Chasing Stanley (41 page)

“Thank you,” he whispered, loving the feel of her in his arms again but knowing he had no right to it—was, in fact, nowhere near worthy of it. “Thank you for saving my boy's life.”

“You're welcome,” said Delilah. Her gaze and voice were resolute as she looked up at him. “Stanley's going to be fine.”

“And what about you?” Jason asked. “Are you fine?”

“I'm always fine,” said Delilah with a sad smile as she slipped out of his embrace. “Now go home and get some rest.”

 

 

 

 

“ Jesus Christ! We
sucked.”

No one disputed David Hewson's observation as the Blades filed into the locker room following game two of the Cup playoffs against Detroit. They'd lost the first game by just one goal, but they were sure they'd rebound tonight in the second. They didn't. If anything, they played worse, their equilibrium completely out of whack. They were now facing a major ball-busting fact: if they didn't win the next game, they were probably toast.

Exhausted, Jason pulled his sweater over his head and began untying his shoulder pads. He couldn't figure out what had changed their momentum. Beating Florida in the first round had been a cinch. Ditto winning the semis against Jersey; Jason had taken great pleasure in wiping the ice with Eric game after game, not once letting his brother's usual on-ice antics goad him into some stupid move that could hurt the team. Even battling Boston for the Eastern Conference series looked relatively painless from where he was sitting now, despite going all the way to six games.

He glanced around the locker room; everyone looked completely demoralized. Ty talked all the time about being driven, being hungry, about wanting the Cup so badly it was all you thought about. Jason thought he had finally reached that place. He thought his teammates were there, too. But judging from tonight's performance, they were all falling short of the mark.

Ty let them know it. Never one for hand-holding or sugar-coating, their beloved but hard-assed coach told them they'd best get their shit together for the next game or else. He told them their play had embarrassed them. That none of them deserved to be playing for New York. Jason knew he was trying to get them mad as a way of firing them up, but judging from the dejected faces around him, it seemed to be having the opposite effect. They looked like a room of sweat-drenched zombies.

David Hewson vigorously toweled his head. “You know, I just realized something: I haven't puked before these last two games.”

“That's true,” said Tully Webster. “Hewsie
always
pukes before he plays. I wonder if not puking fucked things up for us.”

Barry Fontaine nodded knowingly. “It could have.”

Doogie Malone shook his head in despair as he pointed at his locker. “My autographed picture of Heidi Klum. I gave it to my cousin three days ago when he was visiting.”

“And I shaved last week,” Ulf Torkelson confessed quietly, rubbing his smooth chin.

Michael Dante looked exasperated as he began removing his thigh pads. “Guys, forget the woo-woo crap, okay? What we need to be concentrating on is our level of
play
.”

“Play, yes,” Ulf agreed cautiously, “but also things to bring luck.”

David Hewson studied Michael with curiosity. “You saying you don't do anything special to insure good mojo, Cap?”

“Of course I do,” said Michael, putting his wedding ring back on and twisting it three times. “But mojo alone isn't going to help us.”

“It can't hurt us,” Denny O'Malley pointed out.

Tully Webster wore an earnest expression as he jumped up on a bench in the middle of the locker room. “I think everyone needs to remember about
all
the stuff they've done in the past to bring good luck—and then do it.” He looked at David. “If that means sticking your finger down your throat before a game, bro, then that's what you've gotta do.”

There were nods and murmurs of assent. Jason took the cross from his mother from around his neck and hung it up in his locker, where he always left it between games. He'd only ever forgotten to wear it once, and that night, he'd had his nose broken. That's when he remembered another good luck charm he used to rely on in Minnesota.

“Cap, can I talk to you in private after we shower?” Jason asked Michael.

 

 

“
I can't believe
you talked me into this.”

Delilah peered out the limo's tinted windows at muted sunlight as the car glided silently down Seventh Avenue toward Met Gar. When Jason had first come to her saying he'd gotten permission to bring Stanley to his remaining games for good luck, she'd laughed long and hard. He couldn't be serious!

But he was. And since Stanley was his dog, she really didn't have a leg to stand on. The clincher came when he asked her to come with them. Via limo. So she could watch the game with Stanley from a skybox. Her hermit instinct immediately kicked in.

“I have my own dogs to take care of,” she'd pointed out.

“There's Marcus,” he said. “I'll pay him so much he'll think he died and won the lottery.”

“Why can't Eric do it?” Delilah asked.

“Unreliable,” Jason had rebutted. “Plus he doesn't like Stan. Plus he might be with Brandi.” Delilah pretended not to hear the last sentence.

“What if it freaks Stanley out?” Delilah demanded, starting to feel desperate.

“Have you ever known Stanley to freak out?” Jason retorted. “The only person he loves more than me is you. If you're there, he'll be fine. You know it.”

For some insane reason, Delilah had capitulated. Maybe it was the desperation in Jason's eyes. Maybe it was his admission of Stanley's attachment to her. Or maybe it was that the whole thing felt a tiny bit like an adventure, something she didn't embark on very often. Correction: ever.

She looked down at Stanley, snoring happily on the limo's plushly carpeted floor as if there was no place else he'd rather be. He'd been a little listless the first few days home after surgery, and with jagged black stitches lining his shaved belly, he looked a little disconcerting, but overall, he was doing great. He'd even gone back to trying to sneak up on her couch, which Delilah took as a good sign.

“I hope we can get him out of the car when we get to Met Gar,” Delilah said. “He looks like he'd be quite happy to stay here.”

Jason nodded distractedly. He'd been jiggling his left leg madly ever since they'd climbed into the back of the limo. In fact, it was beginning to drive Delilah a little nuts.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Jason seemed surprised by the question. “What? Sure. Why?”

She pointed to his leg. “Oh,” said Jason. His leg stopped moving. “Sorry about that. I guess I'm a little preoccupied.”

“About the game?”

Jason turned to look out the window. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Alarm bells started sounding in Delilah's head. “Jason, you have clearance to bring Stanley inside Met Gar, right?”

Jason's gaze remained fixed on the window. “Kind of.”

Delilah could actually
feel
the muscles in her neck beginning to knot. “What do you mean, ‘Kind of'?”

Jason reluctantly turned back to her. “I kind of have an unofficial green light. My captain said if I can get him in and out without corporate finding out, then I should feel free. But if I get caught, he'll say he doesn't know a thing about it. So I kind of have one of the security guys and Larry Levin helping me out.”

“Oh my God.”

Delilah could see it now: Met Gar security breaking into the skybox and putting her in cuffs . . . a story about it on the local eleven o'clock news . . . a picture in the papers the next morning of her and Stanley being led away.

“It'll be fine,” Jason assured her, patting her knee.

“If it'll be fine, why are you nervous?”

“I'm not nervous. I'm sure everything will go off without a hitch.” He hesitated. “But just in case it doesn't, don't worry. I'll take full responsibility for whatever happens.”

Delilah pitched back against the car seat in frustration. “You're insane, you know that?”

“Yeah, but that's why—”

You love me,
Delilah silently finished for him. Jason covered the gaffe with a quick clearing of his throat before leaning over to pet Stanley. The sad truth of the matter was, she did love him. But what did it matter? She and Jason had been one of those round peg, square hole couples. No matter how hard you tried to make them fit, they didn't.

“Almost there,” Jason murmured, more to himself than Delilah. He hit the button to lower the glass between the front and back seats. “I'm going to direct you to a special entrance,” he told the limo driver. “I need you to be waiting there until this young lady comes back outside with the dog later tonight. We're clear on that, right?”

“Yes, sir,” said the driver.

Jason turned to Delilah. “Ready?”

“I hate you,” Delilah said with a glare.

But both of them knew it was a lie.

 

 

Jason would never
admit it to Delilah, but he was experiencing some trepidation about the Stan Plan. If anything went wrong, corporate would hang him and his three-year contract out to dry, and Ty would let them.

With the help of Larry Levin and Joey Sacco, a Met Gar security guard whom Jason knew was a dog lover, Jason had concocted a plan. He, Delilah, and Stanley would arrive by limo at one of Met Gar's lesser-known entrances. Larry would be waiting there for them to make sure the coast was clear. If it was, Stan, Delilah, and Jason would take the service elevator down to locker room level, where Joey, the security guard for that floor, would conveniently be “on break.” Jason and Delilah would quickly hustle Stanley into the locker room, hanging there until Joey knocked on the door three times. Joey would then conveniently take another break, allowing Delilah and Stan to go up to skybox level once Larry again gave them the heads-up. They'd do the same thing at the end of the game, sans locker room visit. The only other difference would be that Delilah would leave in the middle of the third period to avoid the departing hordes. Was it risky? Yes. Was it worth it? Jason thought so.

Jason directed the limo to the appointed entrance. He was relieved to see Larry Levin hovering at the door as he hopped out of the car.

“Hurry,” Larry barked.

As Delilah had feared, Stanley was reluctant to leave the limo, though he obeyed when Jason gave him the command for “Up,” albeit with a dirty look. Jason quickly hustled Stanley through the door, Delilah in tow, looking like she was going to throw up.

“This way,” Larry commanded, walking briskly toward an elevator at the far end of the hall. Jason could hear voices coming from somewhere; he assumed Joey Sacco was nearby, chatting up people to detain them.

Jason, Delilah, and Larry all seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief as the elevator doors slid shut, and the elevator began its descent.

“That's not a dog,” said Larry Levin, staring at Stanley agog, “that's a friggin' pony. You couldn't own a bichon frise?”

Jason snorted. “No self-respecting jock owns a bichon frise, believe me.”

“How you doin', Delilah?” Larry asked, looking concerned.

“I'm okay. Look, Larry, remember when we met at Tully's party and I disappeared for awhile and then left on my own near midnight and—”

“Not now,” Jason said sharply. Delilah seemed to shrink against the back of the elevator. “I mean, we just don't have time,” he amended gently. This was not the best time for Delilah to turn into Babbling Brook, though he could see how nervous she was.

“It's going to be fine,” he told her again.

Delilah just nodded.

The elevator doors squeaked open, and Larry stuck his head out. “The coast is clear.” He regarded Jason. “Fifteen minutes, right?”

Jason nodded. “Sacco should knock in fifteen minutes. You be here waiting.”

“Go, go, go,” Larry urged.

Jason legged it out of the elevator as fast as he could. For once, he wished Stanley was one of those lithe, high-strung dogs; at least they moved quickly. He paused before plunging into the locker room.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked Delilah.

Her eyes flashed with alarm. “Sure, as soon as you tell me what the hell I'm supposed to
do
for fifteen minutes.”

“Hadn't thought of that.”

“Clearly.”

Jason looked both ways down the hallway. “Ladies' room?” He pointed to the left. “It's that way. Or you could just hang out here.”

“And if someone comes by, I tell them—what?”

“The truth: that you're my—friend, and you're waiting for me.”

Delilah gave him a strange look and leaned against the wall trying, he supposed, to look as inconspicuous as possible. Jesus, he'd nearly done it again, put his foot in his mouth where Delilah was concerned. First in the limo, and now this. He needed to watch himself around her.

“Okay.” He patted Stan's back. “Showtime, big guy.” He regarded Delilah. “See you in fifteen.”

“God willing,” she replied dryly.

He started into the locker room, then paused. “Delilah?”

“Mmm?”

“Thank you.” A rush of emotion overcame him, rendering him unexpectedly tongue-tied. “For being willing to do this, I mean. It means a lot to me.” Shit, he was starting to sound like
her.
“I mean—”