Body Check (3 page)

“Because the more coverage the players get in the regular press and on TV, the higher the profile of the game, the more tickets we sell, and the richer Kidco becomes,” Janna rejoined knowingly.

Lou's caterpillar-size eyebrows shot up. “You got a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” Janna assured him. “It's the nature of the beast, I know that.”

Lou nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve. “Now. I know you can do this job with your eyes closed, and that's why I want you. I've been told you're great at what you do, you got contacts up the wazoo, and if you were able to turn those
Gotham
brats into
Oprah
material, I got no doubt you can spruce up the public's perception of the Blades, most of whom really aren't as wild as the press make them out to be.” He frowned. “Only problem might be Gallagher.”

That was when he'd explained to Janna about the captain. “Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy, a great hockey player,” Lou insisted, stifling a burp. “But he's a huge pain in my ass, a real arrogant SOB. Thinks publicity is a waste of time, a distraction. For him, the only thing that matters is those sixty minutes on the ice, period, end of story. Off the ice, he likes to lead the good life: the best restaurants, the best looking women, you get the picture. He's a bit of a playboy, and Corporate isn't happy with it.”

“So you want me to get him to tone it down, is that it?”

“Yeah, because if you can get
him
to keep a lid on it, the rest of the team will follow suit. They'd follow that bastard into the jaws of hell if he asked. Jesus, if you were able to get that anorexic airhead with the silicone chest who plays Treva on your show to do community service—whazzername—?”

“Malo St. John,” Janna supplied, stifling a laugh.

“—then I know you can get Gallagher to turn it around. Kidco wants people to see there's more to him than his goddamn obsessive will to win and his never-ending desire to sample the flavor of the month. They want
all
of them to be perceived as caring about Joe Schmoe on the street who pays to see them play. It's important the public thinks they're more than a pack of rowdies with too much money and too little regard for decency, for Chrissakes.”

“I'm sure I can do it,” Janna asserted confidently, even though she wasn't sure at all. “But you need to make it worth my while to leave
Gotham
.”

Lou offhandedly quoted her a salary, and she damn near fell off her chair. She never imagined making money like that in a million years. Still, she played it cool. “And what about stock options? 401(k)? Wardrobe allowance? Vacation time? Assistants?”

Lou sighed, pushing a glossy maroon folder embossed with the word
Kidco
in silver across the front toward her. “This will tell you everything you need to know.”

They shot the breeze for a while, and by the time Janna left the interview, she knew she'd take the job. Doing PR for the Blades was just the shot in the arm she needed to get her out of her comfortable rut. Not only that, but the money was simply too good to turn down.

“Why do they call him ‘the Bull'?” she asked one of the secretaries on her way out of Capesi's office.

The woman, age sixty or so with a helmet of shellacked hair dyed so garishly red it would make Lucille Ball spin in her grave, looked up at Janna over the half-moon bifocals perched on the end of her nose. “ 'Cause way back when he was a boxer, he used to fight like one. Now he just slings it.”

Janna had laughed, utterly charmed. A week later, she resigned her job at
Gotham
.

And now here she was, doing ten miles over the speed limit, on her way back to the city to tell the Bull that on her first day out of the blocks, she'd gotten Gill and Lubov to sign off on some events, but Gallagher was unmoved.

Ty, Ty, Ty,
she mused.
You have no idea who you're up against, do you?
He won this round, she'd give him that. But come hell or high water, the next would be hers. It had to be.

 

 

“
You were a
little rude to her, don't you think?”

Ty glanced up from skimming the sports pages of the
New York Sentinel
to see his teammate and longtime friend, Kevin Gill, looking at him questioningly. The two were sitting at “their” table at Maggie's Grill, waiting for lunch to arrive. Now that the season was about to start, they were getting back into their usual routine: driving upstate to Armonk to practice, grabbing a quick bite afterwards, then driving back to the Big Apple. He should have been in a good mood. Practice had gone well; none of the guys were coasting, saving their real sweat and blood for when the season officially began. They seemed to understand they needed to give it their all, day in and day out, game day or not, if they were serious about winning the Cup in the spring. Plus he had a good feeling about the upcoming year. But then that Janna MacNeil woman had invaded his locker room spouting corporate BS, and his good mood evaporated, replaced by an overwhelming sense of resentment he'd been unable to shake, especially when she'd had the balls to tell him that Kidco owned him.

He took a sip of his beer and returned his friend's look. “She deserved it.”

“She did
not
deserve it. She was just trying to do her job.”

“Yeah, and do you know what her job
is
, Kev? It's tidying us up so those suits at Kidco can make money off us. Screw them! They don't give a rat's ass about the integrity of the game, or anyone who plays it. We don't owe them a goddamn thing.”

“I still don't think it would kill you to sign up for one charity event just to throw the number crunchers a bone. It'd get them off your ass. You keep turning her down, she's just going to keep hocking you.”

Ty shrugged. “Let her.”

“Jesus Christ.” Kevin sat back in his chair, amazed. “You are one stubborn bastard, you know that?”

Ty grinned. “That's why I've won three Stanley Cups so far, buddy. Because I don't give up, and I don't give in.”

“Ain't that right.”

Ty took another sip of beer. He'd meant what he'd said to
Miss
MacNeil: If, of his own volition, he felt like giving some time to charity, then he'd do it. But he sure as hell wasn't going to do it so some MBA with a cell phone and a trophy wife could fill his coffers. He'd spent fifteen years helping to build a winning franchise in St. Louis. He'd more than earned his right to do what he pleased, and right now, what pleased him was being the best at what he did on the ice and having a damn good time off it. Maybe Kevin was right: maybe it would make his life easier if he played it Kidco's way. But Ty didn't care. It was his way or no way, no ifs, ands, or buts. Too bad if Kidco didn't like it.

He craned his head around, looking for the waitress. Jesus, service in here was slow today. What was the deal?

Kevin, reading his mind, rolled his eyes. “Just cool your jets, okay? She'll be here in a minute.”

Ty relaxed. Leave it to Kevin to know just what he was thinking. On the ice, he was right wing to Ty's center, his capacity for speed, power and toughness almost as legendary as Ty's own. The sports press jokingly referred to them as “Batman and Robin.” Off the ice, Ty relied on Kevin to tell him the naked, unvarnished truth; he was the one guy he trusted implicitly. If he was being too much of a hard-ass, Kevin let him know it. He also let him know when he thought he was going a little overboard enjoying the New York nightlife.

Happily married with two kids, Kevin thought Ty should settle down. “When I retire,” was Ty's standard response. But at age thirty-three, fit and strong as an athlete ten years younger, it looked as if it might be another decade before Captain Gallagher would even consider hanging up his skates. Hell, if he had his choice he'd never retire. One day he would just drop dead on the ice and his teammates would bear him away, regal as a king—then they'd continue playing. Because all that mattered was hockey, pure and simple.

Or maybe not so simple.

Ty had felt a small twinge of desire when he'd loped out of the showers and found the publicist standing on the bench giving her rah-rah speech. She was cute—not beautiful, but cute: tiny, pert, with short blond hair, a button nose, and bright blue eyes that didn't seem to miss a trick. Energetic, that was it. She seemed energetic. Didn't matter, though. Janna MacNeil wasn't his type. Not that he really remembered what his type
was
anymore. It had been years since he'd been involved in a serious relationship.

The first time, when he was still playing for St. Louis, one Stanley Cup under his belt and the captaincy right around the corner, he'd fallen so hard it had affected his game. St. Louis didn't get anywhere near the Playoffs that year, the woman wound up dumping him, and that, Ty thought ruefully, was that. The second time he'd surrendered his heart, about two years ago, the relationship went south when Ty realized she cared more about spending his money than she did about him. He broke things off, and she exacted her revenge by telling some cock-and-bull story to the press about how he ripped his teammates to shreds in private. Those who knew him well knew it was a lie, but it still hurt his credibility. He made a vow right then and there that he wouldn't get seriously involved again until he retired, and he'd stuck to it.

Not coincidentally, he never missed another round of Playoffs again, and he'd gone on to win two more Cups, proof positive that if wanted to win on the ice he couldn't afford to be distracted. For him, hockey was a full-time commitment, and the only thing that mattered was winning. If that meant foregoing a long-term relationship for the time being, so be it. Instead, he concentrated on having a good time.

One of the perks of being a star athlete, he'd discovered, was that beautiful women threw themselves at him all the time. They threw, and he caught, never promising more than he could give, always making sure both parties came away from the encounter satisfied. Sometimes he yearned for more than casual, no-strings-attached sex, but he rode the feelings out, knowing they would pass. What tripped him up was when he encountered someone like Janna MacNeil, who seemed to have the whole package. In fact, all the way over on the drive to the restaurant, he was plagued by unbidden thoughts of that lithe little body of hers, thoughts that made his blood hum and his mind go on the fritz.

“Ty?”

He blinked. The waitress had come and gone, bringing his grilled salmon and Kevin's burger. The small, darkpaneled dining room of Maggie's was filled with regulars, their voices rising and falling with the easy cadence of conversation. And he'd been—where? Off in the recesses of his mind, apparently, thinking about . . . He shook his head, clearing it. “Sorry. I was in the ozone.”

“No kidding.” Kevin gave a sly smile before popping a fry in his mouth. “Thinking about the publicist?”

Ty flashed his famous scowl, the one meant as a serious warning to the opposing team that he meant business. “Right.”

“She was kind of cute.”

“I guess. I didn't really notice.”

Kevin chuckled. “Liar.” He took a big, juicy bite of his burger, washing the food down quickly with a shot of Coke. “Hey, listen. Abby wanted to know if you'd like to come over for dinner Friday night.”

“Name the time and I'll be there.”

“Let me find out from the chef and I'll get back to you.” Kevin paused, drowning a french fry in a pool of ketchup. “You can bring someone if you want.”

Ty's gaze was unyielding. “You know I don't date seriously during the season.”

“Yeah, well, I just thought . . .” Kevin shrugged. “Whatever.”

“You really think I was rude to that publicist?” Ty asked abruptly. He knew what Kevin was driving at.

“Don't you?”

“Yeah,” Ty reluctantly admitted, feeling bad as an image of Janna's momentarily stunned expression flashed through his mind. He hated to think she'd come away with a poor first impression of him and would probably be loaded for bear the next time their paths crossed. “I guess I'll talk to her at practice tomorrow,” he murmured.

“And say what?”

“That she caught me at a bad time, blah blah blah. ”

“Blah blah blah being that you still refuse to do any PR.”

Ty raised his glass high to Kevin in mock salute. “To my brilliant teammate, who's finally catching on.”

“Bastard,” Kevin grumbled affectionately. “Stubborn, ball-busting bastard.”

Changing the subject, Ty began talking about Coach “Tubs” Matthias, and who he thought might need a little work on defense. But even as the words flowed effortlessly from his mouth, his mind was elsewhere. He was in the locker room, apologizing to Janna MacNeil, returning that sweet smile of hers that he'd rejected earlier, explaining to her that really, he wasn't a total jerk. He caught his mind wandering and forced his thoughts back to the conversation at hand, while issuing a warning to himself in his head. He was going to have to watch himself and steer clear of Janna MacNeil, or there was going to be big trouble.

And trouble, especially where his heart was concerned, was the one thing he couldn't afford.

 

 

 

 

Returning to the
Blades PR office at “Met Gar,” Janna was greeted by the sight of the Bull hunkering down over an open pizza box. On one of the leather couches opposite him sat Jack Cowley. Also an assistant director of PR, Cowley was in charge of gathering the stats, game notes, and other bits of info that the beat writers and network commentators needed each day. Janna wasn't sure she liked Jack, with his perpetual tan, Hugh Grant “do”, and lock-jawed way of talking. There was something unctuous about him, insincere, especially in his dealings with Lou. She was willing to suspend judgment until she knew him better, but she got the distinctly creepy feeling that
his
version of getting acquainted might be radically different from hers.