The sun had set. She waited next to the curb by Cole Haan for a town car to pick her up. Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of the depths of her Fendi tote.
“Some of the guys are at an Irish pub a few blocks from the hotel,” Jules said into her ear. “You need to go in there and have a drink with them.”
“What?” She’d spent the morning spying on the Sharks’ practice with Jules and the afternoon shopping. “I’m exhausted.”
“It’s a good way for the guys to get to know you. In case you didn’t notice, they’re kind of uptight when you’re around.”
Two teenage girls with complicated haircuts, tight black pants, and thick eyeliner walked past. They looked at her mountain of bags with sad emo eyes and shook their sad emo heads at her disgusting display of consumer greed. “I noticed, but I don’t know what to say to them.”
“Just be yourself.”
That was a problem. She wasn’t sure who she was anymore.
“I know you can be witty and charming,” he said, clearly lying. “Let them see a bit of who you are. Other than the owner of the team and a former playmate and Las Vegas stripper. Which is how they see you now.” He paused and added a quick, “No offense intended.”
The town car rolled up to the curb and she waved it to a stop. “None taken.” She was never offended by the truth. And the truth was that the last time she’d been in the same room with that many athletes, they’d been stuffing money in her G-string and trying to cop a feel.
“You need to develop a rapport with them. Make them feel comfortable around you while they keep a healthy respect for you as the owner of the Chinooks.”
Which sounded fairly tricky. “Could you put these all in the trunk?” she directed the driver. She hooked her pinky finger in the cuff of her light wool jacket and looked at her watch. “It’s almost seven.”
“I know. Happy hour is over soon, so you need to get your butt in there.”
She wanted nothing more than to take a nice, long soak in the spa tub, put on a fluffy hotel bathrobe, and order room service. “Fine. I’ll meet you in the lobby.” The driver opened the door for her and she climbed inside.
“I’m in the lobby waiting for you. We need to go over a few things before we go to the pub.”
“What? Why?”
“While you spent the afternoon shopping, I went to Chinooks practice and I took some notes.”
“I’m tired. I’ve hit the wall. I can’t absorb any more information. You need to relax a little.” The driver got into the car and she gave him the address of the hotel. “I’m not paying you by the hour, Jules.”
“You said you don’t want to look stupid in front of the guys.”
“Fine,” Faith moaned. “You can talk to me about it while I change my clothes.” There was a long pause. “I have to change, Jules. I’ve been wearing the same clothes since this morning.”
“I told you I’m not gay.”
She frowned as the car pulled out of the huge parking lot. “I know.”
“You can’t change in front of me,” he said, his tone a bit scolding. “That isn’t professional.”
She rolled her eyes. “I was planning on changing in the bathroom.”
The Irish pub claimed to be the most authentic in San Jose. Ty didn’t care about “authentic” as he sat in a room near the back with ten of his teammates, eating shepherd’s pie and drinking a pint of Guinness. The playoffs beards around him ranged from Vlad’s outer Siberian scraggle to Logan’s baby fuzz. Ty had his share of superstitions; itchy beards just weren’t one of them.
“The Sharks’ offense is all speed and no seed,” said Ty, while U2’s “With or Without You” wafted from the pub’s sound system. He took a drink of the dark ale then licked the corners of his mouth. He’d spent that morning and part of the afternoon practice watching San Jose game tapes, and he was less concerned about their scoring than he was about their defense. “Speed might entertain the crowd, but it doesn’t put pucks in the net. Clowe is their highest scorer, but he’s not setting any records with his goals or his points.”
“Defense is good.” Frankie “Sniper” Kawczynski took a bite of his sirloin. “If Nabokov is in his zone, he might be hard to score against.”
Sam grinned. “I like a challenge.”
Ty took one last bite and shoved his plate away. “If Marty plays like he did the other night,” he said, referring to their own goalie, “there’s no reason why we shouldn’t beat ’em with our offense and defense.”
Alexander Devereaux stood and tossed money on the table. “I’m meeting up with some of the guys at a bar across town. I heard they have good music and hot waitresses in little outfits.” He reached for his leather jacket hanging on the back of his chair. “Anyone want to catch a cab with me?”
Ty shook his head. Even if his ankle hadn’t been aching like a son of a bitch, he wouldn’t have gone. He’d done his time in hundreds of bars in hundreds of cities, and he’d figured out a while ago that he wasn’t missing a thing.
Daniel and Logan stood and reached for their wallets. “I’m in.”
“Me too.” Vlad tossed two twenties on the table. “Cali-forn-ya girlz need zome Vlad.”
Ty laughed. “Don’t drop your pants on the dance floor and scare the ‘Cali-forn-ya’ girls.” More than one American woman had run screaming from Vlad’s uncircumcised impaler.
“I don’t do zhat no more.” Vlad’s deep Russian laughter mixed with the ending strains of U2. Vladimir Fetisov had been playing in the NHL for ten years and had seen more than his share of action on and off the ice. A few years back, he’d been involved with a little figure skater. She must not have minded the impaler.
She had been Yugoslavian, though.
“You guys be careful,” Ty felt compelled to say. As the captain, he had to look out for his guys. “You don’t want to get busted with an underage rink rat. And don’t come to practice with your ass dragging because you drank too much and hooked up with someone you met in a bar. In fact, those late-night hookups can really take it out of you. Maybe it’s best to save your energy for the game.”
They all just laughed as they walked away. Two waitresses cleared the table and wiped it down for Ty and the five remaining guys. He ordered another Guinness and kicked back as Sam and Blake got into the age-old argument over the best game ever played in NHL history.
“1971,” Sam insisted. “Game Two of the first-round playoffs between Boston and Montreal.”
“U.S. kicking some Soviet ass in the 1980 Olympics,” argued Blake, the all-American boy from Wisconsin.
“Actually,” Jules said as he approached the table, “it was 1994. New York and New Jersey. Last game in the Eastern Cup finals. Messier’s shorthanded goal with less than two minutes on the clock was the best moment in NHL history.”
Ty looked up. “1996,” he said. “Game Four of the conference quarter finals between Pittsburgh and Washington. That game went into four overtimes, with the Pens finally winning after a hundred and forty minutes of brutal hockey.” He slid his gaze to the woman walking up behind Jules. A pair of black wool pants hugged her butt and fell loosely down her long legs to her red pumps. Tiny pearl buttons closed the black fuzzy sweater covering her large breasts, and her gold hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore huge diamonds in her ears and her lips were painted a deep red. She looked gorgeous and classy. Nothing like a stripper. So, why did he have a vision of her ripping the front of her sweater apart and tossing it to him? It was those damn pictures of her naked.
Ty stood. “Hello, Mrs. Duffy.”
“Hello, Mr. Savage,” she said above the noise and music in the pub. Her gaze rested on him for several moments before she turned her attention to the other men rising to their feet. “Hello, gentlemen. Do you mind if we join you?”
Ty simply shrugged as he took his seat once more. The other five guys tripped all over themselves to assure her they’d love to have her take a seat, which Ty knew for a fact was complete bullshit
.
“What did you do with yourself all day, Mrs. Duffy?” Blake asked in an effort to engage the owner.
“Well, I hit downtown San Jose and ran up my credit cards.” She took a seat next to Ty and reached for the menu. “I shopped till I dropped. I found the most wonderful sweater at BCBG. It’s fuchsia.” Two slim fingers, with those shiny red nails, slid down the menu. “And the coolest leather coat at Gucci. It’s scarlet. Normally I would never wear such bright colors. They’re just too bold and scream ‘look at me.’ Like waving and jumping up and down in a crowd to get attention.” Her fingers stopped near the bottom of the menu. “And I haven’t bought leather…well, except shoes and bags, in years. But…” She shrugged. “I’ve decided to live dangerously. Which would explain the sheer madness of the thigh-high boots and the matching lambskin hobo. The last thing I need is another hobo.” She looked up at the men staring back at her with varying degrees of stunned faces. “I’ll have the grilled salmon and a Guinness,” she told the waitress who’d approached during her babbling onslaught. Ty didn’t know if she was nervous or drunk or both.
Jules ordered a steak and a Harp’s from his seat across the table. “The poor bellman had to cart all that stuff up to your room.”
“I tipped him well.” She handed the menu to the waitress. “But it wasn’t until I spread everything out in the room that I realized that there might not be enough space in the jet’s cargo hold for all my bags.”
“Oh. Ah,” Johan Karlsson managed to utter.
She looked at them all, green eyes shining, and flashed a beautiful smile with her straight white teeth and full red lips. Ty could almost hear their collective gulps. “You-all don’t mind if we leave some of your equipment behind. Do you?”
“Like what?” Sam asked as he raised his beer. “We don’t travel with unnecessary baggage.” He took a drink, then added, “Unless you count Jules over there. Pound for pound, he takes up a lot of wasted space.”
“Pound for pound,” Jules jumped in, “your ego takes up a lot of wasted space.”
Faith tilted her head and seemed to consider it. “No, I need Jules. But you-all don’t need that many sticks.” She looked at each of them in turn. “I figure one apiece is good. Am I right?”
There was a collected inhalation of horrified breath. Everyone knew that a man’s stick was sacred, honed for hours until the curve was just right. Not even for a former Playmate of the Year who just happened to be the owner of the team would these players willingly leave them behind. Pads and helmets? Yeah. Their sticks, no way.
The hockey players at the table cast uncertain glances at Ty as if they expected the captain to step in and do something. Like maybe give her a glove rub.
Faith laughed. “I was just kidding, you guys.” She waved away their concerns, flashing the huge rock she still wore on her left finger. “If there isn’t enough room, I’ll have the hotel ship everything.”
Ty almost smiled. No one could bullshit and get the uninitiated going like a hockey player. As a bullshitter, Mrs. Duffy wasn’t great, but she wasn’t bad for a rookie.
“Jules and I watched the Sharks practice,” she said as her beer arrived. “We were up in the skybox with binoculars. It was all very undercover hush-hush secret-agent stuff.” She took a drink and licked the foam off her top lip. “They seem to have a lot of speed, but I’m not convinced they can shoot the puck as well as we can.”
Ty felt his brows rise up his forehead.
“I think we have them beat on offense,” she added as she leaned back and folded her arms beneath her breasts. “We’re better delivering tape to tape and capitalizing on turnovers.”
Sam looked at Ty as if an alien had just landed at their table. A sexy-as-hell alien who talked about hockey and sounded like maybe she knew what she was talking about. Just a few weeks ago, she’d wanted to sign Terrible Ted. He wondered if she even had a clue what she’d just said.
“Ah, yeah,” Sam managed. “We were just talking about how we need to beat them offensively and hammer their goalie.”
Above the smell of food and beer, Ty caught the scent of her perfume. He recognized it from the other night at the photo shoot.
“I don’t know a lot about their goalie.” She raised one hand and toyed with the top button of her sweater. “But I’ve read that he isn’t consistent.”
“Don’t believe what you read,” Ty told her. She looked across her shoulder at him and her green eyes stared into his. “That’s where a lot of people make mistakes.”
“Believing what they read?”
“Yeah.”
“I read that you’re persona non grata in Canada. Is that true?”
“Pretty much.”
“I also read that you think the Stanley Cup will come down to who wants it more.”
“Where did you read that?”
“Hockey News.”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“I’m paraphrasing.” She lowered her voice a fraction and added, “You actually said it will come down to who has the biggest sac.”
That sounded more like him. “Which is different from wanting it enough.” He took a drink of his beer then set it back on the table. He didn’t want to talk about his sac. Not with her. Not when his sac had noticed the way she smelled and the way her breasts filled out that sweater.
“How is it different?”
He looked into her big green eyes surrounded by thick black lashes. “It just is.” Her cheeks were smooth, perfect. He lowered his gaze to her full mouth and chin down to the hollow of her delicate throat just above the top button on her sweater. He wanted to do things to her. Hot, sweaty things that would make their skin stick together. Wild things that would get him into a lot of trouble.
“How’s it different?” she pushed.
“Angel of Harlem” poured from the pub’s sound system and he wondered how to answer. If she were a man, he wouldn’t even hesitate. If she were a man, he wouldn’t have a hard-on. “You can want something, Mrs. Duffy, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to get it. Sometimes wanting isn’t enough.” And because she pushed, he added, “Sometimes it comes down to what you’ve got left in your gut and the size of your sac.”
She chuckled as if she wasn’t the least bit shocked. “The article didn’t mention the importance of sac size, Mr. Savage.”
“Size is always important. Massive sac is almost as important as massive skill.” And because they were sharing what she’d read about him, he leaned toward her a bit and said just above a whisper, “I read about you too. I read you hate hot dogs and love crème brûlée.”
Her brows lowered in confusion. “How did you…? Ah.” Her confusion cleared and she smiled. “That’s true. Where’d you get the magazine?”
“One of the guys.”
“Of course.” She turned her face toward him and, to anyone looking, it appeared as if they were speaking closely to be heard over the music. Her mouth just inches from his, she said, “So, I assume it’s been passed around.”
“I got it a couple of weeks ago.”
“What took so long?”
“Sam wasn’t finished looking at it.”
She reached for her beer and laughed, not the least embarrassed. “Those were taken a long time ago.”
Not that long ago. He thought of her with that long string of pearls.
“You’re thinking about those pictures, aren’t you?” she asked from behind her glass.
He didn’t answer.
She smiled. “Only seems fair.”
“How’s that?”
“Because completely against my will, and no matter what else I try to shove into my head, I can’t stop thinking about ‘massive sac.’ It’s very disturbing.”
He chuckled and she looked at him as if he’d sprouted a horn from the middle of his forehead. “What?”
“I didn’t think you ever laughed.”
Of course he laughed.
“Hey, Mrs. Duffy,” Sam called from down the tabl
e. “Do you know The Girls Next Door?”
“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” Jules admonished like a preacher, and Ty had to admit that the assistant probably had a point. Which made the conversation he’d just had with her completely off the scale of appropriate.
Faith smiled. “It’s okay, Jules. I met Holly and Bridget at the mansion. There were other girls there too. But Kendra didn’t live there at the time.”
“What’s Hef like?”
“He’s nice.” Her salmon arrived and she placed her napkin on her lap.
He was also old. Like Virgil. What was it with her and old men? Oh yeah. Money.
“He’s also a very a smart businessman,” she continued.
“Did you go to a lot of parties?”
“As Playmate of the Year, I hosted several. That’s how I met Virgil.” She squeezed lemon on her fish and picked up her fork. “He and Hef were good friends.”
“Do you still get invited?”
“Occasionally, but the last few years Virgil really couldn’t travel very often. So we didn’t go.”
For some inexplicable reason, the thought of Virgil’s old hands on her smooth, young body made Ty feel uneasy. Why he should give a shit, he didn’t know. Maybe it was the Guinness. He was used to Canadian brew, and rich beer always hit him hard after a few.
“Maybe you can get us all an invite to the mansion,” Sam persisted.
She looked up and smiled. “Win the Stanley Cup, and I’ll see what I can do.”
The heels of Faith’s red pumps clicked across the lobby as she made her way to the bank of elevators. She’d just left Jules and Darby Hogue at the pub, talking hockey and acquisition. It was a little after ten, and Ty and the other hockey players had cleared out of the pub by nine. She didn’t know where they’d gone. They hadn’t said, but it was Saturday night, and she suspected they’d joined their other teammates at various bars around town.
She pushed the button and the empty elevator opened. The back wall was mirrored and she looked at herself as the doors closed. She pulled the band out of her ponytail and scratched her scalp as the elevator moved upward. It had been a long, exhausting day, and she was tired. She had a slight headache from the Irish beer or the ponytail or both.
True Love and Other Disasters (Chinooks #4) Page 10