Body Check (34 page)

“What?” Ty snapped.

“For your sake, I hope you learn one day to practice what you preach, at least where your personal life is concerned. Because if you don't? You are going to wind up a sad, lonely, old man. And I for one would hate to see it happen.”

With that, she rose and went into the kitchen. Ty heard her turn the faucet on and begin to rinse dishes. The urge to run in there and yell a few choice words at her was strong.

Instead, he left the apartment, quietly closing the door behind him.

 

 

Riding the elevator
back down to the lobby, he found himself continuing the fight in his head.
Janna doesn't know what the
hell
she's talking about! The Cup
is
emotional fulfillment, it's the ultimate risk! She has
mistaken
dedication and drive for lack of emotional depth. What the hell does she know?

The elevator doors opened, and he sighed. Well, it was done. Now he could concentrate on the Playoffs. Raising his hand in a farewell gesture to her doorman, he escaped back out into the New York night.

 

 

 

 

The Blades won
the Eastern Conference Quarter Final against Boston in a four-game sweep and then triumphed in a brutal seven-game battle against Philly in the Eastern Conference Semifinal. Now they were poised to take on Pittsburgh for the final round of the series. Whoever won would go on to battle LA for the Stanley Cup.

Not that Janna cared.

It was six weeks since Ty's KO punch had left her reeling. Oh, she put a brave face on it, and continued working her butt off, despite the stress of having to work with Jerk Cowley, who had succeeded—but only temporarily—in turning her life into a media hell. And she still attended practice and games as usual, shepherding the press through the process of covering a team that had little time for chatting to a clamoring media, especially Ty, though to his credit, he did speak with the regular New York beat reporters he knew and trusted.

But inside, she was crumbling. Having to see Ty daily, to be reduced to perfunctory greetings and clipped conversation, was pure emotional torture. Each time their eyes met and he averted his, a small piece of her withered inside. With each day that passed, it seemed harder and harder to get up in the morning, harder and harder to feel that it was worth the effort. All she wanted to do was sleep, cry, and eat.

The day after the Blades had clinched the series against Philly, a Wednesday, the stress of all the balls she was juggling finally caught up with her and she called in sick to work. She simply couldn't handle going in. When Thursday rolled around and she awoke with the same feeling of depression and dread, she called in sick again. By the end of the day, she knew she'd do the same on Friday; after all, what was the point of going in for just one day?

She spent Friday as she'd spent the two previous days, lounging around the apartment in sweats, eating the cookies and brownies she'd baked for herself. She must have put on seven pounds in the past month and a half. When Theresa came home early from work, and found her curled up watching
Oprah
with tears cascading down her face and a half empty tray of blondies in front of her, she knew she was in trouble.

“Guess what?” Theresa announced brightly, picking up a blondie and taking a bite as she turned off the TV. “You're going to cut this out or else I'm dragging you to a shrink.”

“I'm fine,” Janna said listlessly.

“Right. That's why you've blown off work for three days and are lying here sobbing.”

“I'm premenstrual.”

“If that's the case, you've been pre-menstrual for six weeks. Should I call the Guinness Book of World Records?”

“Very funny.” She sat up, wiping her eyes.

“He's not worth it, Janna,” Theresa said gently. “Can't you see that?”

“I know he's not.” She reached for a Kleenex from the box on the table and honked loudly. “But I just can't shake the feeling . . .” She shook her head, eyes watering, unable to continue.

“What?”

“That we had something real. Something beyond sex.” She pounded the arm of the sofa. “And it pisses me off that he couldn't see that!”

“It doesn't matter. I know that's not what you want to hear, but it's true. It doesn't matter if you were the world's next Romeo and Juliet. He ended it. It's over.”

“But why?” Janna asked plaintively. “Why didn't he want me? Am I so awful?”

“You said it yourself: he's a shallow, one-dimensional moron who's terrified of intimacy.” She handed Janna another tissue to tend to her dripping nose. “You have to pretend he's like all those arrogant, boneheaded jocks in high school you hated so much.”

“It's not that easy.”

“I know it's not,” Theresa agreed, opening the shades, “but I think it would help.” Brilliant May sunshine sliced through the windows.

“The problem is seeing him every day.” The sudden brightness of the room made her blink. “If I didn't have to face him at work, I think I'd be coping much better. But between that and having to watch my back with Cowley, I'm ready to throw in the towel.”

“Isn't Lou coming back in two weeks?”

“Supposedly,” Janna groused.

“Well, that should help, right?” Theresa plopped down on the end of the couch, slid out of her heels, and began massaging her toes. “As for Mr. Gallagher, all you have to do is get through the next two rounds of Playoffs and the season is done. You won't have to deal with him all summer.”

“That's true,” Janna allowed. She snaked a hand out from beneath the comforter to reach for a blondie, but Theresa shot her such a look of stern disapproval she snatched it back. “But I'll still have to deal with him when the season starts up again in the fall.”

“You'll be fine by then,” Theresa pronounced.

Janna's eyes began watering anew. “What if I'm not?”

“If you're not, they'll find your body floating in the East River because I'll have killed you. Look, things could be worse.”

“How?”

“You could still be with Robert.”

Janna laughed in spite of herself. “Maybe I'll give him a call.” Theresa froze in horror.

“That was a joke, Ter. I think.” She sighed. “I just . . . I don't know if I want to do this anymore. It's not just seeing Ty. It's knowing now that if I really put my mind to things, workwise that is, I can achieve what I want. Maybe it's time to take the plunge and start my own business. I don't know.” She noticed Theresa beginning to look pensive. “What? What is it?”

Theresa dropped her right foot to the floor and began working the toes of the left. “I wasn't going to say anything to you until I was one hundred percent sure, but since you're in such bad shape, maybe now is the time to bring it up.”

“Bring what up?” Janna asked, trying to ignore the blondies crying out to her.

“My settlement money from the Lubov nightmare came in last week.”

“And—?”

“I'm thinking of using it to start my own PR firm.” She paused dramatically. “And I want you to run it with me.”

Janna's stomach dropped. “Are you serious?”

“You know what it's like working for the network. I can't deal with it anymore. Half the actors are dying for personal representation anyway, and you and I both have great contacts. In fact, I bet there are a few Blades who wouldn't mind hiring a personal publicist if it was presented to them right. Not that I would represent them, but maybe you . . .”

Janna began gnawing on the cuticle of her index finger. “Well . . .” she replied tentatively.

“You don't have to think about it now,” Theresa assured her. “Wait until the Playoffs are through and you have a bit of distance.” She smiled at Janna slyly. “But it would be great to work together again, wouldn't it?”

“It would be a blast,” Janna agreed. Only problem was, it would force her to take complete and total responsibility for her own happiness. To fulfill a dream. Could she?

“So.” Theresa stood up. “Where would you like to eat dinner?”

Janna groaned. “Theresa . . .”

“I'm not taking no for an answer. I want you to get up, get dressed, put on some makeup, and decide where we're going to eat. I'll be damned if I'm going to let you continue this pity party.”

Janna smiled in spite of herself. “You're a good friend, you know that?”

“I try. I just wish there was something more I could do to make you feel better. My great-aunt Josephina knows some old Sicilian curses. Want her to put the evil eye on Gallagher?”

“I think she already has. You've read about how he's playing.”

Ty was playing well, but not great. Every sports writer felt compelled to mention it in articles about the team, without exception. Needless to say, Kidco wasn't pleased with the coverage, which amazed Janna. The Blades had just made it into the Eastern Conference Final, for God's sake. What did they want? Perfection? Still, it did give her a perverse thrill of delight that Ty's game wasn't as awesome as it could be.
Loser
, she thought.
That's what you get for throwing what we could have had away
.

“Actually,” Theresa reflected, picking up the blondie tray so they were out of Janna's reach, “I think the curses are more for people's livestock—like, ‘A hex on your chicken' or ‘May your cow drop dead with pox,' that type of thing. Not very effective against professional hockey players.”

“No. But thanks for the thought.”

“You're welcome. Now get dressed. You're going out whether you like it or not.”

Ty weaved in
and out of traffic impatiently. In his mind's eye, he could still see the words that putz wrote in this morning's
Times
. “F.U.!” he shouted out loud, pounding on the steering wheel. “Those who can, do, those who can't become sports writers!” He made a mental note of the putz's name so that later, after practice, he could pull him aside and give him a piece of his mind.
Uninspired my ass,
he thought.
And as for his play deteriorating
. . .

Problem was, the putz was right. His game was slightly sub par, and he knew why, too, and that pissed him off even more. It was Janna.

Try as he might, he couldn't concentrate fully, not with her in his face every morning at practice, and then sitting there in the press box night after night watching him play. His level of play
was
faltering. Sweet God in heaven, couldn't he catch a break? There was serious hockey to play! Playoff hockey. Hockey requiring that he be completely focused and mentally tough. The realization that he was giving 99.9 percent when he should be giving 110 percent ate at him. He didn't know what the hell to do about it.

 

 

Tubs cut practice
short. They were all exhausted and needed rest. In just three short days, they'd be facing down Pittsburgh on their ice, a distinct disadvantage. Instead of chasing down the putz reporter, Ty looked at the daily injury report compiled by the trainers and the team's sports therapists. Lubov was still listed as “day to day” with an ankle injury. Michael Dante had separated his left shoulder. Two guys had concussions; their toughest defenseman had cracked ribs. Not too bad, really; he'd seen injury rosters ten times worse than this. But what frosted him was that some of the injuries were public knowledge. He'd read about them in this morning's paper, too. Not good. It affected team morale, tainted public perception, and worst of all, told their opponents exactly whom to go after on the ice.

He'd have to talk to Janna—no, Cowley—and let him know that from now on, beat reporters were to be banned from the locker room. That's what Lou would do. Nothing was more important than giving his guys the best chance to win. There was no way that could happen if the press kept running stories about how beat up they were. He shook his head in annoyance as he headed into the showers.

He had just zipped up his gym bag and was resting on the bench before his locker when Kevin appeared, still dressing.

“We still on for lunch?” he asked.

“Of course we are,” Ty answered, his words echoing through the empty locker room. He and Kevin were always the last to leave.

Kevin looked down at Ty as he began buttoning up his oxford shirt. “You dumped her, didn't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought so.”

“What?” said Ty sharply.

“I thought so.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I now know why you're not out there playing like you're nineteen years old.” He grabbed his jeans from a locker peg and slipping into them, began tucking his shirt into his trousers. “It's because of Janna.” His gaze was direct. “You miss her.”

“Get a fucking life, will you, please?” Ty scoffed.

“No, you get a fucking life,” Kevin retorted. “What the hell is wrong with you, man? She's the best thing that ever happened to you. She made you human.”