Henry nodded, allowing a sigh to slip through his flared nostrils. Emma watched as he looked away from her father and focused on the smooth horizon of the deep, blue Pacific Ocean. The light sky contrasted the difference between the same color, with puffy white clouds blotting out patches of blue in the sky in order give people something else to look at besides its vastness.
“Jesus,” her father echoed. He, too, shook his head and averted his eyes, but instead of looking out at the sparkling water, he looked down at the sand currently slipped between his toes. “And they don’t know if it’s…”
Emma glanced over at her father, surprised that he couldn’t say the word murder in this context. He was used to defending business corporations and CEOs and that stuff, but certainly he was familiar with the vocabulary. He must have studied business cases that involved murder.
Maybe it was because he knew Ken…?
“It’s unofficial, but from what Seraphina says, I have to believe it is,” Henry replied. He takes a drink of his water, finally returning his eyes to the man he was conversing with.
“But, why?”
Her father asked the question that had been on the tip of Emma’s tongue since rumors swirled that Ken was, in fact, murdered. She almost asked it now, but managed to hold back at the last second, careful not to reveal her true intentions of standing idly by the two men. They probably thought she was thinking of some dance she should be memorizing the steps to or choreographing something for herself, which, under normal circumstances, she would be, but today was not a normal day. And now that Emma knew Ken wasn’t here, this day at the beach didn’t seem as bright as it had once been.
Emma had only met Ken a handful of times, but he always left a lasting impression on her. When he talked to her, she felt as though there was nothing on his mind. He didn’t take her less seriously due to her age, and when she gave him her opinion about something, Emma felt as though he were actually listening to her. Granted, he didn’t always agree with what she said, and had no problem telling her as much, but he never spoke down to her and treated her as though she were his equal, and no some girl who was only around because her dad loved hockey and had lots of money. Sure, he could be stubborn but she didn’t see how anybody would actually want to kill Ken. And if what his granddaughter, Seraphina, said was true, that he had bruises on his neck and a bump to the head - Why would anyone want to attack an old man?
Again, Henry could only shrug his shoulders. “I couldn’t tell you,” he said, shoving his free hand in his pocket while he shook his water bottle gently. It looked almost subconscious, like he didn’t realize what he was doing. “The police are investigating. They took all the necessary evidence, the books, photographs, you know, crime scene stuff. They should be finished with it soon.”
“What’s going to happen to the team?” her father asked. “I mean, without an owner, will it go on the market? Will there even be a season this year? I’m surprised that today was still scheduled, what with everything that’s happened.”
Emma knew that if her father didn’t love his job as much as he did, he would be the first person in line to buy the Gulls and manage the team, just as Ken had.
“Yeah, well, Katella and Seraphina talked and they both decided that today should still be celebrated,” Henry said before taking another sip of water. “They both believed their grandfather would want things to continue on as though nothing happened, and they’d be right. Ken was always a practical guy, you know.”
“And the team? I heard rumors that Ken thought about selling the team in order to retire.”
Emma could hear the slight hesitation in her father’s voice, almost as though he was afraid about the possibility of the Gulls not playing this season.
“Yeah, I heard that too.” Henry looked at the sky, and Emma suddenly realized that maybe the tough-as-nails coach was searching for his friend up in the sky, looking for concrete answers everyone down here could only speculate about. “The only thing I know about it is that whatever was going to happen, whatever decision Ken was going to make, only Ken knew about it. He never mentioned retiring to me, but who knows? I know that the only thing he loved more than this team is his family, so maybe he wanted to spend more time with them. But again, he never said anything like that to me.
“As for the team…” He let his voice trail off as his eyes trailed to the ocean once again. “I’m not one hundred percent sure, but there have been theories that Seraphina could possibly inherit the team.”
“Seraphina?” To say her father looked flabbergasted at this statement was an understatement. “Sidestepping over the fact that she’s – what? – twenty-three, inexperienced, and has little if any knowledge about hockey, why wouldn’t Ken give the team to Katella, who runs her own event planning committee and who happens to be dating Matt Peters, or at least, to both of them? Why just Seraphina?”
Emma frowned at her father’s question. Granted, as a dedicated fan and unofficial investor considering how much money he put into the team by buying tickets, merchandise, and attending charity events, his question was warranted, and Emma was sure people would be wondering the same exact thing. But at the same time, she felt slightly protective of this woman she had never met, only because Emma knew what it was like to be underestimated based solely on her appearance and the demographics she belonged to. Just because Seraphina was young and inexperienced didn’t mean she couldn’t own and manage a hockey team; it just meant she had a lot to learn. And Ken was smart; he wouldn’t give the team to his granddaughter unless he was certain she could handle it. Right?
“I can’t say,” Henry said, but there was an enigmatic smile touching his thin lips. “But you should give her the benefit of the doubt, Jeremy. Sure, you really haven’t seen her at the games or the events. In fact, except for meeting with Ken at least once a week at his office in Sea Side, I don’t think Seraphina’s ever been affiliated with the team. But Ken chose her as successor – allegedly, of course – for a reason. And I, for one, have faith in it. He doesn’t make serious decisions, any decisions really, without serious thought, contemplating the pros and cons, and even then, after all of that, he’d still go with his gut and face those consequences head on.” He smiled lightly at the memory of his friend before something compelled him to frown. “Didn’t. I meant to say he didn’t make decisions lightly.”
“Well, if you have faith in her, then I guess I can give her a try.”
Emma wasn’t sure if her father was just saying that in order to show support for Henry or if he really meant it. Henry and her father were close acquaintances and Emma knew he didn’t like to see someone in pain, but at the same time, she knew just how protective over the team he was, and even though Seraphina was Ken’s flesh and blood, her father didn’t seem to be entirely sold on her as a successful owner and manager of the team.
“Did you know he signed Brandon Thorpe against everyone’s advice?” Henry asked, his sadness suddenly vanishing from everywhere on his face save for those grey eyes. “Brandon Thorpe.”
“Our goalie?” her father asked, surprise clearly evident in his voice. “But he’s arguably one of the best players on the team.”
“Not two years ago,” Henry replied, shaking his head. Emma guessed he was finished with his water bottle because he had yet to drink from it again and he wasn’t shaking it side to side. It was resting in his hand, his fingers gripping the plastic loosely. “When he first started playing, he signed with the Chiefs up in Canada as a number two goalie. He played one or two games in the actual season, and even though he won both of them, the Chiefs thought it was in their best interest to get rid of him, so they traded him to the Washington Sabers where he started. He was good, but not great, and after five years, they traded him to us for Kelly. Remember Stephan Kelly?”
“I remember him. He was a good defenseman,” Emma’s father said. “I still don’t understand though. Why would Ken trade him for Thorpe if Thorpe wasn’t that great?”
Henry sh
ook his head. “To this day, I still don’t know,” he said. “But dammit if it wasn’t one of the best decisions he ever made. Thorpe is now one of the best goalies in the league. But he wasn’t back then, and unless Ken had some kind of future-telling powers, he couldn’t have known what Thorpe would be. But, I figure if he felt as sure about Seraphina running the team as he did about Brandon Thorpe, we might as well give the girl a chance before we dismiss her.”
Emma smiled at Henry’s sentiments. She barely heard her father respond – no doubt in agreement – and decided that if she was going to continue to eavesdrop, she would need more food. Without drawing attention to herself, she made her way over to the empty food table. Her appetite had always been healthy, and she knew she was lucky her mother signed her up for dance classes when she was three because surely she would be overweight if, instead, she took art classes or something else that required practically no physical movement. It was such a stark contrast to the environment she grew up in, however, because here in Orange County and especially in Newport Beach, people ate as little as they could, exercised more than they should, and did anything else including but not limited to going under the knife in order to eliminate any shred of fat from their already naturally slender bodies. She never felt the pressure to be any slimmer than she already was, but then again, she had never been chubby after shedding the baby fat once she hit puberty. She ate as much as she could, and when her stomach told her it was full, she stopped. Sure, she got odd, disgusted, and even jealous looks from people from time to time, and there were moments when she felt self-conscious about her eating habits, but for the most part, she didn’t let it affect her. In fact, she didn’t take for granted the insecurities of the people that surrounded her because in moments like this, there was plenty of food for the taking.
After plucking a hot dog fresh from the barbeque, stuffing it in a bun, and lathering mustard and ketchup on it, she headed farther away from the food table and closer to the water. All this talk of death brought up memories of her mother even though her mother wasn’t technically dead. It wasn’t long after signing Emma up for those classes did her mother leave, abruptly and without warning. Emma couldn’t really remember her mother, only that she had pretty blue eyes and the same wheat-colored hair her daughter now had. When she was in elementary school, she just told everyone that her mother was dead. It was much easier than trying to come up with an answer to the question she didn’t know the answer to and would inevitably be asked by her naïve and most of the time tactless peers: Why did she leave?
To this day, Emma didn’t know. Growing up, she remembered the various stages she went through as a child in response to her mother’s abandonment; at first, she was sad. She would sit up and wait for her mother to return and kiss her on the forehead, tuck her in, whisper goodnight to Emma in her whimsical voice, and every night, she would cry herself to sleep because her mother never came. Next, she thought that maybe if her mother could see what a good daughter she was, she would return so she would leave out aced tests and pictures and cookies she made. When that didn’t work, she became angry and frustrated. These new emotions happened to coincide with puberty and getting her first period, along with Emma having to go to a new school for seventh grade. Everybody else’s mothers were there for them at probably the most awkward stage in her life. Why wasn’t hers? She got through it, and even though it was more uncomfortable than it normally would have been due to the fact that it was her father who took her to get her first pads and her first training bra, and actually sat down and had The Talk with her.
The night of her high school graduation, something just snapped in Emma. To this day, she would never admit it out loud, but sitting in her royal blue graduation gown under the blaring sun, waiting for her name to be called, her eyes sought out her mother’s figure. Though she wasn’t sure just what her mother looked like nowadays, she felt that when she saw her, Emma would just know.
But she didn’t show.
It wasn’t as though Emma had expected her to, but a piece of her heart was crushed, and from that moment on, she accepted her mother was never going to show. She wasn’t going to attend any of Emma’s recitals. She wasn’t going to be there when Emma graduated college. She wasn’t there for Emma’s prom and wouldn’t be there at Emma’s wedding. And once Emma realized that, she stopped caring about her mother. But occasionally, her memory would come back and Emma would allow herself to wonder just why her mother left her, if maybe she thought about her daughter every once in a while…
“I hate these things.”
A low, soft spoken voice jarred Emma out of her thoughts and caused her to jump a little. Luckily she had long-since finished her hot dog so chunks that might have otherwise been occupying her mouth weren’t at risk to spew out into the nearby ocean.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Emma turned her head to get a good look at whoever it was that spoke to her. Her brow raised on its own accord when her eyes met with clear, blue irises.
“You didn’t frighten me,” she told him, returning her gaze out at sea. “I just startle easy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, and took another step closer so he stood at Emma’s side. “You’re Winsor’s daughter, aren’t you?”
Emma looked at the hockey player sharply. “You know my father?” she asked, slightly suspicious.
Even though it didn’t surprise her to know that people and players associated with the team were familiar with Jeremy Winsor, she was still cautious when people approached her with her father at the forefront of the conversation. She wasn’t exactly sure what they wanted, but most of the time, it had to do with money. And even though she couldn’t for the life of her remember what this player’s name was or what his position was or whatever, she knew he was a Gulls player. Which meant he had his own money, which just confused Emma as to what he wanted with her in the first place.
“Everyone knows your father,” he said, glancing down at her. “He’s practically as recognizable at a Gulls game as Gil is.”
Emma continued to stare at him, still not understanding the point of the conversation.
“Right, well I recognize you from the games,” he continued. He shuffled his feet a couple of times, looking at his toes buried beneath the sand. “Just wanted to say hello…”
By the tone of his voice, Emma could tell she had thrown him off and probably made him uncomfortable. “I’m Emma,” she said after a long moment of thinking how to remedy the situation even though she hadn’t meant to be so cold.
“Kyle,” he replied, taking her offered hand and shaking it. It felt surprisingly warm, maybe a little moist due to the heat, and much bigger than hers was. “Kyle Underwood. I play for the team.”
“I know.” Of course, Emma wasn’t keen on revealing that that was all she knew about him. “So why do you hate these things, exactly? I thought people felt good about giving to charity.”
“Oh, I do,” he said, looking at her. “It’s not that. I just hate all the awkward conversations that people expect to have with you.”
Emma grazed her bottom lip in order to keep a retort from spilling out of her mouth. He obviously didn’t recognize the hypocrisy of his statement.
“So I wanted to escape.” Emma wasn’t sure if he was finishing a previous thought or was compelled to add it on for her benefit.
“And how’s that going for you?” she asked him, and then prayed to God that he didn’t use some kind of cheesy pick-up line like, ‘Well, the view’s definitely better.’
Surprisingly enough, he lifted his right shoulder and let it fall before angling his torso in his direction. “It could be better, I suppose. I don’t know. If I was at the beach, I’d rather be lying down on towel, soaking up the sun, maybe reading. I’m not a very social person. I kind of like to do my own thing.”
Once again, Emma refrained from asking just why, if he was as unsocial as he claimed to be, he was he talking to her, initiating the forced conver
sation he had just said he wanted to avoid. “You’re a hockey player though,” she pointed out. “Aren’t you supposed to interact with your fans and the press and all that stuff? You know, be famous?”
Kyle surprised her again by rolling those clear, blue eyes. “Okay, I know this is going entirely cliché, but fame isn’t why I got into playing hockey,” he told her, and for whatever reason, she decided to believe him. “I like the feeling I get when I’m on the ice, when I’m throwing an opposing player into the wall, when I’m shooting the puck. I do the press stuff because that’s what the job requires me to do. I interact with the fans because without them, I wouldn’t get to live my dream. But really, if the money and fame and all that other stuff didn’t come along with playing, I’d still play.”
“You seem very dedicated.” Because, really, Emma wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to such an unexpected bout of passion.
He didn’t comment on Emma’s observation and instead, shifts his weight before saying, “So are you really into hockey? You come to all the games and you have been, for a while.”
“Oh no, it’s not me,” Emma said in a rush, feeling her face heat up at the prospect that he actually noticed her presence. He didn’t think she was some kind of stalker, did he? “My dad’s the fan. I just go to the games with him.”
Kyle gave her a look – a cross between confused and interested – and cocked his head to the side before crossing his arms over his chest. “It sounds like you’re very dedicated to your father,” he said and then chuckled. “That came out wrong, didn’t it?”
Despite her best efforts, she found herself chuckling along with him. “No, I get what you’re saying,” she said. “Um, yeah, I guess you could say that. We’re both busy but we try to make time for each other, and somehow, our commonality is hockey. I grew up coming to games and events and stuff. I guess it’s just how we bond.”
“You’re lucky,” he commented. “My father didn’t want me playing hockey, thought it would be a waste of my time. Even now, even though I’m playing for an NHL team, he still sees it as a habit rather than a career.”
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