Body Check (39 page)

“For you,” said Pierre, coming forward with his bouquet. “I cannot thank you enough for what you did for me the other night.
Merci
.”

Ty nodded in quiet agreement, his face a mask of reluctant appreciation. “You really came through for the team on this one, Janna,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Let's hear it for Janna!” said Kevin Gill.

Hoots and hollers ensued. Dazed, she took the bouquet, too overcome to speak. She looked around at the players' faces, remembering how alien she felt among them in the beginning of the season, how worried she was that they would never trust her or perceive her as anything more than a pawn of Kidco. And now . . .

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“No, thank you,” said Kevin. “We could have had a real disaster on our hands if it wasn't for you. ”

“Disaster control is part of my job.”

“And getting the team ready to play is mine,” Ty cut in. “I hate to cut this short, but we have a hockey game to prepare for, gentlemen.” He strode toward the door, opening it for Janna.

“Thanks again, guys,” she called over her shoulder. She forced a glance up at Ty. “Win tonight.”

“We will,” he said, not looking at her.

With that he stepped back in, quietly closing the locker room door behind him. Janna paused a moment, awash in feelings for the men inside she never thought she'd have. Of all her victories so far over the course of the season, this was among the sweetest. Smiling to herself, she started back to her office, proudly carrying the bouquet like the trophy it was.

 

 

“This is so
totally awesome I can't believe it! You rock!”

Wills's delight with the gift she'd just given him—two tickets to Game Five of the Stanley Cup Playoffs between New York and Los Angeles—made Janna flush with pleasure.

“Just another one of the perks of being the team's publicist,” she said, trying to restrain herself, as always, from ruffling his hair. Hugging was still permitted, as was a casual kiss on the cheek now and then. She supposed she should be grateful.

He seemed happy, and for that she was glad. She wondered if Ty had anything to do with it. Wills had let it drop that he had indeed called Ty a few times for advice about the situation at home, and it had been a big help. She wished she could thank him, but she wasn't supposed to know about it. So she contented herself with just being grateful that he was there for Wills and that Wills felt comfortable enough seeking him out. Asking for help, especially when you were a guy, was not the easiest thing in the world to do.

With one week left until the Cup Playoffs began, she had taken advantage of the beautiful June weather to pay this weekend visit to her parents. Ostensibly, the reason for her trip was to give her brother the tickets. But really, she wanted to pick her father's brains about the career issues she was struggling with.

Leaving Wills to his latest video game, she went downstairs and out the front door, stopping short when she found her mother hovering over her father while he knelt by one of the azalea beds, pruning back some of the bushes' lower branches. Her mother rarely took any serious interest in the garden. “Shape them a bit more,” her mother was urging, using some vague hand gesture meant to indicate form.

“They're shaped enough,” her father replied.

“I like them flatter on top,” she complained.

Janna's father rose and handed her mother the pruning shears. “Would you like to do it?”

“You're impossible, you know that?” Courtney MacNeil flicked her long blond hair over her shoulder and waved the shears away, turning to her daughter for confirmation. “Isn't he impossible?”

“Impossible,” Janna agreed. She waited for her mother to say something worse about her father—she always said something worse—but this time her mother just turned and strode back into the house, slamming the screen door behind her for good measure. In the world of the MacNeils, this was progress. Janna settled on the brick step, elbows resting on her bare, freckled knees.

“Want some help?”

“No, you just sit here and talk to me. It's been awhile.”

“I know.” She watched as he returned to the work at hand, an expression of fixed determination on his face. “Dad?”

“Mmm?”

“When you struck out on your own to start MacNeil Builders, were you scared? Were you afraid you might fall on your face?”

“Of course I was. But I was tired of working for other people.” He lifted his head to look at her. “Why? Something going on at work?”

“Theresa's going to be starting up her own PR firm and she wants me to work with her,” Janna started uneasily.

Her father's face lit up. “That's great, the two of you striking out on your own!”

“The problem is, I'm not sure I want to.” She looked down at her sandaled feet, absently chipping away at the polish on her toenails.

“Why's that?”

“Lots of reasons,” she replied, hedging. She didn't want to tell him the real reason, that even though she had faith in her abilities, there was still a small kernel of fear deep inside her that made her terrified of going after what she wanted.

“Lots? Well, give me one.”

“I like what I'm doing now.”

Her father shrugged. “So stay where you are, then,” he replied, setting his shears to work again.

“I don't want to do that, either.” She paused, feeling embarrassed. “I sound like a whiny jerk, don't I?”

“No, you sound like a young woman who's confused about her career.”

“I am,” Janna admitted. Her career dissatisfaction had always been like a low-grade fever, annoying, but not debilitating. But watching Ty fight his way back from the doldrums had been inspiring. He clearly loved what he did and was willing to go to the limit to make his dream of winning another Cup come true. It filled her with envy. What was it like to feel that way about what you did with your life? She had no idea. But Ty did, and so did her father, which was why she was here.

“Not to sound like a broken record, but when you struck out on your own, what gave you the confidence to do it? To overcome that fear of failure?”

Putting the pruning shears to rest on the ground, her father carefully stood up and came to sit down on the step beside her. “I'm not sure how to answer that,” he began. “All I knew was that if I didn't at least try, I couldn't live with myself. The risk seemed easier to face than settling into a life of compromise.” He searched her face. “Is this about your business degree?”

Janna nodded. “A few months back, a . . . friend of mine . . . said the same things to me you're saying now. He gave me a bit of a hard time, implying I threw in the towel too quickly when it came to striking out and starting my own business. He said the only thing that really matters in life is ‘going for it,' you know?” She bit her lip. “I think he might be right.”

“This ‘friend' of yours”—Janna lifted her head at the insinuation in her father's voice—“is he in a position to talk to you like that? Has he pursued
his
dreams?”

“To the exclusion of everything else.”

“You don't sound too happy about that,” her father noted wryly.

“I'm not, but I really don't want to talk about it, if you don't mind.” She flashed her father a quick, apologetic smile.

“Not a problem,” he assured her. He squinted into the distance, watching as the small blue and white mail truck stopped at the end of the circular drive to deposit a stack of envelopes into the mailbox. “So, what are you thinking?”

Janna suddenly felt shy. This was her father, a successful, self-made man. What if he scoffed at what she was about to say? Would she be able to recover? Then again, he'd never put her down in her life. Why did she think he would start now?

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The air smelled sweetly of flowers and impending summer. “As you know, I make a lot of money. A lot. And I've been socking it away for years. I did the math, and if I match the money Theresa is putting in to start the business, and we both draw minimal salaries for ourselves at the beginning, we could really be a major PR firm right off the bat.”

“Sounds like a sound plan to me.”

She opened her eyes and turned to him. “Really? You're not just saying that?”

Her father looked dismayed. “Of course I'm not. I've always believed in you, Janna Elizabeth. If you set your sights on this, I have no doubt you can achieve it. But my saying it doesn't mean a damn thing. The person who has to believe it is you.”

“I know,” Janna muttered. “I just worry about the age thing, you know? I'm thirty. Most entrepreneurs these days seem to be twenty two—”

“Big deal,” her father replied dismissively. “Don't hide behind the excuse of your age. Grandma Moses didn't start painting until she was in her eighties. Harlan Sanders didn't start Kentucky Fried Chicken until he was well into his sixties. What's the worst that can happen?”

“I fail. Miserably.”

“You're only a failure if you don't give it a shot. That's my opinion, anyway.”

“Ty's too.”

Her father smiled knowingly. “I thought he might be the ‘friend' you were referring to.”

“I guess you saw all the stuff that was in the papers.”

“It was hard to avoid. Tell me, was the split really mutual?”

“No. He dumped me.”

Indignation played across her father's face. “More fool him, then.” He pondered his azalea beds. “When would you resign?”

“After the Playoffs. I'd stick around for part of the summer, though, to help my boss train someone else.”

He looked at her directly. “Are you sure your wanting to leave has nothing to do with your ex-friend?”

Janna looped her arm through his. “I swear to God, Dad, my wanting to leave Kidco has nothing to do with Ty. Kidco hired me to do a certain job, and I've done it. But I feel the need for something bigger. Something that's really mine.”

“Well, in that case, the choice seems obvious.” He laced his fingers through hers, holding on tightly. “As far as I know, no one ever went to their grave wishing they'd taken fewer risks in life. Do it, Janna. You'll be amazed at how quickly the universe will catch you if you're willing to fall. Swallow that fear and do it.”

 

 

 

 

“We want the
Cup! We want the Cup!”

The cries of Blades fans standing three-deep behind police barricades echoed in Ty's ears as his car pulled into the tunnel beneath Met Gar. It was a beautiful summer day, the late afternoon sun shining, the humidity miraculously minimal. Were the season over, he knew just what he'd be doing: blading around Central Park. Instead, he was on his way inside to play what could be the most important hockey game of his career.

The entire city was in the grip of Blades fever. You could feel it. They were the talk of sports radio, the papers, ESPN. Lou Capesi told him that up in PR, he, Janna and Cowley were fielding hundreds of media requests in anticipation of a Blades victory tonight, many from New York-based programs like
Good Morning America
and
The Daily Show
. To his credit, Lou knew better than to ask him to commit to any media until the Cup was officially theirs. Last year, Ty had agreed to appear on
Good Day New York
. That was it. This year he might be willing to do more. It all depended on his mood as well as who wanted a piece of him.

He hoped they won tonight. Not only because it would be sweet, wrapping up the series in five games, but because his boys were exhausted, their minds and bodies in an extreme state of fatigue. If the fates decreed they had to fly back to LA and battle through a game six or seven, then they'd do it, and they'd win. But for all their sakes, he hoped tonight marked the end of the road.

Inside, the mood was subdued but excited, security guards calling out “Good luck!” to him as he passed, suits he'd never seen before hurrying through the neon-lit corridors in the bowels of the building like they had important business to attend to.
What the hell are they doing down here all of a sudden?
Ty thought resentfully.
Making sure the victory champagne is properly chilled?

The locker room was a different story. His boys were uncharacteristically quiet as they dressed for the game, barely any small talk between them. Someone had posted an exuberant sign above the doorway declaring, THE CUP IS IN THE HOUSE! but no one seemed to be paying the sign or the sentiment much attention. Ty knew what they were all going through; he was going through it himself, his emotions a strange cocktail of anxiety and determination, seasoned with just a hint of being completely overwhelmed. He knew of teams that didn't say a word to each other as they prepared for what could be their Cup-clinching game; teams who huddled and prayed, or who sat together watching footage of ticker tape parades to get themselves pumped up and inspired. Well, not this team. This team would do what they'd done all season: They would take their cue from him.

“Listen up, guys.”

All eyes turned toward where he stood before his locker, the bright blue “C” on his chest standing out in bold relief against the white of his jersey.

“Anyone who has ever put on skates and played hockey has dreamed of the moment we now find ourselves in. There have been players in the NHL—great players—who dedicated their whole lives to this sport and who never came as close to winning the Stanley Cup as we are now.” He cleared his throat as emotion slowly began building within him. “If we lose tonight, I know there are some of you who might not take it so hard. You'll think, ‘There's always next year.' Well, I'm here to tell you that's not true.” He slowly looked around the room. “You may never come this close to winning the Cup again. All we have is this moment, right here, right now. This is it.