurred to her she hadn’t actually cleaned up from rehearsal and she grimaced. Surreptitiously checking her armpits, she was relieved to discover she didn’t smell as bad as she felt. Still, she should probably wash her face and hands. So she diverted quickly to the restroom.

  She’d braided her hair up into two pigtails for the duration of the rehearsal. At least it didn’t stick up awkwardly. A quick absolution in the bathroom, including splashing cold water on her face then washing her hands, and she felt better.

  Just as J.J. told her, there were salad bars, sandwich buffets, and hot food warmers. The host noted her production, then directed her to choose what she wanted.

  There were so many choices, she was torn. She finally settled on a roast beef and swiss sandwich, potato salad, and chips. Two different kinds of potato products, but she didn’t care. She never got potatoes at home. Last, she added a salad for the greens, and a slice of apple pie along with a large glass of lemonade. There, she had all her food groups covered. Carrying her heavily laden tray, she
turned away from the buffet and scanned the room.

  Most of the tables were taken, their conversations ebbed and flowed around her. Nobody glanced from their food to stare at her with speculation. In fact, it was the most anonymous she felt in months. She recognized a few of the people sitting at the tables and quickly averted her eyes in order not to stare.

  If someone had told her that Tom Ellington, the current star of L.A. Satan, was going to be eating in that lunchroom, she wasn’t sure she would have worked up the courage to come inside. She’d give anything for his autograph. But she couldn’t interrupt his lunch, it would be rude.

  Instead, she looked for an empty spot, but she couldn’t find any open tables. Frowning, she worried her lower lip. She didn’t want to just join someone if she didn’t know whether they’d been involved in her rehearsal or not. Then her gaze collided with that of a dark-haired, bearded gentleman.

  Her heart did a little flip-flop. Was he the warrior from earlier at the hotel?

  The man gave her an almost laconic smile, and her heart did another little flip. With a jut of his chin, he indicated the chair opposite him. Was she reading his body language correctly, was he actually inviting her to join him?

  He gave an almost exasperated smile then rose and used his hand to gesture to the other chair. No mistaking that invitation. She headed in his direction only to have him meet her halfway and take her tray.

  “Thank you.” It startled her, but not as much as when he set the tray on the indicated spot then pulled a chair out for her. “Thank you, again.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” His voice was deep, even, and carefully neutral of any kind of accent. Surprising, but also interesting as hell.

  He circled the table and resumed his place then took a drink of his coffee.

  “I owe you another thank you for this morning. I didn’t know the studio had sent someone for me.”