Icing the Puck (New York Empires Book 2)

by Isabo Kelly

  Arun’s voice sounded half stressed and half as if he was trying desperately to keep from losing it.

  “What can I do you for?”

  “They want an interview from us,” he answered, sighing as he ran a hand through his hair. “They didn’t say they want you, but, well…”

  They didn’t have to. She knew where she stood It was easy to figure out what story the reporters were searching for. “Fine,” she said, sighing herself. “I’ll go. I know.” She reached out again, only stopping her reach inches from her conductor’s perfectly shorn hair.

  And so she adjusted her jersey—her brother’s, of course—before heading off into the hallway. She followed Maureen, the Philharmonia’s PR person, through the halls of the building.

  “She’s here,” Maureen said.

  She looked up into the eyes of Clint Fucking Beauchamp, the reporter who’d been responsible for exposing Max’s linguistic difficulties to the world.

  Instead of punching him in the throat, she smiled.

  She behaved herself, answered the man’s questions while doing her best not to strangle him on live television. After the interview was over, she headed back to where the rest of the Philharmonia was preparing to head back onto the field.

  “I made it through,” she told Kassie as they stood in line. “I almost killed him. But I didn’t.”

  Kassie, the smart flautist she was, laughed.

  And then the orchestra headed back onto the field.

  First Intermission

  Max

  When the buzzer rang, signifying the end of the period, Max stood, then followed his teammates back to the locker room. Nothing was said until the large door was closed.

  “All right guys. We can’t afford to let their momentum take us down,” the coach began. “We need to take a step back. All of us. And get back in the fucking game. Because even though it looks pretty out there, this game fucking counts. And we cannot forget that.”

  “Five minutes” Emerson said. “Then we go out to make my sister blush. Two lines. We sit. Got it?”

  “Yes,” Max said adding to the team’s chorus.

  He took a deep breath and stared at his locker.

  “I need you guarding my ass, being my wingman,” Emerson said darkly, “not being some phantom fucking defense thing out there. Get your ass together.”

  Max did the only thing he could. He nodded. “Ouais,” he said.

  He didn’t have to look behind him to see the sudden freeze in Emerson’s expression. He felt it. Didn’t need his percée to feel it either. “Good man,” Emerson replied.

  Then he stood, following Emerson, past Evans, who was snarling at Dobrynin. Past Semenov who was studiously ignoring everybody, trying to get into a groove.

  “St. Laurent?”

  Max stopped at the sound of the Coach’s voice. Then he turned on his guarded skate blade to face the man.

  “You need extra time. You’re not fully set on offense,” the coach began. “Close. I could see sparks. You screwed up on that goal, not because you don’t have sense, you’re just playing with the wrong one. And you need to play with the right one…”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I have confidence in you, otherwise you wouldn’t be here right now. And I get it’s a switch, but you need to make it. Do not let your defensive instincts overrule your offensive ones when you’re playing forward.”

  Max nodded.

  The coach sighed. “What I’m going to do is to sit you down and make you watch this second period. You need to mentally follow the game for a period before I let you put skate one back on the ice. Right?”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “Offense,” Coach said, before leading him back into the locker room. “Offense. You’re not defense today. And we need you to be the best fucking forward you can be.”

  And as the coach went out to join the rest of the team, Max sat back down on the bench in front of his locker, took a breath and closed his eyes.

  Kayleigh

  Kayleigh knew this was going to kill her. Knew it. The song was too appropriate, the piece was too sad. And she was the one who broke up with Max, so it was her fault. Damn it.

  The show must go on, as they said. And the world was watching. So she held her breath and joined the ensemble in her assigned seat. As they’d practiced, she would play with the ensemble and then stand for her solo. She was glad they’d nixed the skating idea. Even though she could have, it would have been impossible to implement.

  She noticed that the Empires were there, as Chris promised, kneeling on the ice, or at least as much of the ice as they could legitimately cover. At least most of them. She didn’t see Max, although he had spent the back end of the period on the bench, after the Sirens’ goal. That meant he could be in Chateau Bow-wow, the coach using the time the rest of the team was watching her play to give him a blistering lecture. He also could be hurt. She knew which one she would prefer; no matter what was going on between them, she’d already seen him in the hospital. It was a nightmare she’d rather not relive.

  “And now,” began the public address announcer.

  The rest of the words washed over her, and she closed her eyes, let go of mostly everything around her and focused on the page. Then she looked up at Arun, waiting for his signal.

  And then the downbeat, and they started. In her brother’s jersey, she played. The song, the lyrics broke her heart, but she held tight, held close.

  “Caught in the headlights…loose this fight…lost in your arms,” the singer sang plaintively.”

  And there it was. She stood and let the notes fly out of her instrument, the solo connecting her to the singer, the song and the moment.

  She sat down, took a quick breath, the time signature counting silently in the back of her mind. Then immediately back to the music, the backing part printed on the page. Quick staccato slips of the bow on the strings. Closing her eyes. Waiting for the right moment. And then.

  “Lost in your arms, baby lost in your arms…”

  Once again she stood, lost in the music.

  Damn it.

  She had made a mess of everything. But what was she going to do to fix it?

  Second Period

  Max

  He watched the game from the bench during that second period. Semenov stood tight, didn’t let anything in. That was what saved them. They were missing something, and it was his fault. He needed to change that.

  First was his mental state when he was watching the game. What was he focusing on? Right away, he noticed that the center of his attention wasn’t the puck and forward momentum. It was defense. And so he forced himself to think about the offensive lines and how they played, what he’d do to retain puck possession, and forward motion if he was on the ice.

  Coach was double shifting Sandberg to fill the place on Emerson’s line. Which wasn’t fair to his teammate. Sandberg was good, but he was used to skating with Jahr and Karpov. Emerson was good in his own way, and he had good chemistry with Smythe, but neither Emerson nor Smythe were Jahr and Karpov and everybody knew it.

  Which is part of the reason he liked playing with Emerson. He was a good hockey player, but he wasn’t the kind of player who demanded the spotlight unless he wanted it. And that was just fine for Max, because he liked to stay in the shadows.

  “Good, Lucky Seven,” the assistant coach assigned for offense said. “You’re doing the right thing. Visualize yourself on that pond, and you’ll be back out there in no time.”

  Then the older man moved down the bench to the guys who were playing, leaving Max to wonder how the man had figured out what he’d been doing.

  Kayleigh

  Kayleigh’s heart was in her throat as she watched the second period. She was supposed to be preparing for the second intermission and the piece they’d play. Instead, she was watching the game, watching for something that wasn’t there. Or, rather, someone who wasn’t there.

  “St. Laurent isn’t playing,” she said.


  “They have Sandberg playing with your brother and Smythe,” Jonathan said as he came over to join her. “It’s problematic because he’s being double shifted, being used on both of the top lines. And that can’t be good for him.”

  “Why is the coach doing that?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “Because your Max hasn’t been playing since that incident in the first when, well.”

  Kayleigh nodded. “Yes. I know. When he forgot he wasn’t playing defense. Common rookie mistake…”

  Jonathan shrugged. “And your Max isn’t a common rookie; he’s a rare player who’s both a winger and a defenseman. He can’t afford to make that kind of screw up. Though, to be fair, he had been playing defense on that side before…”

  Before. Before he was injured. Before she’d heard his truth and told him she couldn’t deal with it, or him.

  “I don’t think it’s that bad, though,” Jonathan continued, oblivious to the turmoil in her head. “I mean he’s there, on the bench. If there was a problem, Max would be back in that locker room or on his way to Stratford, no question. But he’s in plain view of the public, freezing that tight butt off. And that tells me that he’ll be on the ice during the third. Mark my words.”

  And as Kayleigh followed Jonathan’s fingers, she saw a small, solitary figure sitting on the end of the Empires’ bench. The figure was focused on the ice, not bothered by the cold, heated bench or no.

  And then, she had an idea.

  “Aruuuun!” she shouted. “I need something!”

  Second Intermission

  Max

  He headed into the locker room, following the rest of his teammates in preparation for the intermission.

  “Five minutes, boys,” their captain shouted. “Then we go and listen to the orchestra. Make my sister blush!”

  “St. Laurent!” yelled the equipment manager. “St. Laurent! We need to borrow your extra sweater. We got a request.”

  He blinked. “Erm…”

  “C’mon,” Evans said. “It’s probably a kid from Make a Wish or Special Olympics.”

  “I…I have never…” he managed, confused at being asked for his jersey when so many other players were in the game. “Of course…erm…absolutement…”

  “This ain’t no kid,” the equipment manager muttered. “It’s a chick from the orchestra.”

  There was no air in the room, and Emerson’s face was suddenly inches away. “You hurt her,” his captain said, “you die. And no, I’m not exaggerating.”

  “Ouais, mon chef,” he replied as earnestly as he could. Then he turned to the equipment manager. “Where are you supposed to deliver the jersey?”

  The equipment manager rolled his eyes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Kayleigh

  Her heart pounded against her chest, almost through it. She took a breath, forcing herself to calm down. “You have three minutes, Kayleigh,” Arun informed her as he began to prepare himself to head outside. “Make them count.

  She wondered what the conductor was talking about before lifting up her head. And there he was.

  “Special delivery…”

  She didn’t pause, didn’t breathe, just ran up and kissed him. Hard. Like the world was going to end. And she let all of her thoughts, her feelings out there in the open. She gave herself in that kiss. Fully and completely.

  He pulled back, stared at her, almost unruffled. His cheeks were red, his hair was in place, and yet his eyes were clear. “Are you sure? I don’t want…to do this if you’re not sure.”

  “I’m sure,” she said. “Completely sure. I realized I needed you in my life, Max. Badly. I don’t want to play any games. I don’t want to have any more long nights by myself when the one thing that would make it better would be a conversation with you. I love you.”

  He kissed her then, soft, before pulling back and reaching under his jersey. She followed his fingers toward the thick material of the extra jersey he was there to bring her. She turned around, and lifted her arms up, letting him fit the material over her head. It fit perfectly over the layers of clothing she’d worn to play here, outside.

  “Je t’aime,” he whispered. “Je t’aime.”

  Fortified, she let his words envelop her, and headed toward her conductor. She was ready to play for the world, and, for him.

  Change It Up

  Kenzie MacLir

  We would like to thank Isabo and Stacey for asking us to be a part of this anthology.

  Also our very long suffering children who have let us disappear for hours on end while we’ve tweeted, texted, Skyped, and talked on the phone throughout the writing process of Change It Up.

  A huge shout out to our husbands, who have taken a backseat to our hero, Reiner. The best parts of him are the best parts of you.

  Chapter One

  “How are my boys doing? Empires sound off!”

  A chorus of groans reached his ears, and Reiner Jahr looked around his living room, trying not to laugh at the general disarray of his teammates. Well, most of his teammates. The new kid, Max, hadn’t done more than nurse a beer, and the Russians were still standing. Barely.

  Stifling a chuckle, he thought, This is what happened when you challenged a Russian to a vodka drinking challenge. There was no way in hell he was going to lose.

  The only problem, they all had to be at an event in a couple of hours.

  Coach was going to be pissed.

  Not that it wasn’t the first time they’d all tied one on like this. However, it wasn’t usually a few hours before they were supposed to be somewhere as a team. Today, they were meeting with a youth team from the local Special Olympics as part of the Winter Classic they were playing in.

  Reiner didn’t know about his teammates, but he was in no mood to get his butt reamed by Coach. Again. His ass still hurt from the last one.

  But even though he had drunk just as much as the as everyone else he seemed to be recovering faster. Not bothering to wonder at his good fortune, he instead worried about getting his teammates back on their feet.

  “Karpov! Get your ass in gear! And Emerson, you aren’t captain for nothing. Pick up Sandberg and help me get him sober.” Emerson hadn’t spent the whole night with the team since he had the woman he loved waiting for him at home. But he’d been there for part of the drinking contest and then come back by this morning to make sure no one had died of alcohol poisoning, claiming you never knew what was going to happen with this group. Reiner was sure he was supposed to be offended, but as it was true, he’d shrugged and let Emerson in.

  With a bit of a chuckle in his tone, he hollered at Brody Evans, “Oh, and Evans? By the way, you drunk dialed your girlfriend last night. Again.” The snickers and groans that met his ear were followed swiftly with a “Shit,” from Brody.

  Ignoring calls for him to make coffee, and other comments telling him where to stick the coffee, Reiner hollered, “I’m not your mother, get your ass in gear!”

  His accent was slight; after so many years in the States it only really came out when he was drinking or picking up women. American women had a thing for men with accents and he wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d taken advantage of it more than once over the years.

  “Fuck off.”

  The guys groaned and flipped him the bird, but Reiner started the coffee machine and began pulling mugs from the cupboards. Rolling his eyes, he figured he might as well be their mother, since no one else could pull it together enough to even curse at him. Mentally shrugging, Reiner figured that since a drunk team reflected poorly on them all, and he definitely didn’t want to look bad this afternoon, he was really helping them for selfish reasons. Adding a little whistle to his coffee-making duty helped, too, especially once everyone started groaning for him to shut it and to tone it the fuck down.

  Once he’d annoyed the guys enough with his whistling, he called, more loudly than necessary, “Coffee’s ready! Come and get it, or I’m dumping your asses in the showers!”

  “Can I help?” a s
oft-spoken voice with a heavy accent asked. Reiner knew it was the new kid, Max. French-Canadian, he thought Coach MacArthur had said. Reiner didn’t care, as long as the kid could handle a puck. From what Reiner had seen, Max’s stick-handling skills were top notch. They’d figure out if they held up once the pressure was on.

  “You wanna help? Get Evans to quit texting his girl.”

  With a muttered, “Merde,” Max went up to one of the biggest guys on the team to try to pry his phone out of his fingers.

  This wouldn’t end well for the kid.

  Reiner chuckled to himself. A bit of hazing the new guy and a fresh pot of coffee went a long way to improving his mood.

  Surprisingly, he saw Max whistling as Brody Evans, six foot seven inches of solid muscle, looked mystified. Sure enough, Max handed Reiner the phone. But Evans noticed at the same time, and came charging at him. Oh great, he thought as Brody charged him. He grabbed one of the cups of coffee and held it up in front of him. Normally he’d welcome and be prepared for his hit, but he had zero desire to wrestle with Brody in his kitchen.

  It took almost an hour before anyone was in any kind of shape to leave his place. For some reason, his apartment had become the unofficial hang-out for the team. The first time all the single guys on the team had crashed at his place after a home game, he’d been surprised.

  He wasn’t typically the guy people gravitated to, preferring to spend his time with a few select friends. He knew it was how he’d grown up. Life in a small village in Norway, with a population of maybe five hundred people, wasn’t conducive to furthering his social butterfly status. Instead, he’d played hockey. When they had enough guys for a team, great, if not, he played alone, or with his dad. Hockey was his life.

  When it had become obvious he was what some called a hockey prodigy, his parents had moved to a big city, where he could play teams more his level, a more aggressive hockey.