Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5) (5 page)

She’d often told friends that casting directors hired her breasts, not her. She’d been forever type-cast as a bimbo or a sexually promiscuous character. Once her breasts were no longer a factor, directors would have to take her seriously. They’d have to pay more attention to her talent than to her body.

What if you still don’t make it?
a tiny pessimistic part of her brain asked. She’d give herself two years. No, five. If she still hadn’t landed anything significant by the time she was thirty-five, she’d find something else. She’d be sad, but she wouldn’t have any regrets. Not about pursuing her dream. And certainly not about reducing her heavy breasts.

It took her less than ten minutes to walk the five blocks to the Chinooks’ offices. She’d been in the human resources offices last week and found it easily. After she filled out her insurance forms, she headed to the public relations department where her sister worked. The second she stepped inside the offices, she could feel that something was up.

Bo sat on the edge of her desk with her hands covering the bottom half of her face. Jules Garcia stood in front of her. “You’re worrying about nothing,” he said.

“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix anything.”

“Yet.”

“Hey all,” Chelsea said as she approached.

Bo dropped her hands. “Hey, Chels.”

“Hi there,” Jules greeted, his gorgeous green eyes appraising her peacock Gaultier. The other night when she’d first met Jules, she’d assumed he was gay. He was just too pretty and too concerned about the way he looked to be straight. His prison-ripped muscles screamed gay, but a few moments in his company had cleared up the confusion. Chelsea had been around a lot of gay men in her life. Straight men too. Jules was that rare breed that didn’t easily fit in one camp or the other. Not like Mark Bressler. There was never a question for which team Mark played. His whole body leaked hetero toxins. Jules’s sexuality was more covert, disguised behind hair gel and fashion risks. Like the lavender-and-pink-striped shirt he favored today.

“Is something wrong?” Chelsea asked.

Bo handed Chelsea the sports section of the
Seattle Times
. An enlarged photo of several men standing on a yacht, one of them pouring beer from the Stanley Cup onto bikini-clad women, took up most of the front page. The caption read:
Chinooks celebrate near Vashon with Lord Stanley’s Cup.

“They’re partying with the Stanley Cup? Can they do that?” Chelsea studied the picture. It was a little fuzzy but clear enough. “I mean, is it allowed?”

“It’s actually tradition,” Jules assured her. “Each team member gets the cup for one day.”

“They can just do what they want with it?” Now she understood some of Bo’s concern.

“Within reason,” Jules answered. “And a representative of the Hall of Fame has to be with it at all times.”

Obviously pouring beer on women in bikinis was considered “within reason.”

Bo slid off the side of her desk. “So there’s going to be a lot of opportunity for shenanigans.”

Jules shook his head. “You worry too much. After they all get their turn, it’ll get taken away to have their names engraved on it and everything will settle down.”

Chelsea tossed the paper on her sister’s desk. “How many players get their turn with the cup?”

“All those who are eligible to have their names engraved on it. Off the top of my head, I think twenty-four,” Jules answered. “Including Ty Savage and Mark Bressler. Even though neither played the full season.”

“Mr. Bressler gets a day with the cup?” He hadn’t mentioned it. Then again, he didn’t say much. Except when he wanted to be rude.

“Sure. He was the captain until just before the playoffs. Any player who played in forty-one regular season games or five playoff games is eligible. Bressler played in well over forty-one games and is a huge part of the reason the team made it into the finals. He helped build the team and deserves as much credit for winning as anyone. It’s just a shame he didn’t get to play in the finals.”

“When is his day?” She pulled her BlackBerry out of her bag to make a note.

“I don’t know,” Bo answered.

“I’m sure he can have it whenever he wants. Has he talked to anyone about what day he wants the cup?”

Chelsea shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”

Jules reached out and brushed the sleeve of her shirt. “Nice.”

“Thanks. It’s a Gaultier.”

“I thought it might be. I have a silk Gaultier in pewter and gold.”

Of course he did. “Are you sure you’re not gay?” She cocked her head to one side. “Bo has no interest in fashion, and I’d love to find a gay best friend to shop with.”

“I have more important things in my life,” Bo protested.

“Like what?” Jules and Chelsea asked at the same time.

“Like…like my job.”

Jules looked from one sister to the other. “If the two of you didn’t look alike, I wouldn’t know you’re twins. You’re so different.”

Chelsea thought about the fight she’d had with her sister the night before. “Bo is a lot more responsible than I am.”

Her sister gave her a tight smile. “I can be kind of uptight.”

“That’s an understatement.” Jules chuckled. “You’re bossy as hell.”

“Well, someone has to be or nothing would get done around here.”

“Right. The whole organization would fall apart without a five-and-a-half-foot woman in PR telling everyone what to do and how to do it.”

“I’m five feet, one and a
half
,” Bo said as if they were in junior high and that half an inch was still important. She frowned and pushed her short hair behind her ears. “Why are you here, Jules? Just to fight with me?”

“As pleasant as fighting with you always is, I was going to see if you’re free for lunch.”

“I have a meeting in ten minutes,” Bo grumbled.

He looked at Chelsea. “You free?”

She glanced at the clock on her phone. She didn’t get the feeling that Jules asked because he thought she and Bo were interchangeable. He was a nice guy. They both had to eat, but she still had to run it by her sister since he’d asked Bo first. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Good, because I’m starving.” She looked at Jules. “I have to be back at the Spitfire in half an hour.”

“I know a sandwich shop not far. You can get something and eat it on the way.”

“Okay.” Chelsea glanced at her sister, who glared at Jules as if he’d done something wrong. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asked.

“I’m sure.” She turned to her desk and picked up the newspaper. “Some of us have to work.”

“And some of us got the day off.” Jules moved toward the door. “Sucks to be you.”

“Yeah.” She sighed heavily. “Sucks to be me.”

“I’ll see you at home later,” Chelsea said as she moved to the door. Bo nodded but didn’t turn around.

“Did something happen?” she asked Jules as they moved down the hall. “Bo is acting weird.”

“Is she?” He held open the door for her, and as she passed, she caught the scent of his cologne. “I think all this stuff with the cup is making her more uptight than usual. And she’s usually wound fairly tight.”

“Maybe.” She dropped her phone into her purse and pulled out her sunglasses. “What can you tell me about Mark Bressler?”

“I don’t know a lot. I knew him a little bit when I worked for the Chinooks five years ago. I only recently started working for the organization again. I was rehired to assist Mrs. Duffy when she inherited the team. That would have been a month or two after his accident.”

Chelsea didn’t think she’d ever forget the game the other night. Not only because it had been fun to watch but because during the award ceremony, Mrs. Duffy had walked out onto the ice in a pair of pink skates, and the captain of the team, Ty Savage, had dipped her back and tongue kissed her for the world to see. The crowd inside the Key Arena had gone wild. “That was so romantic,” she sighed.

“Yeah.”

She looked up at him, at the sun shining in his spiky black hair. “You don’t think so?”

“Sure.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “I just hope Ty doesn’t break her heart. She’s a nice person, and I’d hate to see her get hurt.”

“He retired for her. Not many men would do something like that. He must love her.”

They walked a few more feet, and Jules opened the door to a little deli and the two stepped inside. The smell of fresh-baked bread made Chelsea’s stomach growl. “Love doesn’t always work out,” he said.

She knew that well enough. She’d been in love a few times, only to be dumped flat on her behind. But she’d always picked herself back up and moved on. In the past, she’d let lust and love get all mixed up in her head. She’d let a pretty face, hot body, and slick moves convince her that what she felt was love. The kind that lasted forever. The kind her parents had shared. It never had worked out for her, but she was sure she’d find someone someday. “You sound a little cynical.”

He shrugged, and they moved toward the counter. “I always go for girls who don’t like me or just want to be ‘friends.’ God, I hate it when a woman just wants to be
friends
.”

She wondered if he was talking about his boss. She looked up at the chalkboard menu and asked, “Who just wants to be your friend?”

Jules shook his head. “Never mind.” He ordered a turkey and Swiss, tons of veggies, and no mayo. “How’s your first day of work?”

Chelsea ordered a ham and cheddar, hold the veggies, yes to mayo. “Are we changing the subject?”

“Yep.”

How was her first day? She’d survived and had even managed to find a Betsey Johnson skirt on sale at Neiman Marcus. But…“Mr. Bressler is difficult.”

“I’ve heard. In just over a month, he’s gone through five health care workers. You’re the sixth.”

She hadn’t known the exact number, but she wasn’t surprised. “I’m not a health care worker. My plan is to dazzle him with my assistant skills.” So far he didn’t seem all that dazzled, but Jules didn’t need to know that. “By the time I get him back home today, he will wonder how he ever got along without me.”

Chelsea scarfed her ham sandwich and made it back to the Spitfire at ten after two. She’d used the extra ten minutes to pull the Mercedes in front of the bar so
Mr. Bressler
wouldn’t have to walk the extra block. Surely he’d be grateful.

The crowd had thinned out, and she waved to Colin as she walked to the VIP lounge. Deep male laughter filled the back of the room, and it wasn’t until Chelsea saw Mark that she realized the laughter came from him. Donda sat on the edge of the red sofa, one of her hands resting on his knee as she spoke, gesturing wildly with her other hand. Several empty appetizer plates and glasses sat on the table in front of them. Chelsea pulled out her BlackBerry and looked at it as if she were consulting a schedule. “We have just enough time to get you to your next appointment,” she said. Celebrities loved looking important. Like they were always off to something bigger and better. Most of the time it was a little white lie.

“I just have a few more questions,” Donda said.

Chelsea glanced up and looked at Mark. His brows were drawn as if she was speaking a language he didn’t recognize. He was probably confused about the little white lie. He’d never had his very own personal assistant and wasn’t familiar with how she worked and what she could do for him. Soon he’d be singing her praises. “I’m double-parked in front, but if you need more time, I can come back.”

“I think we’re done.” He reached for his cane.

“Thanks for meeting me, Mark.” Donda rubbed her hand a few inches up his leg, and Chelsea wondered if that was professional behavior for a
Sports Illustrated
reporter. She’d bet not. “If I have any follow-ups, I’ll be in touch.”

He planted his good hand on the arm of the sofa and stood. He sucked in a breath, then clinched his jaw, and Chelsea wondered when he’d last taken his medication. If it had been that morning, she needed to get him home. Though surely he would have brought something with him. But as they moved through the lounge, his steps were a bit slower and more measured than they’d been an hour ago.

“Take care, sweetheart,” Colin called out to her. “Come back when you can stay.”

She flashed him a smile. “Bye, Colin. Don’t work too hard.”

As they stepped outside, Mark asked, “Boyfriend?”

“I’ve only been in Seattle a little more than a week. Not nearly long enough to find a boyfriend.” She shoved her sunglasses on her face and moved to the double-parked Mercedes. “Give me a few more days,” she said as she opened his door. Then she glanced at the street traffic and ran around to the driver’s side before he could complain about her opening his door. “Make it a week,” she added as she slid inside the car.

He looked across the car at her and shut his door. “That long?”

She was sure he was being facetious, but she didn’t care. “Finding guys to
date
isn’t a problem. A boyfriend takes more time,” she said as she turned off the hazard lights. “There are lots of hot guys like Colin around. Guys who look good in a pair of jeans and a wife-beater. Those guys are fun, but they aren’t real boyfriend material.” She belted herself in.

“So poor Colin is off your list?”

“Nah. I’d go out with him.” She shrugged. “He thinks I’m spunky.”

“That’s one word for you.” He grabbed his sunglasses from the collar of his T-shirt. “Another word would be ‘pit bull.’”

“Yes.” She slid the car into drive and pulled away from the Spitfire. “But I’m your pit bull.”

“Lucky me.” He put on the glasses and buckled his seat belt.

He said it like he didn’t mean it, but he would. She glanced at the GPS and continued northeast. “Have you seen the front page of the
Seattle Times
sports section?”

He turned and looked out the passenger window. “’Fraid not.”

Which she found a little surprising since he’d been the captain of the Chinooks until six months ago. “Half the page is filled with a photo of a group of guys standing on a yacht somewhere, and someone is pouring beer from the Stanley Cup on women in bikinis.”

He didn’t respond. Maybe he was in too much pain. She’d broken her tailbone falling off a table once. At the time, she’d had one too many cherry bombs and had been convinced she was some sort of exotic belly dancer. Which was ridiculous since she’d never had a lesson and danced about as well as she sang. The next morning her tailbone had hurt like a son of a bitch and she could hardly move without swearing. So she could kind of relate to Mark’s mood. “At first I was a little appalled, but Jules told me that it’s okay and even allowed. Everyone on the team gets a day with the cup to do whatever he wants to do with it. Within reason, of course. There are rules. Although I think they’re pretty lax.” She glanced at the GPS and took a slight right. “But I guess you already know all that.”

“Yeah. I already know that.”

“So, what day do you want the Stanley Cup? Just let me know and I’ll make it happen.”

“I don’t want the fucking cup,” he said without emotion.

She looked over at the back of his dark head. “You’re kidding. Why? Jules says you’re a huge part of the reason the team made it into the finals.”

“Who the hell is Jules?”

“Julian Garcia. He’s Mrs. Duffy’s assistant. Kind of like I’m your assistant. Only Jules knows a lot about hockey and I know squat about the game.” She shrugged. “Jules said you deserve more credit for building the team than anyone else.” Okay, maybe she’d embellished a wee bit. But blowing smoke up celebrity butt was part of her job. In the spirit of smoke blowing, she added, “More credit than Ty Savage.”

“I don’t want to hear that asshole’s name.”

Okay. Someone sounded bitter. “Well, you’ve earned a day with the cup just like the other guys. Probably more because you were the captain and you—”

“I need to stop at a pharmacy on the way home,” he interrupted and pointed toward the left. “There’s a Bartell Drugs.”

She slowed, cut across three lanes, and pulled into the parking lot.

“Jesus Christ! You’re going to get us killed.”

“You wanted Bartell.”

“Yeah, but I thought you’d take a U at the light like a normal person.”

“I am a normal person.” She parked by the front doors and looked across the car into the mirrored image in his sunglasses. His jaw was clenched like she’d done something wrong. There hadn’t been any other cars
that
close, and everyone knew that a miss was as good as a mile. She was pretty sure she’d learned that rule in drivers’ ed class. “I thought maybe you need to fill a prescription? Like right now!”

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I have my prescriptions delivered.” He grabbed two twenties and handed them to her.

She guessed that meant she was going in by herself. Which was okay. It would take them longer if he got out. “What do you need? Toothpaste? Deodorant? Preparation H?”

“Box of condoms.”

She closed her eyes and mentally pounded her head on the steering wheel.
Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars
. “Are you sure you don’t want to get those yourself?”

He shook his head and smiled. His straight teeth were unusually white within the shadows of the Mercedes. “As you keep reminding me, you’re my assistant. Lucky you.”

Buying condoms was so embarrassing. Worse than maxi pads and only slightly better than the monthly Valtrex prescription she’d had to pick up for a certain young actress with a sitcom on the WB. “What size?”

“Magnum. The ribbed kind.”

Magnum?
But of course he wore magnums. Being a big prick and all. For the hundredth time that day, she forced a smile on her face and turned once again to look at him. “Anything else?”

“Some of that warming KY and a vibrating ring. Make sure it’s a big one.” He raised his hip and stuck the wallet back in his pocket. “I don’t want it too tight and cutting off my circulation.”

“No. You wouldn’t want that.” This was about the longest conversation they’d had and it was about circulation to his penis. She was almost afraid to ask. “Is that it?”

“A bag of Red Vines.” He thought for a moment and added, “I guess I better have some Tic Tacs.”

Yes, because God forbid his breath wasn’t minty.

By the time Mark made it home, his bones throbbed and his muscles ached. It took him only a few minutes to get rid of his little assistant. Most likely because she seemed more than happy to go. With any luck, she wouldn’t return. If the look on her face when she’d come back from buying condoms was any indication, she was probably looking up help wanted ads on Craigslist and calling for interviews at that very moment. Sending her into Bartell had been damn funny. A flash of pure brilliance and quick thinking on the fly.

Mark downed six Vicodin straight from the bottle, grabbed his bag of Red Vines, and headed for what the Realtor had called the leisure room at the back of the house. He picked up the remote to the sixty-inch flat screen and sat in a big leather chaise that Chrissy had found somewhere. Most of the other furniture she’d bought was long gone, but he’d kept the chaise because it fit his body and was comfortable.

With his thumb on the remote button, he flipped through the channels without really paying attention. He’d had a doctor’s appointment, haircut, and hour-long interview. It wasn’t even three yet, but he was exhausted. Before the accident, he used to run five miles and work out with weights, all before hitting the ice for practice. He was thirty-eight years old but he felt like he was seventy-eight.

Dr. Phil flashed across the screen and he paused to watch the good doctor yell at some guy for yelling at his wife. He tore open the bag of licorice and pulled out a few. As far back as he could remember, he’d always loved red licorice. It reminded him of the Sunday matinees at the Heights Theater in Minneapolis. His grandmother had been a huge fan of the movies and had bribed him with Red Vines and root beer. Even though it was something he’d never admit out loud, he’d seen many a chick flick in the late seventies and early eighties. Everything from
Kramer vs. Kramer
to
Sixteen Candles
. He and his gran had always gone to the Sunday matinees because he’d usually had hockey games on Saturday, and also there was less of a chance that one of his friends would see him walking into a sappy movie on Sunday. His dad had usually been working second and third jobs to support him and his grandmother and to make sure Mark had the best hockey skates and equipment. One of the best days of Mark’s life was the day he signed his first multimillion-dollar contract and set up his dad so the old man could retire.

Mark took a bite of his licorice and chewed. He’d never known his mother. She’d run off before his third birthday and had died a few years later in some car accident thousands of miles away in Florida. He had a vague memory of her, more faded than the few cards she’d sent. She’d write to tell him that she loved him more than anything, but he hadn’t been fooled. She’d loved drugs more than him. Her husband and her son hadn’t been enough for her, and she’d chosen crack cocaine over her family and even over her life, which was one of the reasons he’d never been tempted to do drugs.

Until now. Not that he was addicted. Not yet, but he certainly had a clearer understanding of how easily it could happen. Of how drugs took away the pain and made life tolerable. Of how easy it would be to slip over the edge and become a full-blown addict. But he wasn’t there yet.

He’d been fighting pain all day, and as the Vicodin kicked in, he felt his muscles ease. He relaxed and thought of the photo in the sports section his little assistant had told him about. It sounded like the guys were having a fine old time, and if he’d won the cup with them, he probably would have been there. But he hadn’t and he didn’t want to drink from the cup and celebrate as if he had. And giving him a day with the cup anyway felt like pity.

Sure, there had been several guys he knew who hadn’t played in the cup finals for one reason or another and had still celebrated. Fine. Good for them. Mark just didn’t feel the same way. For him, looking and touching and drinking from the cup was a big, shiny reminder of everything he’d lost. Maybe someday he could get past the bitterness, but not today. Tomorrow didn’t look good either.

The reporter from
Sports Illustrated
had asked him his plans for the future. He’d told her that he was just taking life one day at a time. Which was true. What he hadn’t mentioned was that he didn’t see a future. His life was a big blank
nothing
.

Before the accident, he’d thought of his retirement. Of course he had. He had enough money so that he didn’t have to work for the rest of his life, but he hadn’t planned on doing
nothing
. He’d planned on getting hired as an offensive coach somewhere. It was what he knew. Seeing plays in his head before they happened was what he’d been good at. Finding lanes through traffic and scoring goals had been a talent that had made him one of the top ten goal scorers for the past six years and was something he’d helped teach the guys on his team. But to coach offense, or defense for that matter, the coach had to skate. There was no way around it, but Mark could hardly walk a hundred feet without pain.

He ate a few pieces of licorice and tossed the bag on the table next to the chaise. As a Burger King commercial came on the air, Mark closed his eyes, and before Dr. Phil returned, he drifted off into a peaceful, drug-induced nap, the remote still in one hand. As with most of his dreams, he was back at the Key Arena, fighting it out in the corners. As always, he heard the roar of the crowd, the slap of graphite sticks on ice, and the
shh
of razor-sharp blades. He could smell sweat and leather and the unique scent of the ice. The cold breeze brushed his cheeks and neck as thousands of pairs of eyes watched from the seats. The anticipation and excitement in their faces were a blur as he skated past. Adrenaline bit the back of his throat as his heart and legs pounded down ice. He glanced at the puck in the curve of his stick, and when he looked back up, he saw her. A clear face in a blurry sea. Her big blue eyes simply looked back at him. The light bounced off her two-toned hair. He turned his skates to the side and stopped. Everything around him fell away as he continued to stare at her though the Plexiglas.