Body Check

by Deirdre Martin

  “Because this isn’t some bimbo you bang a few times and send on her way. This is an intelligent, interesting, nice woman.”

  “I know that,” was Ty’s irritated response. Why the hell was Kevin lecturing him?

  “Well, I just want you to know that if you hurt this intelligent, interesting, nice woman, your ass will be grass, my friend.”

  “Whoa.” What was this? Now his best friend was threatening him? “What the hell is going on here, Kev? Care to fill me in?”

  “I like Janna. Abby and I both do. That night at the bar, we could tell something was happening between you two, or was about to.”

  “So?”

  “If you weren’t concentrating on winning the Cup again, you’d see that this is a woman who could make you—”

  “Halt. Stop. Time out. We are not going down this road. I want it casual. Janna wants it casual. End of story. I don’t want to hear this.”

  Kevin rose. “Because it’s true?”

  “Because it’s none of your concern.” He could feel his shoulders knotting with tension and stood up, grimacing. “C’mon, we better get to Tubs’s office, he’s probably throwing a fit by now.”

  “I meant what I said,” Kevin reiterated as the two headed out of the players’ lounge. “Hurt that woman and you die.”

  “Got it,” Ty bit out. He didn’t like being told what to do. Hated even more being told what not to do, especially by someone so close to him. But he’d gotten the message, loud and clear. Whether or not it was heeded, however, was strictly up to Janna.

  “Stay.”

  “I can’t. I promised Theresa I’d come home tonight so she can tell me all about her date with Lex.”

  “You can hear about it tomorrow. Stay.”

  Janna sighed, closing her eyes. The thought was tempting. Snuggled beneath a thick, downy comforter with Ty’s body possessively wrapped around her, the last thing on earth she wanted to do was drag herself out of his king-size bed and trudge back out into the arctic night, cabbing it alone back to her place. It was a little after one A.M. Theresa might not even be home yet. She could always leave a message on their answering machine, swearing she’d be home first thing in the morning, couldn’t she? Theresa would understand.

  Her hand darted out from beneath the covers to reach for the phone, but just as quickly she retracted it. No, Theresa would not understand. Theresa was Sicilian, and claimed that when you made a promise to a Sicilian, you’d better keep it or else. If she wasn’t home waiting for her, or if she stayed with Ty, Theresa would be very pissed. Home it was.

  She snuggled closer to Ty. Five more minutes in his embrace and then she’d get up. Just five more minutes. His breathing was relaxed, the feel of his arms around her the most natural thing in the world. And the sex that had preceded it—Mother of God. They said practice makes perfect. She didn’t want to think about how many women before her Ty had “practiced” with, but she was certainly glad to be the current beneficiary of it. The man knew how to please a woman, knew the delights of long, slow, bring-you-right-to-the-edge foreplay followed by a dazzling display of building to climax that left her feeling she might lose consciousness. The irony was that she had feared he might be awful in bed: quick, selfish, and clueless as so many men, so many athletes, reputedly were, the deliciously frenzied incident in her kitchen an aberration. But he was anything but.

  Drowsily, she lifted her head and peered across the room to his open bedroom door. She could see the trail of clothing they’d left snaking down the hallway to the edge of the bed in their eagerness to come together. Janna was glad she’d decided to go home with him after all. Initially, she wasn’t going to; the Blades had been beaten badly on home ice, and Ty’s impassioned post-game postmortem could be heard through the closed door of the locker room. It wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t so sure his black mood would lift once he left Met Gar.

  Not only that, but the cloak-and-dagger logistics involved in getting to his place were slightly off-putting. First Ty had to come up with an excuse for why he wouldn’t be going to the Chapter House with his teammates, which is what they always did after a losing game. Then there was the issue of transportation: so as not to invoke suspicion, they took separate cabs, Janna’s arriving ten minutes earlier than Ty’s. The watchdog doorman of his building wouldn’t let her wait for him in the plush lobby, so she was forced to stand outside on the sidewalk, stamping her feet to keep the cold at bay. By the time his cab rolled up, she was sure she’d lost her nose to frostbite, and her own mood had soured considerably.

  Thankfully, he had brandy in his apartment to warm her up, though not much else. The apartment made her think of a high-tech monk’s cell. It was spare yet modern, a wide screen TV dominating one wall, a state-of-the-art entertainment system encased in black lacquer claiming another. There were no personal touches to be found: no pictures of friends and family, no display case full of trophies and Stanley Cup rings to admire. The entire feeling of the place was rather impersonal. It needed a human touch—a woman’s touch, though as soon as Janna had that thought, she knew she’d never give it voice. When she questioned him about the austerity of the place and its lack of warmth, Ty just shrugged.

  “I guess I don’t really think of it so much as ‘home’ as a place to sleep, or rest before games,” he admitted.

  So where was home, she asked him.

  “The ice.”

  She should have known.

  Her five minutes were up. Tenderly kissing his collarbone, she gently disentangled herself from him.

  “I really do have to go.”

  He went to kiss her but Janna sat up.

  “I have to go, Ty,” she repeated, though it was the last thing she wanted to do. “Really.”

  Ty sighed, resigned. “Shall I call you a car?”

  Janna smiled appreciatively. “That would be nice.”

  Leaning over, he playfully nipped her hip where she was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Would you like a playmate in the shower?”

  Just picturing it made Janna’s blood begin to stir anew. “I would, but I’d better not, or I’ll never get out of here.”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  “You’re a wicked man, Captain Gallagher.” She glanced back towards the ribbon of strewn clothing stretching out beyond the door. “Could you do me a favor? Could you gather up my clothes while I’m in the bathroom and put them on the bed?”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  “Mmm,” Janna purred. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

  Next time. Bundled up in the back of a Lincoln Town Car as it glided down the near silent streets, Janna felt a warm, confident glow as she thought about the next time she and Ty would be together. He had been the perfect gentleman, escorting her downstairs to meet the car, instructing the driver on where to go and charging the ride to his account, before his lips brushed tenderly against hers in farewell. None of which she had expected somehow, but all of which she enjoyed. Paranoia had gripped her when they stepped out of his building onto the sidewalk together; after all, you never knew who might be around, especially in midtown, where Ty had—insanely, in Janna’s opinion—chosen to live. But the lateness of the hour worked in their favor; no one seemed to take any notice of them at all. Then again, this was New York. Nine times out of ten, no one noticed anyone else anyway.

  She watched the world rush by outside her window, the late night bar and club patrons spilling out onto the wide sidewalks, laughing and talking. And it hit her: the blush of heat beginning to flicker deep within her was happiness. She mouthed the word to herself: happiness. At first the sensation surprised her. Yet the more she thought about it, the more it frightened her. It implied a depth of feeling not consonant with the concept of “casual.” Casual meant fun, it meant fluff, it meant easygoing. Relaxed. Well, her body was certainly relaxed, but her mind wasn’t, and neither was her heart. This thing, this small seed of happiness taking root, felt untamed, like it had a life of its
own. It was one thing to be happy over the quality of the sex, quite another to be happy because of who she was having it with. Attraction, not emotion. That’s the key. Attraction not emotion, attraction not emotion, attraction not emotion . . .

  The car came to a halt outside her building and Janna made her way inside, stopping to chat with the overnight doorman who pretended to be watching the building’s video monitors, but was really absorbed in an infomercial on a tiny TV.

  Riding the elevator up to her apartment, Janna’s sense of curiosity began to peak. She wondered how Theresa’s night out with Lex the Wonder Boy had gone. They seemed to hit it off in the locker room when she’d reintroduced them, and by the time the Blades had skated out onto the ice, they’d already made plans to go for dinner at a tiny Ukrainian restaurant Lex frequented. Janna hoped it had gone well for Theresa’s sake, as well as her own, especially after all the nagging she’d had to endure.

  She opened the door to their apartment and stepped inside. The living room was pitch black. Had Theresa already gone to bed? She paused; it was then she heard the sound of sniffling coming from the direction of the sofa.

  “Theresa?”

  The sniffling stopped, but the room remained dark. Alarmed, Janna felt for the light switch and turned it on. Light flooded the room, and there on the couch sat Theresa in her bathrobe, arms locked tightly around her waist as if trying to hold her guts in. Her eyes were swollen and blotchy from crying, her left cheek bruised.

  “Oh my God.” Janna rushed to her side. “What happened?”

  Theresa mumbled incoherently and shook her head.

  “Theresa, talk to me. Theresa.”

  Still she said nothing. Unsure of what to do, Janna put an arm around her and began stroking her friend’s hair. Theresa stiffened beneath her touch. Panic mounting, Janna took her hands away but remained beside her. “Terry, please, tell me what happened. Whatever it is, I can help. Please.”

  As if in a fog, Theresa slowly turned to face her. The anguish in her friend’s eyes brought Janna’s heart to her throat, the pain reflected there was so intense. She waited. Theresa just kept staring. Then, without a word, she curled up and put her head in Janna’s lap. Neither moved. Neither spoke. The minutes passed, Janna literally sitting on her hands after Theresa’s previous rebuff, feeling useless. When Theresa finally did speak, it was just one sentence, uttered in a voice so dead it gave Janna the chills.

  “Lubov tried to rape me.”

  CHAPTER 09

  The story came out in fits and starts, punctuated by choking sobs. A not-so-simple story of a casual dinner gone awry, of an invitation to come up for a nightcap that was a pretense for violence.

  Hearing Theresa stutter it out, Janna could picture the scene perfectly: Her friend and Lubov mellow after a few drinks each, Theresa agreeing to go back to his place for one more. Lubov moving in for a kiss. Theresa succumbing. Then panic setting in as he refused to heed the word No as his hands groped and roamed and squeezed, as he pinned her down with his body and stuck his hand up her skirt, yanking, tugging, not letting go. Theresa struggling, Theresa yelling, Theresa getting backhanded across the face, Theresa biting. The shock of her bite stunning Lubov long enough for her to jerk her knee up to his groin. Then him crumpling off her yowling “You bitch, you bitch, you whore.” Theresa running. Theresa alone in a cab weeping. Theresa at home frantically brushing her teeth, desperate to erase the bitter taste of wine and forced kisses from her mouth. Theresa in the shower scrubbing the invisible filth of him off her, no penetration but violation, feeling soiled, frightened, like she couldn’t breathe, like maybe this was her fault.

  As the story came out, Janna’s mind raced: Not Theresa’s fault . . . My fault . . . Should never have introduced them. . . . Should have known better. . . . Should not have cut Lubov slack on the train. . . . Should have taken it seriously. . . . My fault . . . My fault . . . My fault.

  During the telling, Janna held her friend, gently rocking her. “It’s okay,” she whispered, smoothing her unruly hair. “It’s okay.”

  “I wish I were dead,” Theresa sobbed.

  “No, you don’t. You’re just upset right now, and you have every right to be.”

  Theresa whispered something in response, curling up even deeper into Janna’s lap.

  “What, Terry, honey?”

  “I want that bastard to pay.”

  “Oh, believe me, he will. Why don’t you put some clothes on and we’ll go down to the police station.” A thought struck her, and she hesitated. “Theresa, are you sure there was no—you know—”

  Theresa stiffened. “I’m sure.”

  “Okay,” Janna said slowly, figuring it out as she spoke, “so we can skip going to the emergency room. Though your face—”

  “No,” Theresa said frantically.

  “But what if there are some internal injuries—”

  “No. There’s nothing. No examinations! I don’t want anyone touching me I don’t—”

  “Sshh, sssh, it’s okay,” Janna soothed, clutching her tighter. “It’s okay.” Close to tears now herself, she struggled to think straight. Her gut instinct was to find a gun and kill Lubov for doing this, the sick son of a bitch. Her own body began shaking with outrage. Pay for this? Pay was not the word for what was going to happen to that arrogant little pig. But right now, it was Theresa she needed to focus on, Theresa who required her energy and attention. There would be time to worry about retribution later.

  She lightly touched Theresa’s cheek. “Are you up to going to the police to file a report?”

  “Yes,” Theresa whispered.

  “Good.” Again Janna hesitated. “I hate to ask this, but did he . . . tear your clothing at all? Because if he did, we might want to bring that with us to the cops as possible evidence.”

  “No,” Theresa replied numbly. “No ripped clothing.”

  Goddamn, Janna thought. It’s going to be her word against his. No, wait . . .

  “Did you draw blood when you bit him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Damn.

  “Janna, please stop asking all these questions,” Theresa begged.

  “Honey,” Janna said gently, “what the police will be asking you is going to be ten times worse. You know that, right?”

  Theresa didn’t respond.

  “So you better be sure you’re up to dealing with this.”

  “I will be,” Theresa said woodenly. “Because I want that piece of shit to pay.” She looked up into Janna’s eyes. “I’m sorry now I bugged you so much about him, Janna.”

  Janna began to cry. “Don’t you apologize for anything! I’m the one who’s sorry. If I’d known he was like this, I swear to God, Theresa, I would never have introduced you. You’re my best friend, I would never have put you in danger like this.”

  “I know that,” Theresa choked, then burst into a small hiccuping laugh. “Jesus, will you look at the two of us? We’re a good pair.”

  “The best pair,” Janna sniffled, wiping at her eyes.

  “I’m going to go get dressed,” Theresa announced, sitting up. She shuffled listlessly towards her bedroom. “It’s time to make sure he never tries to do this to anyone else.”

  Later, after a few numb, awful days passed, and she had helped Theresa hire one of New York’s top female attorneys—something dawned on Janna. The repercussions of this case extended to her. She was a publicist for the New York Blades. This was a PR nightmare, precisely the kind Kidco hired her to handle. The day Theresa’s attorney held a press conference and went public with the case against Lubov, Janna seriously considered calling in sick for the rest of the week. She didn’t know how the hell she was going to be able to walk into the Blades’ locker room without spitting in Lex’s face. Worse, she didn’t know how the hell she was going to be able to walk into Lou’s office and be expected to take part in plans for damage control. Lubov had attacked her best friend. How on earth was she supposed to turn around and work on saving this guy’s
image, or the image of the team? She couldn’t. It was absurd, impossible. It was also her job.

  Walking into Met Gar, she felt as if she were moving under water. All of her actions felt labored, as though performed against a great wall of invisible resistance. She had deliberately avoided looking at the morning papers and listening to the news, knowing full well what she’d read and see. She could already imagine the talking heads on all the various sports channels discussing the case, mentioning fresh-faced little Lex Lubov in the same breath as Mike Tyson. Janna’s spirits rallied momentarily as she recalled that Tyson’s case had resulted in conviction. Hopefully, it would be the same with Lubov.

  She entered the PR office and was immediately accosted by her assistant, Sophie, who looked frantic.

  “Janna, the phones are ringing off the hook about this Lubov thing. What do you want me to—”

  “Not now, Sophie. Not until I’ve talked to Lou.”

  She waved her off and walked on. She was still far down the hall from Lou’s office but already she could hear his voice, roiled and intense, ricocheting down the corridor. Welcome to hell, she thought, wordlessly slumping past Lou’s secretary, whose switchboard was lit up like a Christmas tree. I don’t want to go in there. You have to go in there. She entered Lou’s office.

  “Janna, Jesus Christ, where the hell have you been? Cowley and I have been on pins and needles waiting for you to get here!”

  “There was a delay on the subway,” Janna lied, peeling off her coat. Not really looking at either of them, she took up her usual seat on the couch opposite Cowley.

  “You see this?”

  Janna glanced up to see Lou holding that day’s edition of the New York Sentinel. Splashed across the front cover was a huge picture of Lubov with a headline in all caps that screamed, RUSSKY RAPIST? Sickened, Janna nodded and averted her gaze, wishing to God she could just vanish—poof!—in a ball of white smoke, never to be seen or heard from again.

  “Look at this.” Lou snatched up a crumpled bunch of pink “While You Were Out” messages, letting them fall to his desk like confetti. “Seventeen pulled out of the photo shoot. New York pulled out of an article and a shoot. Bauer Skates is killing their endorsement deal with him. The Sports Chick on WJOX doesn’t want to interview him. ESPN magazine isn’t sure whether they’re going to put him on their January cover. You know what this is? A fucking, unmitigated nightmare.” He dropped down into his seat behind his desk, cradling his head in hands. “Corporate is going ballistic. They want this fixed, and fast.”