Once the feline stood in front of them, she said, “Now what was it you wanted me to say again?”
Blayne went for Malone’s throat, but Novikov caught her first, yanking the swinging, spitting, and screeching wolfdog away.
“Is there anyone,” Crush asked, “that you
don’t
irritate?”
The feline looked him over, and grinned. “Come on.”
She grabbed his hand, but Crush immediately yanked it back. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m going to my seat and forget I ever met you and then I’ll decide whether to sue the makers of delicious Jell-O products or just the MacDermots for using Jell-O in a clearly despicable way.”
“You really are cute, you know?” And for once it didn’t sound like the feline was mocking. “My suggestion is to go after MacDermot and Llewellyn. The Jell-O people are probably a huge conglomerate that will have you tied up in court for years. And I need you to come with me because I’d prefer not to end up on the wrong side of Blayne Thorpe.”
“You already seem to be on the wrong side of Blayne.”
“If I was really on the wrong side of Blayne, I’d be in little consumable pieces for the hyena population. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
“Morally ... I guess not.”
“Morally, huh?”
“Should I get a dictionary so you can look up the meaning?”
Laughing, the feline grabbed his hand and started walking. “According to Blayne,” who was watching them walk by, panting hard, fangs out, “I owe you for being so mean to you. You apparently have a broken heart that needs to be mended.” She glanced back at him. “Just break up with your girlfriend or something?”
“No.”
“Well, she thinks you’re wounded and my tormenting you is beneath me.”
“So you two just met then?”
“I like how your sense of humor comes out when it’s to make fun of me.”
“You need to pick up the step, Malone,” Novikov yelled after her. “We’ve got a game to get to.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
After a few minutes of following along, Crush asked, “So where are we going anyway?”
“You’ll see.”
“If you’re just going to find another way to publicly embarrass me, can we do it at another time? Like
after
the game?”
“I don’t waste my time embarrassing anyone when I’ve got a game about to start.”
“And why is that?”
“Because embarrassing others is a pastime and pastimes are for
after
the game. Like video games or going out to clubs.”
“Can you be more cat?”
“Not even if I tried.”
She took him down a small set of stairs to a door manned by a couple of very large security guards. “Hey, guys.”
“Hey, Cella,” one said while opening the door for her.
“He’s with me. This is ...” She stopped, looked at him. “What’s your name?”
“You’re
just
asking me that?”
“Yes.”
“MacDermot didn’t tell you?”
“She did but”—she shrugged—“it slipped my mind.”
Knowing that if he tried to make a run for it, she’d just hunt him down, Crush decided to just get this insanity over with. “Name’s Lou Crushek.”
“I thought Blayne called you Crush.”
“My
friends
call me Crush, and since you’re not—”
“Crush it is then.” She yanked him inside the big room with the giant windows overlooking the rink and dragged him until they reached the plush leather seats.
“You’ll watch the game from here.”
Crush took a quick look around. When the Sports Center first opened years ago, Crush had taken what Conway still called “a sports geek tour of the place.” So he knew this room, although he and the other tourists had only been allowed a very quick walkthrough. “But ... but this is the—”
“Owner’s box. Right. And you can sit here. Right by my daddy.”
Crush gawked down at the older tiger male sitting in one of the seats, an open Guinness in his hand. Crush gawked, but he couldn’t speak. No words would come out. So, like an idiot, he just stood there. Gawking.
“Daddy,” Malone said. “This is Lou Crushek, aka Crush. He’s my new boyfriend.” The man blinked in surprise and then grinned. “Crush, honey, this is my daddy, Nice Guy Malone.”
Crush shook his head at the hand held out to him. “I think I ... I need to ...”
Surprisingly soft hands brushed hair off his face. “Oh, baby, you’ve gone all white. Which is kind of amazing considering you’re a polar.”
“He better sit down.”
Father and daughter shoved Crush into a seat.
“What’s wrong with him?” Nice Guy asked.
“He’s a fan, Daddy. I think he’s overwhelmed at meeting you.”
“Good kid,” Nice Guy said before glancing at his daughter and asking, “And he’s single, right?”
“
Daddy
.”
“Just making sure. Look, you go before you hear about it from Novikov. I’ll take care of the kid.”
“Thanks, Daddy.” She winked at Crush. “And I’ll see you later, handsome.”
And that was about the time that Crush completely freaked out.
Cella was at the door pulling it open when a big hand slammed against it and shoved it back, yanking her forward a bit since she still had her hand on the knob.
“You can’t leave me.”
Startled by the desperation she heard in that voice, she turned around and looked up at the cop. “Of course, I can.”
“No. You
can’t
leave me.”
“Look at you, already attached. But I play with the Genghis Khan of time management. I have to go.” She pulled at the door again and again it was slammed.
“What are you doing?” she asked, getting exasperated.
“You can’t leave me.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true. I’ll just go with you.”
“I can’t take you to the locker room until after the game.”
“No, but I can go to the seat I paid for.”
“The seat in the nosebleed section? That’s where Blayne said you were headed. Why would you want to go there?”
“Because I can’t stay here,” he whispered.
“Why not?” she whispered back.
He leaned in closer, and still in a whisper, “Because that’s Nice Guy Malone.”
“I know,” she again whispered back. “I recognize him from all my birthday parties and when I find him inappropriately fondling my mother. Not seeing the problem. Just talk to him.”
“Talk? Talk to him? To Nice Guy Malone?”
Good God, the man was having a panic attack.
“What am
I
supposed to say to Nice Guy Malone? I mean he’s ...
he’s Nice Guy Malone
.”
And that’s when she understood. Kind of like if she’d had the chance to sit and chat with John L. Sullivan, one of the last known heavyweight bare-knuckle champions. She’d probably be having a full-on panic attack if she’d met him—partly because the man had died in 1918, but also because he was her hero.
And her father was the hero of this uptight cop that Blayne Thorpe suddenly felt so protective of, which did nothing but make him even cuter than he already was simply because he had excellent taste.
“You have to take me out of here,” the polar begged.
“No.”
“Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you. I just want to make sure you don’t regret this night for the rest of your life by walking away. Besides, my dad’s a total talker. Mr. Storyteller. All Malone males are. So you won’t have to say a word.” She went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Now balls up and go talk to your lifelong hero.”
Cella shoved and her father was there to grab the polar’s arm. “Come on, kid. I’ll introduce you to everybody.”
“Introduce me?” And she heard his voice crack a little.
“Way cute.” Cella chuckled and headed out, ready to have some fun on the ice.
C
HAPTER
S
IX
“W
ould you like a menu, sir?”
Crush shook his head, and wondered how he could get out of this. “No.”
“Go on,” Nice Guy pushed.
“We have a lovely peppered, ringed seal sandwich with spicy hot mustard. It’s a favorite among our polar clientele.”
And wow, but did that sound good. But no. No. He couldn’t. This was getting completely out of hand!
“He’ll take it,” Nice Guy volunteered for him. “And some of those sweet potato fries, too.” The waiter nodded and walked off. “You might as well enjoy this, kid.”
“I have no idea how I got here. This can’t end well.”
Nice Guy studied him for a few moments, then said, “You’re a cop, aren’t you?”
Stunned, Crush stared at his hero. It was usually the last thing anyone ever accused Crush of being. Meth dealer, mass murderer, biker, but no one ever said, “You’re a cop, aren’t you?” It was why Crush was so good at his job. He could infiltrate any lowlife, underworld association he wanted simply because he looked as if for ten bucks and a pack of smokes, he’d cut someone’s throat.
Of course, that used to insult him, but not anymore.
“Uh ... well ...”
Nice Guy patted his arm. “It’s all right, kid. You don’t need to admit anything. I just know cops when I see ’em.”
“No one else ever guesses it right.”
The tiger shrugged. “I was always ‘Nice Guy’ Malone, but I wasn’t always ‘Nice Guy’ Malone.”
Crush frowned while Nice Guy’s teammates laughed around them.
“What,” Crush asked, “does that mean?”
Cella, now with her skates on and stick and helmet in hand, made her way to the long, covered hallway that would lead out onto the ice. But when she was still a corner-turn away, a small wolfdog sped out in front of her, blocking her path.
Not wanting to fight, Cella immediately held her hands up. “I made it up to him! I made it up to him!”
“Huh?” Blayne shook her head. “Oh, whatever. I’m not talking about that.”
“Oh.” Cella lowered her hands. “Then what’s up?”
“I need your help.”
“After you just busted my balls?”
“
Those are two separate issues!”
Blayne bellowed.
Cella’s eyes narrowed. “Blayne ... did you have sugar today?”
She lowered her gaze. “Maybe.”
“And on that note ...”
Cella tried to go around her, but Blayne skated in front of her. She had on her quad skates for derby practice and the tiniest shorts known to man or God. Thankfully, the little wolfdog looked
good
in those shorts.
“I need your help,” she said.
“With what?”
“My wedding. Gwen’s wedding. It’s all gone to shit!”
“You knew Novikov was difficult.”
“He’s not the problem. Gwen’s mother. Lock’s mother. They’re the problem.”
“How are they a problem for
you
?”
Her lips briefly pressed into a thin line. “Apparently, I’m like a daughter to them,” she said flatly.
“Oh. Well, have fun with that.”
“Cella, I need your help.”
“With what?”
“Your mom.”
Of course. Every bride wanted Barb Malone as their wedding planner, but that just wasn’t possible. “My mom is booked for the next three years. I think she even turned down one of the Kennedys.” Cella glanced off. “Or maybe it was just a close relative of the Kennedys. Either way—”
“So you’re saying no?”
“I’m saying no.”
“
Fine!
” Blayne and her sugar high bellowed.
Cella watched her skate off, waiting until she was about ten feet away before she softly said, “Unless ...”
Wild dog ears honed in on that and Blayne stopped. “Unless?”
Cella faced her, shrugged. “Maybe if you could help me with Novikov and the way he treats the team ...”
Blayne clenched her fists. “We made a promise to each other that I would never involve myself in his hockey career and he would never call derby a ‘chick sport.’ ”
“Oh. All right. Well”—Cella turned around, headed toward the team—“good luck to ya!”
With a speed that Cella always marveled at, Blayne shot in front of her. Damn shame the girl couldn’t ice-skate very well, because, wow.
“Fine. I’ll do it.
If
you get your mother to take on my wedding and Gwen’s.”
“Why not make your lives easier and just have one joint wedding? Novikov won’t care and MacRyrie will learn to put up with him for one day if it makes Gwen happy.”
“My God ... that’s brilliant!”
“I know.” Cella pointed at herself. “Because that’s what I do. I solve problems. Now move your skinny ass.”
As Cella walked away, Blayne yelled from behind her, “I love you, Cella!”
“Shut up.”
Cella got in line with the other players, waiting for their team and names to be announced.
“Thanks for joining us,” Novikov muttered.
“Oh, shut up.” She stepped in next to Van Holtz. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Cella noticed how the wolf stared placidly across the room.
“Feel better?” she asked him.
“Mhmm.”
“Dee-Ann stop by?” The wolf grinned and Cella said, “Then I’m glad I stopped by before then.”
“So am I.”
Cella chuckled until she heard someone whistling and whispering, “Hey ... you. Hey,” at her. She looked around at her own teammates, then over at the waiting Alabama Slammers. A young wolf grinned at her, winked.
MacRyrie snorted next to her. “He must be new.”
The opposing team was called out and the wolf made sure to stare at her until he hit the ice.
“Cella,” and she could hear the warning in Van Holtz’s voice. His “captain” voice, she called it. It was different from his “owner” voice and his “goalie” voice.
She shrugged. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Just make sure you don’t.”
“I’m only here to play the game.”
Traditional bagpipe music began playing over the loudspeaker—it was New York, after all—and the announcer called out the Carvnivores, each first-string player announced individually and skating out onto the ice, spotlights directly on them.
Cella patiently waited her turn, glancing back and winking at Jai, who stood with her med team. Her best friend grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.
Then she gave her the finger.
Yep. Best friend
ever!
Cella heard it. “Number 29, Marcella ‘Bare Knuckles’ Malone!”
Grinning, she skated out onto the ice, raising her free hand to wave at the crowd. She heard a lot of female cheers, which made sense since she had a lot of female predator fans. But it was when the announcer called out Novikov’s name that the crowd lost its collective mind. Cella didn’t blame them, though. He might be an obsessive-compulsive borderline sociopath, but damn if the man wasn’t the best hockey player she’d ever known ... next to her dad, of course. At least ... that’s what she told her dad.
“Then for about three years,” Nice Guy continued, “I was a leg breaker for a couple of bookies who worked for the O’Malley boys. I was really good at it, too.”
The O’Malley boys?
Crush closed his eyes.
Good God.
“And how old were you when you—”
“Thirteen.”
“Thir ... thirteen?”
“Tigers don’t have growth spurts like you guys. I was always big. Always looked way older than I was. And when I was working for bookies, I thought about robbing banks. But that’s a federal crime and I decided not to bother. Ya know?”
“Um ... uh ... uh-huh.” Crush closed his eyes again. “You just broke legs, right? You’ve never actually ... uh ... um ...”
“Killed someone? Nah. Of course not.” Nice Guy glanced at the ceiling. “Wait, on the ice ... ?”
And Crush gritted his teeth.
“No, no. That guy survived. Soooo ... no. All clear there.”
All Crush could do was shrug. “Okay.”
Cella slammed her body into the wolf who’d winked at her, making sure to ram her elbow under his helmet and into his throat. He fell to his knees and she dropped her gloves, slapped his helmet off, and proceeded to pummel his face raw before her teammates managed to drag her away from him.
With a snarl from the ref, she hit the box for a two-minute penalty.
Pulling out her fang guard, she glanced over at the black bear sitting next to her.
“Hi, Bert.”
“Hey, Cella.”
“How’s the wife?”
“Good. Good. Your daughter?”
“Great. Turning eighteen this weekend.”
Bert winced. “Uh-oh. I wish you luck.”
“Yep.” Cella spit out blood, and wiped blood off her knuckles. “You coming to the Ice Party this year?” she asked.
“Probably not. You know me. Not much of a partier.” Bert nodded. “Okay. I’m back in. See ya, Cella.”
“See ya, Bert.”
Cella spit out more blood, removed her helmet, and shook out her hair. She was seriously considering getting her hair cut. Maybe a mani-pedi, too. Oooh! Maybe she could drag Lady Dour of the Clan Dour, aka Meghan, to go with her. Honestly, was
all
that studying necessary? And constant thinking? The girl needed to relax! She was a Malone, wasn’t she? And the Malones knew how to relax. It was time her daughter got on the train with the rest of them.
So yeah. Haircuts and mani-pedis, hopefully with a mother-daughter discount. And the kid would just have to suck it up.
Her time in the box up, Cella stood, pulled on her helmet, popped her fang guard back in, and hit the ice.
And the first thing she did was slam her body into that same Alabama wolf, drop her gloves, and pummel his face....
“So,” Crush felt the need to ask, “what made you give up your ... uh ... leg-breaking ways? Hockey?”
Nice Guy chuckled. “Nah. Hockey just made me a better leg breaker. Playing hockey was something that I did naturally. Like breathing. And most of what I did was to get money for equipment. So, no. It’s not why. It was Barb.” When Crush frowned, “My wife. Cella’s mother. We’d known each other since grade school, but unlike the Malones, Barb’s father became rich and moved the family uptown. Then my high school was playing football against Trinity Parochial, and I locked on her as soon as I saw her again. But she wouldn’t have anything to do with me.”
“Because you were breaking people’s legs at thirteen?”
“No, that didn’t bother her. Besides. They weren’t people. They were degenerate gamblers. But I did beat up her kid brother for his lunch money. That kind of pissed her off.”
“Yeah. I can see a girl holding that against you.”
“Didn’t stop me from trying, though. Malones, we don’t back away from a challenge. Gifts for her. Flowers, candy. A cool car for me ... stolen, of course.”
“I didn’t need to know that.”
“The latest clothes. Everything I figured a girl would want. Then she finally said it. ‘You’re a lowlife and I wouldn’t date you if you were the last tiger on the planet.’ ” He tapped his chest. “That one hurt. Right here. So I figured if I was gonna get her, I had to stop breaking legs, stealing cars, throwing degenerate gamblers off rooftops—”
“Again ... that I didn’t need to know.”
“That’s when I realized hockey wasn’t just that thing I did, but a way I could get legit. Get on the right team, become the best player—I could get a girl like her.”
“And you can get your equipment legally.”
“Didn’t really care about that.”
“Of course, you didn’t.”
“Before I knew it, I was considered the best in the league and I had the She-tiger of my dreams.”
“Except for the extreme illegal activity during your important developmental years—that was a surprisingly sweet story.”
“Mhmm.” Nice Guy suddenly looked him over, eyes narrowing. “What do you know about my daughter?”
“Apparently nothing,” he muttered, but when Nice Guy tensed, Crush quickly added, “I knew about Bare Knuckles Malone.” Who didn’t? She had one of the worst reputations in the league next to The Marauder and was one of the first female enforcers for a pro-team who wasn’t a She-bear. “But I didn’t know the woman I was talking to was Bare Knuckles. Her face is impossible to see from my usual seats and any time they show her on the big screen, she’s wearing a helmet.”