“I should leave. Much like Oliver, I still have a ton of work to do, too.”
“Do you ever slow down?” Adam asked.
“Not pertinent to your case.”
The urge to flee was overwhelming. Sinead could easily imagine herself spilling her guts to him. Stick to business, she told herself. Stick to safety.
“We’ll talk again soon,” she told him. “In the meantime, if you can think of anything—”
“That would be helpful to the case, call you,” Adam recited in a monotone. “Got it.”
“Good night,” Sinead said.
“ Night,” Adam replied, turning back to the TV.
Sinead walked out of the pub somewhat shaken. Adam could be charming. Still guarded, but charming. She found herself wishing he was a bonehead; he was stirring up feelings in her she hadn’t had in a long time, and it was worrisome. From now on, she was going to play it strictly professionally. She had to.
6
Adam was annoyed with himself. There were rituals he needed to perform before every game to ward off potential injury and increase the odds of a win. First, he needed to put every piece of equipment on, as well as his uniform, from left to right. Then, he needed to find a quiet place, close his eyes, and picture the whole game in his head. The ritual didn’t always work, but it helped focus him so intensely that by the time he hit the ice, all his mental energy was centered on one thing and one thing alone: winning.
Tonight, however, as he readied himself for a Blades home game against Los Angeles, Sinead O’Brien kept intruding on his thoughts, his mind going over their conversation at the Wild Hart. Polite talk had given way to banter, and then to personal info. He was shocked at her willingness to drop her guard for even a minute. Shocked at his own willingness to drop his guard, too. It was more than a professional exchange of information, though maybe he was wrong.
He couldn’t help wondering about the circumstances of her split from her husband. Was it because she was a workaholic? She’d said he was a jerk; maybe he didn’t like a wife with such a high-powered career. He wanted to know more.
But what right did he have to info if he wouldn’t open up more to her—which he wouldn’t. This wasn’t good. He was brought here to win, not make friends or think about the life his attorney led outside her office. He’d have to watch himself.
Adam headed into the locker room, nodding curtly in acknowledgment to whichever teammates made eye contact with him. Michael and Ty were pleased with the way things were going. The Blades were battling Jersey for first in the division, and they were playing tough, defensive hockey. Their offense wasn’t great, but the sense on the team was that it was just a matter of time before they started scoring more and took control of the division. Adam hadn’t changed his game in the least and was as much a physical presence on the ice as ever before. Following his lead, the Blades were finishing more of their checks and not missing any opportunity to hit.
As always, Michael handled the pregame talk, with Adam adding a short comment here and there when needed. Finally, it was time to hit the ice to warm up. Adam was pumped, until he walked out of the locker room to find the hockey commissioner waiting in the hall, motioning him over.
“What’s up?” Adam asked.
“Blades are doing well,” Welsh noted.
“You called me over to compliment me?”
Welsh chuckled. “No. I just wanted to remind you of what we talked about in the Kidco meeting.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“We’ve been watching you, just like I told you we would. I’m still seeing a lot of mid-ice hitting. It’s amazing you didn’t concuss Toronto’s Gil the other night. And dropping the gloves with Fraccia in the third period—did you really think that was going to help your case?”
Adam shrugged unapologetically. “I play the way I play.”
“That’s certainly true. But the league needs to change, and its players need to change along with it. You know the deal, Adam. We want a faster, higher-scoring, less violent game. The future is coming, and it looks a lot more like your teammate Saari than it does you,” Welsh said icily.
Adam took a very small, almost imperceptible step toward the commissioner. It was so subtle that no one would think it premeditated, just an effort to maintain his balance, standing on skate blades on a carpeted floor. But it was intentional. Welsh was less than half Adam’s size, especially with Adam in pads and on skates. He could tell the smaller man was intimidated. That was the point. Adam was using personal space to send a very clear message : don’t screw with me. But since Welsh wasn’t a player, he might need it spelled out for him more explicitly.
“I play the way I play,” Adam repeated. “End of story. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a game to play.”
Adam left Welsh and headed down the hall to join his teammates on the ice. The future looks like Saari? Then to hell with the future. All that matters is today. At least his conversation with the commissioner had one positive side effect: his anger was fueling his adrenaline, and he was ready to take no prisoners.
The morning after Oliver abandoned her at the Wild Hart, Sinead marched into his office and read him the riot act. Oliver was unrepentant.
“Riddle me this, Batgirl: did you or did you not find that chatting to your client outside the office made him open up a little bit more?”
“Oh, he opened up, all right,” Sinead said scornfully. “He told me he liked The Three Stooges.”
Oliver put his hand on his chest, feigning a swoon. “A man after my own heart!”
“You have got to be kidding me! Only adolescent boys and morons like The Three Stooges!”
“I’m disappointed in you, Sinead. Attorneys shouldn’t stereotype. I have it on good authority that Mayor Bloom-berg is a huge Curly fan.”
“Shut up, please.”
“You give him any info about yourself?”
“I told him I liked jazz,” Sinead mumbled.
“That must have really turned him on,” Oliver said dryly.
“I have no interest in turning him on! Can you please get that through your thick head?”
She decided to withhold from him that they both professed to liking children. Oliver would be all over it, torturing her endlessly. He already was.
“Whatever.” Despite it being only eight a.m., Oliver was already guzzling his second cola of the day. “But seriously, lamb chop: don’t you think spending time with him in an informal setting helped grease the wheels a bit?”
“Yes,” Sinead grumbled.
“I’m telling you: meet him outside the office as much as you can and eventually, silent Moe will cough up all the info you need.” Oliver took a long slug of Coke. “Seems like a nice guy, by the way. Good-looking.”
“I suppose.”
Oliver smirked. “Like you haven’t noticed.”
Sinead waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Not relevant to the case.”
Oliver rolled his eyes as if he’d heard it a hundred times before. “What’s next on the agenda?”
“I’m going to a Blades game with my brother. That will definitely make Adam happy.”
“Plus you’ll get to see him being all manly on the ice.”
“I hate you, Oliver.”
“Nah, you love me.”
“I do,” Sinead admitted. She stifled a yawn. “Time to go to work.”
“Remember,” Oliver called after her as she walked out the door. “Casual settings with hockey boy. Informal.”
“Why don’t you tell me again? I didn’t hear you the first fifty times you said it.”
She knew he was right. But she didn’t want him to be.
“I’m having a really hard time following the puck.”
Sinead was growing increasingly frustrated as she watched the Blades play against Toronto with Quinn. She’d read as much as she could about the sport and had been fairly confident that when it came time to watch the game, she’d know what was going on. But she wanted a bona
fide hockey fan with her just in case. She was fast discovering that reading about a sport and watching it were two very different things.
“Don’t fixate on the puck. Look at everything happening on the ice. Try to think of them skating in patterns, and visualize where you think the puck is going to go,” Quinn advised distractedly. Sinead shot him a sideways glance; his eyes were glued to the ice.
Sinead tried to do what he advised, but it was hopeless; things were simply moving too fast. It bugged her. She was used to understanding things right away. That she couldn’t grasp what was being played out in front of her eyes was incredibly irritating.
Perhaps she couldn’t discern patterns because her attention kept being drawn to Adam. From the moment he stepped out onto the ice, there was something compelling about him. It wasn’t just his size; it was his sheer physical presence. The other players seemed to react in accord with or in opposition to everything he did, even if he didn’t touch the puck. They all seemed to be acutely aware of where Adam was and what he was doing.
He’d be pleased she’d come to watch the game. It would increase his confidence in her as his attorney. Oliver’s taunting words from a few weeks back echoed in her head—you care what he thinks—but Sinead dismissed them. Just because Oliver had bedded half the female population of Manhattan didn’t mean he was good at reading women.
Sinead was so deep in her own head that she jolted in surprise when the Met Gar crowd started booing loudly, her brother included.
“What just happened?”
“Your client was just given a penalty. The ref says he elbowed a Toronto forward.”
“Did he?”
“No. From the replay the hit was with his shoulder. His elbow came up after to keep himself from smashing his face into the boards.”
Sinead looked down at the ice. Michael Dante was arguing vehemently with one of the referees, who was shaking his head obstinately. Adam had skated to the penalty box.
Sinead’s heart sank. This was exactly the sort of thing that wouldn’t help his case. It was safe to assume that most of the jurors would not be hockey fans, so they wouldn’t be as discerning as Quinn about whether penalties were justified. She needed to do more research, find out about clean hits, dirty hits, what was considered legal under the rules, and what wasn’t. She had foolishly thought this case was going to be straightforward. Now she realized it had the potential to be anything but.
Play continued. Sinead didn’t even try to pay attention to the game at large anymore; she focused only on Adam, sitting in the penalty box or on the bench, but mostly when he was out on the ice. He made skating look so effortless; they all did. It was fascinating to watch such physically formidable men being so graceful and fluid. And God, they were all so fast.
“You wanna go say hello to your client when the game is over?” Quinn asked.
“Sure.” It made sense: he’d see that she was serious about knowing all she could about his job, so she could build the best case to defend him. But that wasn’t the only reason she wanted to see him. She forced her gaze back to the ice.
The Blades had won 4-3, so the mood in the packed Green Room outside the locker room was upbeat.
Sinead was on her way back from the banquet table, where she’d grabbed some bottled water, when Lou Capesi’s voice cut through the din. “Hey, hey, number one attorney.”
Sinead turned, smiling. “Hi, Lou.”
“Nice to see you,” said Lou. “How’s the case going?”
Sinead took a sip of water. “Pretty well, I think. I’m still interviewing people. In fact, I’ve been meaning to call you. Can you recommend any sportswriters who’d be inclined to speak favorably about Adam?”
“Doll, they’ll all speak favorably about Adam; he’s a throwback, and the ink-stained wretches all love ‘old-time hockey.’ Shoot me a call, and I’ll hook you up with the big boys who have some clout.”
“Thanks.” She glanced discreetly around the room. “Where is Adam, by the way?”
“Still in the locker room, talking to the press.”
“Is he good at that?” she asked apprehensively.
“He knows what to say and what not to say, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good,” Sinead said with relief.
“Look, honey, don’t worry: the PR machine here has got his back.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You wanna talk to him? I’ll go tell him you’re here.”
“Yes, that would be good,” she said, trying to cover her nervousness.
“You got it. In the meantime, get yourself a donut or something. You look too thin.”
Lou waddled off. Sinead tried to imagine Adam talking to the press. He must hate it, she thought.
She took a deep breath. The room was packed; there was no air circulating. She hoped it didn’t give her a headache. Quinn sidled up to her, chewing on a bagel.
“Where’s your famous client?”
“Talking to the press, apparently.” Sinead took a long drink of water. “Who are all these people?”
“Family, friends, guests.” Quinn peered into her eyes with concern. “You okay, Neenee? Not getting a headache, are you?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Good.”
The Blades, singly and in small groups, began entering the room through a set of heavy metal double doors. “Look, do you mind if I go talk to the goalie, David Hewson?” Quinn asked. “He’s friends with one of my old pals from the Sent I haven’t heard from in a while. Thought he might have the lowdown on where the hell he’s disappeared to.”
“Go on.”
Quinn gave her a big hug. “Any time you want to go to a game, I’m your guy.”
Sinead smiled. “Thanks, big bro.”
Quinn disappeared into the throng, leaving Sinead standing against the far wall of the Green Room clutching her water, which she now chugged down. She wondered how Lou was going to tell Adam she was here. Yo, your attorney was at the game; she’s in the Green Room waiting to talk to you. She imagined Adam making a put-upon face and thinking, Great. I just want to have a brew and go home, and now I have to talk with my lawyer.
Five minutes later, Adam appeared, his light brown hair wet and slicked back. Sinead took another sip of water, carefully watching him. Not the chattiest of men by any means. Though he did stop to say hello to a few people, he looked uncomfortable, and all the conversations seemed to be short and sweet. It reminded Sinead of herself when she was first starting out in law; she was terrible when it came to small talk, so much so that Oliver discreetly told her one day that she was getting a reputation as a snob. Ever since then, she’d forced herself to schmooze when she had to. It still didn’t come easily, but she’d mastered it. A workaholic? Yes. Intense? Yes. But a snob? No.
She checked her watch, growing impatient. Surely Adam had to know she was waiting to talk to him. Was it possible he was making her wait on purpose? Stupid thought; there was no reason for him to be manipulative.
Adam shot her a quick glance, acknowledging her presence. A few more people apprehended him on his way over. Sinead felt like she was at the end of a receiving line waiting her turn to talk to hockey royalty.
Finally, they were face-to-face.
“Hey,” he said politely.
She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.
“Hi.” Did he not want to talk to her? “I watched the game. I hope that makes you feel a bit more comfortable about my ability to defend you.”
“Did you understand it?”
“Why don’t you quiz me?” Sinead challenged.
An amused smile flickered across Adam’s face. He folded his arms in front of his chest. “Well? I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“The mini lecture on how the elbowing penalty isn’t going to help my case.”
“I had no intention of mentioning it. At least not here and now.”
“Mmm.”
Sinead looked at him with concern. “Yo
u seem distracted. Is something wrong?”
“Yeah, something’s wrong.” Adam frowned. “I spoke with my brother earlier today. He told me you were going up to Claresholm next week to interview him.”
“Why is this bothering you so much, Adam?”
“I don’t like people poking around in my personal life. Talking to my brother doesn’t make sense. Do you think he’s going to have anything but positive things to say about me?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” A tense standoff ensued. “At the very least he might be able to recommend some other people I can speak with, since you haven’t,” Sinead said eventually.
“That’s because there isn’t anyone.”
“Then it’ll be a short trip for me, won’t it?”
“Very short,” Adam replied curtly.
“How did it go with the press?” Sinead asked, changing the subject.
“Same as always.”
“Meaning?” God, Mr. Taciturn had returned. It was like pulling teeth to get him to talk tonight.
“They ask me about the ref’s call, I say, ‘I don’t think it was a penalty, but the refs have a tough job out there.’ They ask me about how the team is playing, I say, ‘We’re really starting to come together as a unit, but we’re not there yet, and we have to step things up if we want to contend for the Cup.’ ”
“No one asked about the lawsuit?”
Adam looked annoyed. “None of the local reporters bring it up anymore, since all I say is, ‘Sorry, I can’t talk about it.’ Sometimes a visiting reporter brings it up, but I just say the same thing. Now, are you done quizzing me?”
Sinead was taken aback by his antipathy. “I wasn’t quizzing you. I was just making conversation.” She paused, waiting for a response. There was none, just a poker-faced stare. Obviously he’d rethought their banter of a few nights back and regretted it.
“I should get going,” she said politely. She was in no mood to play “Get the sullen hockey player to talk.”
Icebreaker Page 6