Icing the Puck (New York Empires Book 2)

by Isabo Kelly

  “Glad you all made it,” said the captain. “Quiet, and we sit together. Enjoy the performance.”

  He sat down next to Evans and stared up at the stage. According to the program, there would be a few different selections. Different pieces, different composers. Some he’d heard before, and some he hadn’t. He was looking forward to it all the same.

  As the lights dimmed, he sat straighter in his seat and focused his attention on the orchestra. Not the muddle of feelings he was getting around him, but the lowering of the conductor’s baton and the beginning of the concert. He let himself get lost in the motion and the music that followed.

  Of course, he couldn’t help the way his gaze followed Kayleigh as she stood for her solos, and how wonderfully she played. She was magical…

  The snicker and the elbow from the other side forced him to remember he was in public. With his teammates. And that he needed to keep his guard up.

  “He’ll kick your ass,” Evans said.

  Max blinked, confused. “Eh?”

  “Emerson. You’re mentally undressing his sister. Take it down fifty notches in public, mm?”

  He huffed out a breath and hoped he wasn’t pink with the blush. “She’s amazing with…le violon. She is…”

  “Chris Emerson’s baby sister.”

  The tone was quiet enough, and final enough, that Max forced himself to focus on the music, and hopefully not so obviously on the violin player.

  Kayleigh

  Kayleigh came out of the side entrance, ready to join the excited group of people who’d come to see her play. It had been a beautiful night.

  “You were wonderful,” Chris enthused, his bright eyes and proud-brother expression making her smile.

  “Goddess,” Chris’s girlfriend gushed. Melanie always gushed after a performance.

  “You’re amazing,” Bryce added. She liked when her oldest brother smiled. “So proud of you. I think you sparkle…”

  “No sparkling!” she joked. “We’re from an area too close to Washington state that people are already talking.”

  Bryce rolled his eyes. “It’s not that bad.” He patted her on the head as only he would. “Seriously, Kay. You can’t be so pop-culture obsessed anyway. Aren’t you a classical musician?”

  Once again she sighed at the artist who was her brother. “It’s hard to play classical music in the modern world without having one foot in it.” She leaned in to her brother’s ear. “And if you insult those books in front of Arun, he’ll hurt you.”

  Her brother shook his head. “Kayleigh. I love you,” he said as he walked away, exasperated in a way she didn’t care. Yep. Bryce as she knew him was back. And she loved every annoying minute of him.

  “This does not stop getting good, Kay,” a familiar voice chimed.

  “Ohmigosh,” she gushed as Sousanna, her best friend from high school, caught her up in a huge hug. She must have left her boyfriend to watch the over the Elk, the bar they owned not far from the Poutinerie. “So glad you’re here, Sousa.”

  “Course, girlie,” Sousa replied. “You know I’ll always come when I can.” Then she paused, staring at the cluster of hockey players who stood about twenty feet away. “What’s up with that?”

  “Chris probably gave them the ‘stay away, she’s my sister’ speech.”

  “Oh boo, that sucks.”

  “An understatement to be sure.” Kayleigh sighed. “I don’t even know why he’s so protective. Damn it. I’ve been in New York long enough to warrant a reunion! At Julliard!”

  “Because you’re his baby sister,” Sousa replied. “And hockey is so fucking tribal.”

  Team was team, and family was family, and hockey was both. But at least she wasn’t the only sibling who had to deal with Chris’s overprotectiveness. Bryce also got the Emerson sibling babysitting treatment. Of course in his case, she’d always thought it was warranted…

  “Uh, oh. Upset hockey player at twelve o’clock…”

  Once again, Sousanna’s voice broke into her thoughts. Kayleigh turned in the direction her friend indicated, meeting Max’s bright blue eyes. He grinned; she hoped he was grinning back at her.

  “You think blue eyes is going to cross the border?”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Rookie,” she informed her friend. “Totally not going to happen.”

  “So why not send him a something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The look on her friend’s face was the ‘you’ve lost your mind, and I need to fix it’ look she’d known since they were kids. “Give me something to give him.”

  Understanding hit her, so she took the program, the pen Sousa gave her, and gave Max something.

  Max

  Both Emily from the PR office and Emerson had each cornered him during intermission and told him he needed to avoid the first chair viola player.

  Emily had said some random collection of words, too quickly and too close together. He didn’t really get it, only her insistence and her concern. So he nodded. Thankfully his captain had seen him coming back from the bathroom.

  “Dude doesn’t think it’s possible that a hockey player can speak more than one language,” Emerson had said. “Avoid him like the motherfucking plague.” Max understood that. So when he got back to his seat, Max took another look through the program, made a note of the first chair viola player, and resolved to avoid him.

  Except it was hard to avoid someone while they were heading toward him like a cannonball. And he couldn’t get away.

  Merde.

  He needed help, a diversion, and he wasn’t sure how to get one. And then he remembered he wasn’t alone. He turned toward Evans.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Putting this situation into English would be difficult, but he’d manage it. “This man…the viola player. I have been told to…avoid him. He is…not believing that an athlete that is…can speak two languages.”

  “Ah. He looks pretty intent on talking to you.” Brody patted him on the shoulder, confirming he understood. “Leave it to me. Duck and hide. I’ll take care of him.”

  Max nodded and headed off, grateful for the assist.

  “Thank god you stepped away from him,” said the tall woman who had moved next to him. “I did not want to deal with that guy.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “He’s an asshole,” she replied without a pause. “I genuinely find him as interesting as a piece of rubber. You, however, I find fascinating. As does one of my dearest friends.”

  He blinked. “I don’t…I…”

  She grinned back at him. “It’s fine. You’re adorable. She likes you.” She took something from her pocket and passed it over to him. “She expects you to use it.”

  And without any other word, she left him alone to figure out what to do.

  From: Max_SL7@empiremail.com

  To: K_emerson@nyharm.com

  Thank you for this. I enjoyed the concert. Wonderful choices of music, and the ensemble plays beautifully.

  I hope to hear from you soon.

  Max

  From : K_emerson@nyharm.com

  To Max_SL7@empiremail.com

  Hey. It was great to see you at the concert. Yes, you had to be there, but still…

  Chris is a dork. Ignore him if you have to.

  K

  From: Max_SL7@empiremail.com

  To K_emerson@nyharm.com

  Thanks. You play well. It’s hard to get that sound out of a violin. My mother used to take me to the symphony. I tried to play when I was younger. It did not work. I admire you.

  Max

  From: K_emerson@nyharm.com

  To: Max_SL7@empiremail.com

  Like the dodge on the comment about my brother. But it’s OK. I’m his sister. I’m allowed to call my brother names, even if you don’t think you can. And thanks.

  K

  From: Max_SL7@empiremail.com

  To: K_emerson@nyharm.com

  Can you wear gloves? Even without fingers? Or
does that make playing difficult?

  Chapter Five

  Max

  While the team was in the middle of a bizarre schedule which had them free during the week and playing back to back game on weekends, Max got an email from Emily Gould in the team’s PR office. The email demanded his presence at the premiere party for the commercial he’d shot a few weeks earlier. Since he was looking for something to do that wouldn’t get him into trouble, it was easy for him to comply.

  “So this is the story,” Emily began as they arrived at the venue, a hall on 36th and Broadway. “Mingle, talk with everybody, have a drink, make nice with everybody. But not too much because someone from the mayor’s office will come and get you when it’s your turn to run the press junket. I’ll go find out who’s there, and I’ll take you through. Sound good?”

  He nodded. “Thank you,” he managed as he waded into the party itself. High ceilings, waiters in black tie, tons of mixed up emotions, to the point where he took refuge in a glass of seltzer, not wanting to risk anything further.

  But within two minutes of leaving the bar, he’d began to talk to people. The most fascinating was Pedro Dominguez, the center fielder for the for the baseball team whose stadium was going to be used for the Winter Classic. With the help of two different sports reporters—a Spanish reporter whose name he couldn’t understand, and Pierre LeBlanc, a reporter from one of the Quebec based sports networks—acting as translators, he and Pedro were having a really good conversation.

  “It’s your turn, Mr. St. Laurent,” said a representative from the mayor’s office.

  After saying his good-byes to everybody, he followed Emily to where the press was set up. First were the reporters from print and online publications, some of which he kept up with; he got a kick out of telling them that he liked their sites

  Next were the TV reporters: the hockey network, followed by the network devoted to covering the Empires. He also managed to tell them how much he appreciated their time. Then came the other networks that wanted what Anglos called “sound bites.”

  Those were easy, and even though it took a while to get through it all, he was proud of himself. No major mistakes under the bright lights of the cameras. He took his time, breathed, and listened. He also made sure that Emily Gould remained in his line of sight.

  “Good job,” she said as they headed into a small room just off the end of the long junket. She grabbed a bottle of water from the counter and passed it to him. He smiled in thanks, opened the bottle and drank down about half of it.

  “Thanks,” he managed once he’d drunk enough to soothe his throat. “I think…”

  “You’re doing fine, Max,” she assured him, clapping him on the shoulder. Even though his percée told him she was terrified, he took the assurance as it was given. “One more to go.”

  He nodded. He knew. That was the interview he was really nervous about.

  The major network covering hockey that season had sent their famous sideline reporter, Clint Beauchamp, to see the commercial and to interview the hockey players involved. Max’s interview was going to be part of the features aired during the network’s coverage of the Winter Classic.

  “Now remember,” Emily said. “Beauchamp is…dangerous.”

  Dangerous was an understatement. Max knew the rumors, and once he’d been called up to the Empires, he was told the rumors were true. Clint Beauchamp, a former coach turned beloved (by the fans) sideline reporter, had a reputation. He was known for deceptively calm interviews that lead into questions designed to trip up even the most prepared player.

  “I know your history,” Emily began.

  He nodded. His history of linguistic screw-ups during all sorts of public situations was rather legendary around the AHL, especially in Stratford where he’d spent a year playing for the Empire’s affiliate.

  He watched Emily look around, making sure they were alone. “Beauchamp is going to exploit it,” she said softly. “He’s got a vendetta against…the league, the teams, who knows? He likes to prove that his players were the best prepared for interviews, and he is ruthless.”

  He swallowed, took a deep breath, and then reached up and ran his index finger and his thumb around the collar of his dress shirt, adjusting it without the benefit of a mirror. It was something he could focus on without showing Emily he was also scared out of his fucking mind.

  “St. Laurent?”

  “You’re up,” Emily whispered unnecessarily.

  Max smiled back at her and made a quick gesture searching for approval.

  Emily nodded.

  “Last minute pointers?” he asked.

  “Just watch yourself with this guy,” she replied after a moment. “The infamous tricky question will come out of nowhere, and you have to be prepared for it.”

  Max nodded in return, though he wasn’t quite sure how the word deceptive actually applied. But he felt Emily’s sincerity and headed toward the podium set up for the national network.

  “Nice to meet you,” the bald-headed gentleman said in a bit of a raspy voice, taking his hand.

  “Same,” he replied, smiling.

  And the conversation began. Beauchamp was from Montreal and knew about Max’s years in Juniors. They spoke about the fact he played both offense and defense, how much he enjoyed being in New York, and how Brooklyn reminded him of Montreal—the city he’d spent most of his life outside of.

  “So how did you get the nickname Lucky Seven?”

  Thank god.

  Max started to laugh as he remembered the incident and thought about the words he’d use to tell the story in the easiest way possible.

  “I don’t know; it was something that happened along with the jersey, you know? I wear…I am number seven, and I scored…the first time on the ice in Brooklyn, and they thought ‘number seven…lucky.’”

  The interviewer’s genuine laugh made him feel relief. “Very lucky you’re the only rookie in this group, barely got your peach fuzz off your skates.”

  Right. Rookie. Peach fuzz?

  Tabernac.

  “Well, you know…you get your moment when you can, and maybe take your chances and do…what you can to be part of the team and of the sport, and do your best.”

  “Already sounding like a pro at this.”

  If he thinks I’m a pro already…

  “So what’s this about?”

  Simple. To the point. Quick. Easy.

  “Well, this is a campaign of athletes who play for New York teams who are from other countries. We…were being sports ambassadors to New York. Showing the city has the flavor of so many countries. And my segment was me saying…welcome to New York in French, so you know, that’s ‘Bienvenue à New York.’” He shrugged. Smiled. “It was a good thing for New York, a good thing for Les Empires and a good thing for hockey….to be made part of this.”

  “What’s it like? Being around other New York athletes?”

  Easy question. Easy answer. Simple. Simple. “It’s great, of course. It’s wonderful to see the love they have for the city and their sports, and how they make…parts of their countries live…in New York. It’s like…”

  “Halloween? Frankenstein?” Beauchamp laughed, but his smile wasn’t friendly. And in the back of his mind, Max could feel Beauchamp’s emotions start to gather.

  He could work with gathering emotions and an out, courtesy of Alain. “Possibly,” he answered, laughing himself. “My uncle, you know, he told me about how much this city loves to celebrate the holidays…Halloween…you know with the parade in Greenwich Village and the excitement. And the parades of Thanksgiving…”

  “Yeah, New York knows how to celebrate. What do you think of…”

  And suddenly Beauchamp’s emotions exploded…like a thunderbolt or a volcano or…a bomb. All he could feel was the pounding headache produced by his percée in response to Beauchamp’s anger and jealousy. There was so much of it…and focused right on him in a way that made him think it was deliberate.

  He took a breat
h instead of grunting in pain, carefully brushed his eyes with his fingertips and blinked. “Erm…I what did you?”

  Beauchamp laughed, anger and jealousy turning to satisfaction. Satisfaction he could handle. “So,” Beauchamp said, “what do you think of New York weather?”

  Max answered the question, but from the horrified expression on Emily’s face, and the smile on Beauchamp’s, he knew the damage had been done.

  Merde.

  Kayleigh

  There were two huge folders of “Winter Classic and related events” music, and Kayleigh swore she’d played every piece of music in them twice. Including three different arrangements of Vivaldi’s Summer that the Plugged ensemble was testing. Her fingers desperately needed a massage, but she was too tired to walk down the block to her favorite little massage place.

  Instead, when she got back from practice, she collapsed on her couch and called it a day. She was contemplating ordering dinner when the phone rang. The caller ID said “Sousa,” and she always picked up the phone when her best and oldest friend called.

  “‘Lo?”

  “Turn on the TV.”

  There was an urgency in her friend’s voice, and she wasn’t sure why. “What?”

  Sousa sighed on the other end of the phone. “It’s about to get interesting. Turn on the TV.”

  “Good interesting or bad interesting?” she wondered aloud.

  “You, my friend, need to judge that one for yourself.”

  Kayleigh nodded, even though she knew her friend couldn’t see. “Sure then…”

  Then she held the phone between her ear and her shoulder and carefully, sadly, got up from the most comfortable couch she’d ever owned. Then, following some instructions a friend of a friend once had given, she stretched her arms, then her legs. Sufficiently stretched, she crossed the living room and grabbed the remote.

  Remote in hand, she walked to the couch, flopped back down and pressed the on button. The TV flared to life, lighting up the half-darkened room to the point where Kayleigh needed to cover her eyes. “Ouch,” she said.