Icing the Puck (New York Empires Book 2) (15 page)

She shook her head at her own idiocy, but also to force herself to stop staring. Still, she smiled his way as she walked further into the shop and sat down at a corner table. Even from her changed vantage point, she still couldn’t help herself. Instead, she went with the flow and let her eyes follow the hottie as he continued to sweep up the area in front of the counter. His hair was dark and ended just above his shoulders. His ass was tight, his arms were…perfect. Muscled but not the muscles of a bodybuilder. They were lean, and his shoulders? Illegal. Especially from the back.

Then he turned and the world stopped. Clear blue eyes zeroed right in on her, the corner of his mouth kicking up in a dangerous half smile. She was caught and should have been embarrassed. But she wasn’t. Sadly, she was in no mood to do anything other than look at this adorable specimen of humanity. And she drank him in.

“
Mon neveu
,” the owner explained with a grin as he came over to greet Kayleigh. The grandson of my father’s best friend. “So he is, as you anglos would say, mon nephew. He will play with your brother starting…
lundi
?” Alain scratched his head. “
Néanmoins
, I get him to sweep while I have him, before his head blows up like a
ballon
.”

The words in the Quebec French that reminded her of orchestral winter camps in Montreal (as opposed to her very strict Parisian childhood violin teacher) went through her head, and she understood some of it. Alain’s very hot nephew would be playing on her brother’s team starting Monday. He was adorable but untouchable.

Damn it.

“Max,
s’il te plaît, mettre la brosse sur le mur et bring la dame
, some of my best.”

“
Ouais, mon chef.
”

She watched as the hottie, Max, put the broom down and turn toward the counter. Her eyes were locked, focused as he picked up a bowl of steaming hot poutine and brought it over to her.

He didn’t move like any hockey player she’d ever seen, and she’d seen a bunch of them. She couldn’t stop watching him as he came closer. It was a problem.

Except it wasn’t. ‘Cause it didn’t feel like he was showing off for her, didn’t make her feel like he had turned into a prancing peacock. It was just…him.

“
Ton poutine
,” he said, his smile even more radiant.

“Thanks,” she answered, allowing his voice to break into her thoughts. “I’m Kayleigh.”

“Max,” he replied, his eyes twinkling.

“You can talk,” the owner said, “but you need to sweep.”

Max

“You can talk,” Alain said, “but you need to sweep.”

Max St. Laurent looked at Kayleigh, first with his eyes, and then with his
percée
, the genetic inheritance that was both a blessing and at times a curse. That intangible extra sense told him she wanted to continue their conversation, that her curiosity was overwhelming, and her interest high.

And so he smiled and let himself be lead into conversation with her. She told him she was a violin player, that she wasn’t from New York, and that she enjoyed this part of the city.

Sometimes he did have to tend to his chores, but she didn’t mind; she had a large bowl of poutine and once she’d finished, he brought it to Alain for a refill.

“You…you don’t have to do this,” she said, gesturing to her full bowl. “I…”

He shook his head. “I’m not,” he said with a grin, sitting back down on the bench. “But I am…grateful for the violin players of the world. My mother is French, and I think she would perish without the violin in this world.”

She laughed, and her smile was warm and friendly and everything he probably shouldn’t be investigating further. “I don’t think my brothers and I would have survived childhood without poutine.”

“
Franchment
?” he managed before he realized he’d spoken in French. Again. “Sorry. Really?”

The serious expression on her face made him smile. “Yep. Winter in Saskatchewan would have been horrible without poutine, so I think we’re even.”

He couldn’t help his laugh, and as Alain pointed to the corner of the restaurant floor, he realized he didn’t want to leave her so quickly. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw her sudden surprise. The shock plain on her face, the nerves suddenly exploding.

“I’m sorry to cut this short,” she began when he came back to the table, “but I have practice tomorrow morning and a binder of music to memorize. I’ll see you?”

He nodded. “Yes,” he managed. “Of course?”

She smiled, even though Alain was suddenly, vehemently trying to keep her from paying the bill.

“
Absolument pas
,” Alain said, shaking his head. “Because of your brother, you are family,
non
? So no, you cannot pay. And please do not try, OK?”

He watched her sigh and nod, defeated. “OK,” she said. “One day.”

She left the shop, waving in his direction. She would be trouble, he realized. Her brother was on his team, and she fascinated him.

“That,” Alain explained as soon as she was out of earshot, “was Chris Emerson’s younger sister. She is…family, OK?”

He nodded. He understood. This would be difficult. Dangerous.

Merde.

Monday

Max

Morning and the pounding of his alarm came faster than he wanted, visions of a woman with gravy on her nose haunting his brain. But he’d been summoned to the Empires’ Tarrytown practice facility by his coach, and being late was not an option. So he showered, ate a quick breakfast, and headed to the closest subway.

Luckily, the subway followed his agenda; he could buy his train ticket in French; and the large marble Grand Central Station was easy enough to navigate. After a short, picturesque train ride, he got off at Tarrytown.

The train station itself was quaint, with a great view of the river. There were benches alongside the station house, and he sat down on the nearest empty one and waited. After a while, he wondered if he was doing the right thing.

Finally, Max reached into his pocket and grabbed his phone. Fumbling with the device, hoping it wouldn’t let him down, he searched for the all-important email from his coach. It said he was supposed to take a particular train which would arrive at the station at a certain time, and he’d done that. Nothing else. Did he have to get a taxi? Should he have taken Alain up on his offer to drive?

Deciding he’d be better off acting than waiting, he stood and began to walk, following the sidewalk south toward the long line of taxis. He saw marble and brick, tons of cars, and the large village hall. The bustle and hustle of a small town, he decided with a grin. And it was nice.

“St. Laurent?”

He turned, seeing recognition and a bit of confusion in the eyes of the Empires’ head coach. “Yes,” he said, knowing it was important to speak in English.

“Jim MacArthur,” he said holding out a hand.

Max took it. He wasn’t an idiot.

“Had to drop my wife off at the train, so here I am. Welcome to the big show.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You have your gear, or did they tell you not to bring it?”

“I put a…package together.”

The coach nodded again as they headed toward a nondescript sedan. “Fine. It works. We’ll speak, you’ll see the facility. And then we’ll talk some more.”

He could only nod in response as he got into the car and settled in.

“Good,” the coach said as he pulled away from the station. “You’re a two-way player. Those’re what we need this year. We’ve been stuck with injuries. Tons of them. And we need to be ready for anything. Which means you may need to play both offense and defense.”

Max had played both offense and defense as long as he’d been playing hockey. “Not a problem, coach,” he answered, not having to think about the words.

“Good. How much time do you need to switch?”

Max shrugged and tried to quantify the time in the best way he knew. The coach deserved an honest answer; the man would be, if necessary, altering his in game strategy for this particular purpose. “I prefer to have a full game in each, so at most I can switch each game. But if you need me to switch in between periods, I need an intermission at most.”

“You have a routine, I take it? Mental or physical?”

“Both,” Max said. Coach was drilling him, and so he would, once again, give the best answer he could. “When I am preparing to play offense I spend more time during warm ups on forward momentum, the backward for defense. But also I use a different stick, a different set of pads, different hand position…”

MacArthur nodded. “And if we need you at center?”

Max had expected this. Centers had been injury prone this year; he had asked one of the Stratford assistants to teach him the basics during practices. The man had done so as the Stratford head coach looked on with a smile on his face. “I could try,” he said. “It would be a different preparation but…”

“Good. Goldman told me you’d be working on drills for centers. Very smart of you. You’re already a two way, so adding another position won’t be too difficult. Just let us know if you get to the point you feel like you’re taking on too many roles.

He nodded. “I will, Coach.”

“Good.” As they continued to drive through the small town, Max found himself looking at the scenery.

“And by the way, we’re sending you to do a commercial.”

He paused, held his breath. “Yes?”

“It’s a New York advertisement. Each team needs to send one foreign-born player. You’ll be around internationals who play for all the other teams who’ve lived in this city for a while. They might be able to help you adjust.” The coach smiled. “Think it’ll be good for you despite your history . You up for it?”

Max knew, unfortunately, what the coach was talking about. His linguistic flubs had been legendary down in Stratford. “Yes sir.”

“Very good.”

Kayleigh

After a long day’s rehearsal, Kayleigh found herself glad that Chris and Melanie had decided to hold the party welcoming Bryson ‘Bryce’ Emerson, her and Chris’s older brother, to Brooklyn in an ice cream shop. Not just any ice cream shop; it was the shop that made the best ice cream in Brooklyn, and had a gorgeous party space filled with glass windows and comfortable tables. And its convenient lack of alcohol on premises made it a perfect space to celebrate a guy who’d just gone through rehab.

By the time she arrived, she could see in the small crowd of friends and acquaintances Chris and Melanie, Melanie’s sister Emily (who was also the PR person for the Empires), and Emily’s boyfriend Mark Smythe, a hockey player for the New Jersey Palisades.

“Hi, Kay,” Bryce said as he saw her. Her brother the artist looked healthy, and she loved that. His eyes were bright, he was clean-shaven…even his hair looked healthy. But there was sadness in his eyes. “Save me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And why would you need saving?”

“Chris is hovering.”

She laughed and threw an arm around him. “Chris always hovers. He hovers, he herds, he…supervises because he loves. He’s always done that.”

Bryce nodded, and she saw the guilt there. “Yeah.”

Both she and Bryce knew that Bryce’s own trouble with drugs and alcohol had forced Chris to become the de facto oldest sibling; the last thing she wanted to do was push the dagger in further.

“Anyway,” she said in an effort to change the subject. “Have you tried the ice cream?” Chris and Mel had assured her there was going to be an ice cream buffet, and she was looking forward to finding her new favorite flavor.

“It’s amazing,” Bryce said. “I blew through one bowl already, so I’m pacing myself. I figure I’m going to be living near here for a while, so I have time, you know.” He shrugged. “I’m going to make a go of it, you know? Take it seriously. Take advantage of the fact that I’m near you guys and the art scene and…well not in the wilds of Saskatchewan.”

“Good,” she said. “I’m glad.”

“Why are you glad, Kay?”

Speak of the devil. She shook her head and gave her brother the hockey player a look. “Hello, Chris,” she said as she gave him a hug. “How are you?”

“Party is in full swing, good ice cream, good siblings, can’t complain. Speaking of which, since I have you both here with me, aside from the fact that I’m thrilled to say this…”

“Here we go again.”

“I love you, Bryce,” Chris answered, his eyes brightening. “Anyway, I wanted to remind you both that there are a bunch of different family-related events that I expect you both to be at during the Classic.”

“As long as Kayleigh isn’t appearing with the Philharmonia…”

She turned around and grinned at her conductor. Arun Singh was talented as heck, able to maneuver his way through the many different ensembles the New York Philharmonia included, and a really good guy to boot.

“Hey, dude, glad you could make it,” Chris said, a grin on his face. “I wondered if you were coming when Kay came in by herself.

“No problem. I had to wait for Jonathan, who’s settlement conference went awry for some reason he refuses to tell me.”

“So,” Chris continued, focusing on Arun, “what’s the deal with the Philharmonia?”

Kayleigh sighed. As per usual, Chris wasted no time, and she was glad that Arun was there to answer his questions.

“Right. So the mayor and a few of the borough presidents got together and decided that, starting next month, over the two and a half month period until the Winter Classic in Queens, there will be a series of events that will take place in Manhattan, the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens.”

“Yeah,” Chris nodded. “Yep. Family skates in the Bronx and in Queens, skating with the team in Brooklyn and Manhattan, and winter fairs where we’re supposed to sign or something…” He shrugged. “But what does that have to do with the Philharmonia?”

“Well.” Arun grinned as his husband Jonathan, who’d joined the group, rolled his eyes. “Who wants to be shown up by Columbus, who had a partnership with the symphony around their all-star game, or Boston who had an orchestra at their Winter Classic?”

Chris nodded, understanding. “Okay? So what did they do?”