Icebreaker

by Deirdre Martin

  “I could lose my job, Mr. Perry.”

  “You won’t lose your job,” Adam assured him.

  Rocco laughed at him. “Who are you? God? Suppose Sinead is pissed I let you up, and she gets me fired? You gonna pay my bills?”

  “Rocco, listen to me. This is a matter of life and death. I’m not shitting you.” Adam paused. “If you let me up, I’ll send you and Mrs. Rocco on a vacation anywhere you want.”

  Rocco looked insulted. “Oh, so now you’re bribing me?”

  “C’mon, man,” Adam begged. “How about this: I’ll get you tickets to any event at Met Gar you want for the rest of your life.”

  Rocco paused. “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  “For life?”

  “For life.”

  “Deal.”

  Interesting how he didn’t consider that a bribe, Adam mused.

  “Can you buzz her now and tell her it’s Oliver?”

  Rocco shook his head. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

  Adam was getting desperate. “Rocco, you already agreed to this. You want me to go down on my knees, dude? C’mon. Time’s a-wasting.”

  “If I wake her up, she’s gonna be pissed.”

  “I can handle that. Just tell her Oliver’s here.”

  “Fine.” Rocco buzzed upstairs. “Sinead? Oliver’s here to see you.” Adam held his breath. “Go on up,” said Rocco. “She’s all yours.”

  “Did she sound like you woke her up?”

  “I dunno,” Rocco retorted. “Just go and leave me in peace already, okay?”

  “Thanks, Rocco.”

  35

  Oliver? Sinead was seized by a jolt of terror. Suppose he’d fallen off the wagon? Well, at least he was coming to her, not continuing his binge. You always expect the worst. Welcome, as Quinn said, to being Irish.

  The doorbell rang, and Sinead hustled over to open it. “Oliver, I—”

  Not Oliver. Adam. Adam standing there in the hall while she looked like a hag. Adam.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey?” Sinead replied sardonically.

  Adam looked flustered. “Lame, I know. I just had to see you.”

  “How did you get up here?”

  “Rocco let me up, and please don’t fire him. I really pressured him.”

  Sinead cocked her head inquisitively. “And you said you were Oliver because—?”

  “Because I figured you wouldn’t let me up if you knew it was me. Am I right?”

  Sinead was silent.

  “Can I come in?”

  “I guess so.”

  Sinead’s pulse was beating madly as she ushered him inside. She’d yet to clear away the cold Chinese food from earlier in the evening. God, he’ll think I’m a pig, one of those pathetic lonely women who stays in on Friday nights and stuffs her face and watches Ace of Cakes.

  “Please, sit,” Sinead urged. “Unless you’re not going to be here long, in which case you can stand. I guess. Either way, do you want a drink?”

  Adam looked concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Why? Of course. Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because you seem a little nervous.”

  “I’m not.” Don’t lie. “Actually, I am. You caught me completely off guard.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t be, it’s okay. Now.” She gestured toward the couch. “Sit. Please.”

  “Please stop talking like a robot. You’re freaking me out.”

  “I’ll try not to,” Sinead replied, amazed she could manage a smile.

  They sat down in unison. Sinead could feel her pulse flutter in her throat; Adam was so close their shoulders practically touched. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t seen him in a while, but he looked especially gorgeous, whereas she did not. She tucked her feet beneath her so he wouldn’t see the chipped toenail polish.

  “So—?” Her heart was beginning to pound, and she couldn’t control it.

  “I love you,” Adam declared. “I love you, and I want a second chance, if you’ll hear me out.”

  Sinead couldn’t breathe for a moment. “Uh . . . okay. I’m listening.”

  “The night we broke up? I was a jerk. I listened to you laying out what happened between you and Chip, and never once did it strike me that in every scenario, you were the one making the sacrifices.”

  Sinead looked down, twisting her hands in her lap.

  “I know I said I agreed with Chip. I know I told you I was traditional. But I’m not inflexible. If you hadn’t run out, we’d have been able to talk about it. But you cut me off at the knees.”

  Adam took her hand. Sinead was shocked to see how vulnerable he looked. “All my life, all I’ve cared about is my career, just like you. At least you had a life outside of work. I never did. But now I realize work isn’t everything. I don’t even want to think about all the hours I’ve spent alone in my apartment worrying about strategy and training and inspiration, when I could have been out doing any number of things that have nothing to do with my job. My priorities have been fucked up, and I’ve missed out on a lot. Worst of all, I’ve missed out on you.”

  Sinead looked into his eyes. “Look, you’re not the only one at fault here. You were right: I did overreact that night; I did end things prematurely. And like you just pointed out, I didn’t even give you a chance to state your case. I’m so sorry, Adam.”

  Adam lifted her hand to his mouth, his lips grazing her knuckles. “I’m sorry, too.”

  Sinead’s heart was tumbling wildly. “I’ve figured a few things out about myself while we were apart, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was babysitting Charlie recently, and it was terrific. I’d watched him a few other times before, and for some reason, we never quite jelled. Maybe he could tell how nervous I was around him. At any rate, I’ve always had an awkwardness inside me that made me believe I just wasn’t cut out to be a parent.

  “So there I was with Charlie, and we were having a wonderful time. And I remembered you and me playing with Tully’s kids, and how much fun it was.” Sinead’s eyes began welling up. “I realized you would have been willing to compromise and I would have been willing to stay home part-time with a child.”

  Words were jostling for position in her throat. “Don’t you see? I wasn’t reacting to you; I was having a knee-jerk reaction to what I’d gone through with Chip. As soon as you said you agreed with him, I cut and ran. And that was wrong. It was cowardly.”

  Adam touched her cheek. “I was the coward. I shouldn’t have let you walk out the door. I should have asserted myself. But I was just so stunned; one minute we were together, the next you were running away.”

  “Like I said, I was reacting to past history. Again, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Adam pressed his mouth to hers. The entire time they were apart, Sinead had tried to conjure the experience of being kissed by him, but the memories were nothing compared to the real thing. He tasted like love and relief and desire. She pulled away, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. “I love you,” she said softly.

  Ever so gently, Adam took her face in his hands, his eyes bright and focused. “I love you, too. I swear to you, I will do whatever it takes to make this work, because the thought of living my life without you kills me.” He put his burning forehead to hers. “Just be patient with me, okay? I’ve always put my career first.”

  “So have I.”

  “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

  “Forever?”

  “Forever,” Adam whispered passionately. “And that’s a promise.”

  36

  Time feels like an assault when you’re willing to push your body to the limit, Adam mused, grimacing as he slipped his sweater over his head. It was game four of the final series; if they won tonight against L.A., they’d be the Stanley Cup champions; if they didn’t win, the series could drag out to an excruciating game seven. Bring it on, thought Adam, massaging
his left shoulder where two nights before, L.A.’s Nicolai Gorky had hit him during a melee behind the Blades’ goal. The pain was a mere footnote. Balls, tenacity, grit, whatever you want to call it—Adam had it in spades, and nothing was going to get in his way. Nothing.

  The road to get here had been a bitch. The first round against Philadelphia went smoother than Adam had anticipated. Philly’s goaltending cracked under the Blades’ relentless assault, and the New Yorkers won in a sweep. They then played New Jersey in the Eastern Conference Quarterfinals in a series as hard as the Philly series was easy. It had taken every ounce of blood and guts for the Blades to beat Jersey in a seven-game series. In the second game, Adam had leveled one of Jersey’s wingers, Guy Montaine, with a punishing open-ice hit. Everyone in Met Gar held their breath, waiting to see if one of the referees called a penalty. They didn’t. The league had indeed backed down. Adam could play his game.

  They went up against Tampa in the semis. It was a fight to the death, the games some of the most physically punishing Adam had ever played. But the Blades pulled it out in six games, and now here they were going mano a mano against L.A. on home ice in the fourth game of the finals. Adam didn’t like to get ahead of himself, especially after telling his teammates to focus, but he couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to skate the Cup and be able to show Sinead, as well as his niece and nephew. Outside Met Gar, there was carefully contained insanity as fans stood pressed against the barricades, chanting, “We want the Cup!” The depth of their longing inspired Adam. He loved the high-voltage energy crackling through Manhattan as the whole city whipped itself up into Blades fever. These people knew what it was like to be Stanley Cup champions; they’d tasted this victory before, and they wanted to taste it again. Adam intended to give them what they all—himself included—wanted.

  There was energy humming through the locker room, too, but it carried a faint tinge of anxiety. Some of Adam’s teammates knew what it was to win the Cup, but they were no more relaxed than any of the other players. Each time was like the first time, Ty told them. Each time required the same will and determination. Adam was feeling the same thing everyone else was feeling—maybe even more, since he knew he might never have another chance at the prize that had eluded him his entire career.

  “Guys.”

  Adam’s voice was commanding as he stepped into the center of the room. By now they knew that speeches weren’t his forte, and that he was more a man of action than words. But tonight, words were needed to help spur the action on. Tonight, he actually wanted to speak.

  He had their complete attention. “Our bodies and spirits have taken a beating through this season, but we haven’t been broken, and we will not be broken, so long as the hunger and the sheer iron will to win is there.”

  His eyes swept the circle of men around him, their unblinking attention exactly what he wanted.

  “I’ve been playing in the league for seventeen years. This is the closest I’ve ever come to winning the Cup, and I’m not going to lie: I want it badly. But I’m not afraid of losing; I’m afraid of not wanting victory badly enough. Play as if this is the last fucking hockey game you’ll ever get to play. This is hockey. Will beats skill. If we want it more than they do, we will win. Will beats skill.

  “The Cup is sitting in the next room. Let’s take it.”

  37

  The tone of the game was set in the first period. Three minutes in, L.A. scored first, prompting a “Boooo!” so loud from the hometown crowd that Adam could feel it thrum through his bones. But the Blades responded thirty seconds later: Thad Meyers’s slap shot from the right point seemed to stun not only L.A.’s goalie, Terry Cahoon, but the entire Los Angeles team as well.

  Michael Dante was pulling out all the stops to close out the series this night, shortening his bench, double-shifting Saari’s line, and rotating just two pairs of defensemen. Barry Fontaine wristed a rebound past Cahoon with less than a minute left in the first, putting the Blades up 2-1.

  “Solid first,” Adam said aloud in the locker room as he lifted his sweater and undid his shoulder pads so that one of the trainers could freeze his left shoulder, which was beginning to pulse with pain. The locker room was muted, no one wanting to jinx their first-period success. Finally, as they stood to file back to the ice, Adam broke the silence. “Will beats skill.”

  The Blades played like men on a mission in the second, and L.A.’s energy flagged. But Cahoon was standing on his head, keeping L.A. in the game. The tension was ratcheting up, both in the arena and on the bench. Yet Adam felt oddly calm. He was where he was supposed to be. His entire life and everything he had been through—those years of childhood hockey, traveling from town to town in the juniors, the accident with his best friend, the death of his parents, all the blood and lost teeth and pain—had all come together for this one night.

  Ten minutes into the period, L.A. put a rebound past Hewson, tying the game and silencing the crowd. On the ice for the next shift, Adam saw L.A. winger Serge Fetisov coming down the right side at top speed. Adam met Fetisov and the boards at the exact same moment. Bending from the waist as he and Fetisov were about to connect, Adam thrust out his left hip, slamming into Fetisov’s thighs, sending the winger airborne. The energy in the building surged as the fans rose to their feet, cheering.

  No one spoke in the locker room between the second and third period . . . until Michael Dante climbed up on a bench, looked around, and in a quiet voice said, “Will beats skill.”

  From the moment the puck was dropped to start the third, the Blades controlled the ice. Saari played like a man possessed, but Cahoon wouldn’t yield. Shots rang off the crossbar and the posts. Frustration mounted as the period entered its final moments. After a rare L.A. flurry, Adam cleared the puck the length of the ice. Saari got a jump on the flagging L.A. defense. He flew down the ice with the kind of speed that had made him a star since he was a little kid playing in a small town outside Helsinki. Getting to the puck first, he sent a blind backhand pass out into the slot. Ulf Torkelson, who’d been flowing the play, one-timed the puck over Cahoon’s blocker.

  The fans were on their feet, screaming.

  There were only two minutes left, and the Blades had the lead. The rest of the game was a blur to Adam. L.A. pulled Cahoon for an extra skater. The desperation of the L.A. players to tie the game was topped by the desperation of the Blades to hold the lead. Blades were throwing themselves in front of pucks, diving to tip pucks out of the zone. With five seconds left, Adam dug the puck out of the Blades’ left corner and lifted it as high as he could toward center ice. Seconds after it landed, the horn went off.

  The Blades were the Stanley Cup champions.

  38

  Joy. That was the first word that came to Adam’s mind. He’d dreamed of this moment for years, imagining what it would feel like, but fantasy paled compared to the real thing. The roar of the crowd was louder than anything he ever heard, the pitch of the emotion so high it bordered on hysterical.

  “We want Cup! We want Cup!” The crowd was like a primitive tribe brought to frenzy by their shared relief.

  Tully Webster, red-faced and exhausted as he mopped his face with a towel, nudged Adam in the ribs. “Nuts, isn’t it?” he asked, referring to the crowd.

  “It’s great.”

  “Cap!” Adam turned, and an exuberant Esa Saari threw his arms around his neck. “We fucking did it! I’m allowed to party tonight, right?” he ribbed.

  “As long and hard as you want, Saari.”

  “Yess!”

  A red carpet was rolled out onto the ice, followed by a table draped in velvet. Two men in suits wearing white gloves came out, carrying hockey’s holy of holies, which they carefully placed in the center of the table. When Commissioner Welsh emerged for the presentation, a chorus of boos greeted him. But the crowd was too excited to vent their anger for long.

  The commissioner’s speech was short and simple. He congratulated L.A. on its season and valiant playoff run. T
hen he looked over at Adam.

  “Captain Adam Perry, come get the Cup.” Adam picked up the chalice. He held it reverently for a moment, lifted it above his head, and with a kick of his skates he was off, circling the rink, holding the grail aloft for the entire lap. When he came to where Sinead was sitting with Quinn and Oliver, he mouthed, “I love you.”

  Oliver mouthed back, “I love you, too,” earning him an elbow in the ribs from Sinead.

  One by one it was passed to everyone on the team, the men who fought together to make this moment real. Once everyone on the team had a chance to skate the Cup, it was passed back to Adam, who held it high, skating once again along the perimeter of the ice, letting fans reach over the boards to touch it and claim some of its magic.

  Back in the locker room a few minutes later, the celebration continued. Sinead finally edged her way toward Adam.

  “That was amazing!” she enthused, kissing him.

  “I’m covered in sweat and champagne!”

  Sinead discreetly licked his arm. “I know.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “What’s next? Have you fussy boys figured out what you’re doing before the Hart?”

  “The official party is at Dante’s.”

  “Would you mind if I skipped the official party and just went straight over to the pub to help my folks out?”

  “Don’t mind at all. You know, this would be a pretty hollow victory if you weren’t in my life.”

  Sinead blushed. “Adam . . .”

  “It’s true.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Go on, get out of here before your brain explodes.”

  “Will do. I love you, Adam Perry. And I’m so proud of you.”

  Adam watched as she carefully threaded her way through the ever-deepening crowd. He wondered where his family was. He was on the verge of giving up hope of seeing them when he spotted Susie and the kids squeezing through the locker room door.