Body Check (8 page)

Which, of course, he wouldn't.

Much as her constant nagging made him want to snatch a roll of athletic tape from one of the trainers and plaster some over her mouth, deep down he realized she was just doing her job—a job which seemed largely to center around bugging the living hell out of him. It had become something of joke: all she had to do was come within three feet of him and the first words out of his mouth were a swift, emphatic, “No.”

It was his own fault, he supposed. If he'd ignored the kid, just headed on into the locker room that day the way he usually did, then she'd still think he was a hard-ass. But no; he'd gone out of his way to do something nice, and in doing so, had revealed a small chink in his armor, one she was now trying to blast through with that jackhammer approach of hers, obviously thinking that if she pressured him long enough, he'd eventually cave. Too bad she was wrong.

So why had he done it? He pondered the question as he looked out the window of the Amtrak train as it sped toward DC. They were playing Washington that night. So far the Blades were eight and four, three of those losses taking place on the opponents' ice. He hoped the guys could keep their equilibrium and focus tonight, because God knows they would need it. Washington played a hard, aggressive game. They were tough and fast.
But we're tougher and faster,
Ty thought with no small measure of pride.
And if we can maintain our focus, we'll mop the ice with them
.

His thoughts drifted back to his petite nemesis and her little brother. Why had he done it? Easy: he wanted to make the kid's day. He got a kick out of the fact that something as simple as shooting the breeze, along with a few pucks, could make someone happy. It wasn't too much to ask, and he was glad to give it. Plus, the kid—Wills—reminded him of himself at that age. Stocky but shy, afraid to own his own space. He wondered if the kid's father was on his ass constantly to win, win, win the way his own old man had been. Ty figured that if a private audience with one of his heroes helped boost the kid's esteem even a little, or helped ease the possible pressure of trying to be good enough to please his parent, then it was worth it.

But ensuring the kid's birthday was unforgettable was only half the reason, and he knew it. The other reason was that he wanted to impress Janna. Afterwards, when she looked at him with those big, baby blues glistening with gratitude and something else he didn't want to dwell on, it dawned on him that he'd been waiting for that look, and had in fact just engineered it. The look that said she knew there was more to him than his all-encompassing need to win and stubborn refusals to cooperate with her. The look that said—

Desperate to clear his head, he rose from his seat to circulate among his boys, make sure everyone was comfortable, nothing too heavy weighing on their minds. He always did this as part of his job as captain, even though the press teased him about it and called him “Pops,” a nickname that stuck in his craw. A handful of guys on the team were in fact older than he was, and he wasn't that old himself. As he walked down the aisle, he saw that the Bull was on a cell phone haranguing someone while depleting a bag of Skittles the size of a hot water bottle. A few rows up, Ty could see Janna. The Bull had dragged her along to help keep everyone in line. She was reading the riot act to two of his rookies, Guy LaTemp and Barry Fontaine, both of whom had been stupid enough to let themselves be photographed coming out of one of the best known topless bars on the East Side, drunk.

“This is what's going to happen,” Janna was barking. “I'm going to write up a statement for the press telling them you're both sorry about behaving in a less than professional manner, and that it will never happen again. Because it won't, do you understand? Kidco won't tolerate it, and neither will I. You want to be bad boys, do it in disguise. Understand?”

Both players nodded.

“Good. One more thing: if anyone from the press asks you about this, you say, ‘No comment.' Period. Not ‘We were just trying to have some fun,' not ‘It was harmless,' not ‘The mean lady from PR told us we couldn't talk about it.'
‘No comment
.
'
I mean it.

“Finally, the two of you are going to take a class in drug and alcohol abuse awareness. It's called image rehabilitation, and you're going to pretend to love it even if it's your worst nightmare. Am I making myself clear?”

The players nodded again and skulked away. Impressed, Ty watched as she marched back to her seat on the aisle. A second later, Alexei Lubov approached her, bending low to say something. Ty wasn't one for eavesdropping, but the frustration in Janna's voice caught his attention.

“Alexei—Lex—I told you. I don't want to go out with you.”

“But I wish it.”

Janna rolled her eyes in irritation. “Well, I don't wish it, do you understand? You're a very nice guy, okay? But I'm not going to go out with you. And the sooner you get it through your head—”

Unheeding, Lubov reached for her hand and put it on his bicep. “You feel that? Rock solid, a real man. How can you not want?” His voice dropped down seductively. “Admit it, you do want. You—”

Janna snatched her hand back, flustered. “Alexei,
stop it
.”

That was it. Something reared up inside Ty, which he refused to name but couldn't help acting upon nonetheless. Every nerve in his body thrumming, he strode toward the pair, his brown eyes flashing a warning to his teammate that was unmistakable. If Lubov thought he could behave that way off the ice—if he thought his captain would stand for him harassing a woman—then newsflash, bucko, he had another thing coming. The closer he got, the more Lubov seemed to shrink before him, so that even before Ty grabbed him and pinned him up against an opposing row of seats, he could see Lubov was aware that he'd seriously misstepped.

“What part of her ‘no' didn't you understand?” Ty growled.

“I am sorry,” said Lubov, his eyes clouding over with shame at seeing his leader's anger and disappointment.

“Don't tell me, tell her.” Ty released Lubov and with a small shove, pushed him in Janna's direction.

“Janna.” Lubov's eyes were wide as saucers, guileless now. “I am sorry I bother you. I will leave you alone now.” He nervously turned to Ty as if to say, “Will that do?” Ty gave a small, almost imperceptible jerk of the head and then Alexei was gone, hustling toward the back of the train car to escape the watchful eyes of his teammates and lick his wounds of humiliation in private. Ty watched him go, then turned back to Janna, who looked mildly shell-shocked.

“You okay?”

“I'm fine,” said Janna. “But I could have handled him myself, you know.”

“Really? So why didn't you?”

“Because you didn't give me a chance,” she replied sharply. Pink flared in her cheeks, charming Ty against his will. How many women really, truly blushed these days?

“Alexei's harmless, you know that,” she was saying. “Half his problem is he doesn't understand how things work in this country, least of all interactions between men and women.” Her mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line. “Maybe you could teach him.”

“Are you poking fun at me, Miss MacNeil?”

“Never, Captain Gallagher. I'm merely alluding to an off-ice talent I've heard you have.”

“What else have you heard about me?”

“You don't want to know.”

Ty laughed. He saw the smile in her eyes then, and responded in kind. He liked this, the easy way they bantered back and forth during the few, rare moments she wasn't harassing him. Liked her. Which is why he wanted to deck Lubov: because the thought of him even going near her made his guts churn so badly he couldn't even think straight. Jesus H. Christ. What the hell was wrong with him?

He stepped back—from her and from himself—gesturing at the papers on her lap. “I'll let you get back to it,” he said stiffly.

“Okay.” His abruptness left Janna looking befuddled. “I suppose I should thank you,” she said quietly. “It's nice to know chivalry isn't dead.”

Chivalry.
Her use of that word pleased him, made his heart swell with pride. But it unnerved him, too, as half remembered feelings from true romances past began drowsily to awaken. He couldn't let it happen. Wouldn't let it.

“Maybe you could write the incident up for the boys at Kidco and pass it off as an act of community service,” he quipped, although he wasn't sure she heard him, since he was already half way up the aisle to his seat, where he fully intended to stay put for the rest of the trip.

 

 

“OhmiGod, did
you see that?! What was that thing he just did, that thing with the puck? What was that?”

Janna waited for the savage roar of the crowd at Met Gar to die down before answering Theresa's question. It was a Saturday night, and the Blades were playing their number one rivals, New Jersey, on home ice. Alexei Lubov, number 55, had just scored the first goal only ten minutes into the game. Enthusiasm was high among the sold-out crowd, which was renowned for its loyalty to the team as well as its vociferous voicing of both delight and displeasure. Janna gazed around the overheated arena at the sea of electrified faces and found herself catching a spark or two, excitement surging through her as she felt the crowd's energy.

Maybe it was because she was beginning to understand what happened down there on the ice, or maybe it had to do with knowing the players personally, but she was actually starting to
like
hockey, and to appreciate the consummate skill and talent that went into playing at the professional level. Not that she'd ever tell anyone this, apart from maybe Lou, and her brother and father. She imagined telling her mother and sisters, and could just picture the Amazon trio peering down at her in soul-withering condescension. As for Robert—well, fuggeddaboudit, as Theresa's uncle Carmine would say. Robert would sarcastically ask her if she'd been knocked in the head by a stray puck, or had undergone a lobotomy without telling him. It was one thing to do PR for a hockey team, quite another to care about the sport itself. What was it he always said? “The masses are asses”?
God help me,
Janna thought, mortified. Theresa was right. Comfortable or no, she really had to ditch him.

“What you saw him do is called a ‘deke,' ” she explained. “It's when the player with the puck kind of fakes to get around the enemy, or else tricks the goalie into moving out of position.”

“So that's why he moved the puck to one side and then quick-shifted to the opposite direction,” Theresa observed excitedly.

“Right.”

She turned to Janna. “How do you know this stuff?”

Janna shrugged. “Oh, you know, just from watching the game.”

Theresa nodded solemnly, impressed, and returned to eyeing the action down below. Janna came close to telling her the truth—that she'd gone out and bought a copy of
Hockey for Dummies
which she studied religiously—but decided against it. It was much more fun having Theresa think she was a sports genius who could spout hockey lingo at will.

Janna looked to the ice now, too, her eyes invariably seeking out, as always, the jersey bearing the number 29. Ty was at center ice in face-off position, waiting for the puck to be dropped. She saw his lips moving, and deduced he was probably trying to provoke his opponent in an effort to get him off his game. Janna knew from hanging around the locker room that he could have quite a mouth on him when he thought he needed to; she didn't want to think what he was probably insinuating about the other guy's mother or sister. Ty won the face-off, and then all the bodies on the ice were in motion, a manic, ruthless ballet of might and speed that was nothing short of exhilarating.

It dawned on Janna, as she booed along with the crowd when the ref made a bad call, and cheered when a good, clean hit was made on one of the Jersey players, that she finally thought of the team as “the guys,” just like Lou did. Because that's who they were: guys, with personalities, likes and dislikes like everyone else. She pretty much knew now whom she could count on anytime to do PR, and who refused to do a damn thing to help her; who preferred doing hands-on stuff with kids, and who got off on dressing up and hobnobbing with the grandees of New York society intent on demonstrating their noblesse oblige. They were an okay bunch, hardworking and generous, despite the weekend rowdiness so many of them persisted in involving themselves in. But time was on her side here. If she hung in long enough, she had no doubt she could strong-arm most of them into an image-enhancing activity or two.

Except for their sainted captain, of course.

She didn't get it. Didn't get
him
. She knew he had a deep generosity of spirit, because she'd seen it firsthand, both with her brother and with his own players. She knew he was a caring person, too, if his near throttling of “Lex” on the train to DC a few weeks back was any measure. So why was he still so resistant to publicity, especially the kind she did, all of it for a good cause? And why was he avoiding her like the plague lately? Okay, so he always tried to steer clear of her
anyway,
especially when he saw her coming at him with a clipboard. But ever since the train incident, he'd been even more tightlipped than usual, and when he did deign to talk to her, he was monosyllabic and curt, which some people might interpret as rude. What was the deal?

The question lingered in the back of her mind as she and Theresa watched the Blades kick the stuffing out of Jersey, 5-2. When the game was over, Theresa finished her beer, and, plunking the empty plastic cup down on the concrete floor between her feet, turned to Janna expectantly.