Authors: Deirdre Martin
Tags: #Women lawyers, #Contemporary, #Legal, #General, #Romance, #Hockey players, #Fiction
Icebreaker (37 page)
Adam lifted her hand to his mouth, his lips grazing her knuckles. “I’m sorry, too.”
Sinead’s heart was tumbling wildly. “I’ve figured a few things out about myself while we were apart, too.”
“What’s that?”
“I was babysitting Charlie recently, and it was terrific. I’d watched him a few other times before, and for some reason, we never quite jelled. Maybe he could tell how nervous I was around him. At any rate, I’ve always had an awkwardness inside me that made me believe I just wasn’t cut out to be a parent.
“So there I was with Charlie, and we were having a wonderful time. And I remembered you and me playing with Tully’s kids, and how much fun it was.” Sinead’s eyes began welling up. “I realized you would have been willing to compromise and I would have been willing to stay home part-time with a child.”
Words were jostling for position in her throat. “Don’t you see? I wasn’t reacting to you; I was having a knee-jerk reaction to what I’d gone through with Chip. As soon as you said you agreed with him, I cut and ran. And that was wrong. It was cowardly.”
Adam touched her cheek. “I was the coward. I shouldn’t have let you walk out the door. I should have asserted myself. But I was just so stunned; one minute we were together, the next you were running away.”
“Like I said, I was reacting to past history. Again, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Adam pressed his mouth to hers. The entire time they were apart, Sinead had tried to conjure the experience of being kissed by him, but the memories were nothing compared to the real thing. He tasted like love and relief and desire. She pulled away, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. “I love you,” she said softly.
Ever so gently, Adam took her face in his hands, his eyes bright and focused. “I love you, too. I swear to you, I will do whatever it takes to make this work, because the thought of living my life without you kills me.” He put his burning forehead to hers. “Just be patient with me, okay? I’ve always put my career first.”
“So have I.”
“Then we’ll figure it out together.”
“Forever?”
“Forever,” Adam whispered passionately. “And that’s a promise.”
36
Time feels like
an assault when you’re willing to push your body to the limit, Adam mused, grimacing as he slipped his sweater over his head. It was game four of the final series; if they won tonight against L.A., they’d be the Stanley Cup champions; if they didn’t win, the series could drag out to an excruciating game seven.
Bring it on,
thought Adam, massaging his left shoulder where two nights before, L.A.’s Nicolai Gorky had hit him during a melee behind the Blades’ goal. The pain was a mere footnote. Balls, tenacity, grit, whatever you want to call it—Adam had it in spades, and nothing was going to get in his way. Nothing.
an assault when you’re willing to push your body to the limit, Adam mused, grimacing as he slipped his sweater over his head. It was game four of the final series; if they won tonight against L.A., they’d be the Stanley Cup champions; if they didn’t win, the series could drag out to an excruciating game seven.
Bring it on,
thought Adam, massaging his left shoulder where two nights before, L.A.’s Nicolai Gorky had hit him during a melee behind the Blades’ goal. The pain was a mere footnote. Balls, tenacity, grit, whatever you want to call it—Adam had it in spades, and nothing was going to get in his way. Nothing.
The road to get here had been a bitch. The first round against Philadelphia went smoother than Adam had anticipated. Philly’s goaltending cracked under the Blades’ relentless assault, and the New Yorkers won in a sweep. They then played New Jersey in the Eastern Conference Quarterfinals in a series as hard as the Philly series was easy. It had taken every ounce of blood and guts for the Blades to beat Jersey in a seven-game series. In the second game, Adam had leveled one of Jersey’s wingers, Guy Montaine, with a punishing open-ice hit. Everyone in Met Gar held their breath, waiting to see if one of the referees called a penalty. They didn’t. The league had indeed backed down. Adam could play his game.
They went up against Tampa in the semis. It was a fight to the death, the games some of the most physically punishing Adam had ever played. But the Blades pulled it out in six games, and now here they were going mano a mano against L.A. on home ice in the fourth game of the finals. Adam didn’t like to get ahead of himself, especially after telling his teammates to focus, but he couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to skate the Cup and be able to show Sinead, as well as his niece and nephew. Outside Met Gar, there was carefully contained insanity as fans stood pressed against the barricades, chanting, “We want the Cup!” The depth of their longing inspired Adam. He loved the high-voltage energy crackling through Manhattan as the whole city whipped itself up into Blades fever. These people knew what it was like to be Stanley Cup champions; they’d tasted this victory before, and they wanted to taste it again. Adam intended to give them what they all—himself included—wanted.
There was energy
humming through the locker room, too, but it carried a faint tinge of anxiety. Some of Adam’s teammates knew what it was to win the Cup, but they were no more relaxed than any of the other players. Each time was like the first time, Ty told them. Each time required the same will and determination. Adam was feeling the same thing everyone else was feeling—maybe even more, since he knew he might never have another chance at the prize that had eluded him his entire career.
humming through the locker room, too, but it carried a faint tinge of anxiety. Some of Adam’s teammates knew what it was to win the Cup, but they were no more relaxed than any of the other players. Each time was like the first time, Ty told them. Each time required the same will and determination. Adam was feeling the same thing everyone else was feeling—maybe even more, since he knew he might never have another chance at the prize that had eluded him his entire career.
“Guys.”
Adam’s voice was commanding as he stepped into the center of the room. By now they knew that speeches weren’t his forte, and that he was more a man of action than words. But tonight, words were needed to help spur the action on. Tonight, he actually wanted to speak.
He had their complete attention. “Our bodies and spirits have taken a beating through this season, but we haven’t been broken, and we will not be broken, so long as the hunger and the sheer iron will to win is there.”
His eyes swept the circle of men around him, their unblinking attention exactly what he wanted.
“I’ve been playing in the league for seventeen years. This is the closest I’ve ever come to winning the Cup, and I’m not going to lie: I want it badly. But I’m not afraid of losing; I’m afraid of not wanting victory badly enough. Play as if this is the last fucking hockey game you’ll ever get to play. This is hockey. Will beats skill. If we want it more than they do, we will win.
Will beats skill.
Will beats skill.
“The Cup is sitting in the next room. Let’s take it.”
37
The tone of
the game was set in the first period. Three minutes in, L.A. scored first, prompting a “Boooo!” so loud from the hometown crowd that Adam could feel it thrum through his bones. But the Blades responded thirty seconds later: Thad Meyers’s slap shot from the right point seemed to stun not only L.A.’s goalie, Terry Cahoon, but the entire Los Angeles team as well.
the game was set in the first period. Three minutes in, L.A. scored first, prompting a “Boooo!” so loud from the hometown crowd that Adam could feel it thrum through his bones. But the Blades responded thirty seconds later: Thad Meyers’s slap shot from the right point seemed to stun not only L.A.’s goalie, Terry Cahoon, but the entire Los Angeles team as well.
Michael Dante was pulling out all the stops to close out the series this night, shortening his bench, double-shifting Saari’s line, and rotating just two pairs of defensemen. Barry Fontaine wristed a rebound past Cahoon with less than a minute left in the first, putting the Blades up 2-1.
“Solid first,” Adam said aloud in the locker room as he lifted his sweater and undid his shoulder pads so that one of the trainers could freeze his left shoulder, which was beginning to pulse with pain. The locker room was muted, no one wanting to jinx their first-period success. Finally, as they stood to file back to the ice, Adam broke the silence. “Will beats skill.”
The Blades played
like men on a mission in the second, and L.A.’s energy flagged. But Cahoon was standing on his head, keeping L.A. in the game. The tension was ratcheting up, both in the arena and on the bench. Yet Adam felt oddly calm. He was where he was supposed to be. His entire life and everything he had been through—those years of childhood hockey, traveling from town to town in the juniors, the accident with his best friend, the death of his parents, all the blood and lost teeth and pain—had all come together for this one night.
like men on a mission in the second, and L.A.’s energy flagged. But Cahoon was standing on his head, keeping L.A. in the game. The tension was ratcheting up, both in the arena and on the bench. Yet Adam felt oddly calm. He was where he was supposed to be. His entire life and everything he had been through—those years of childhood hockey, traveling from town to town in the juniors, the accident with his best friend, the death of his parents, all the blood and lost teeth and pain—had all come together for this one night.
Ten minutes into the period, L.A. put a rebound past Hewson, tying the game and silencing the crowd. On the ice for the next shift, Adam saw L.A. winger Serge Fetisov coming down the right side at top speed. Adam met Fetisov and the boards at the exact same moment. Bending from the waist as he and Fetisov were about to connect, Adam thrust out his left hip, slamming into Fetisov’s thighs, sending the winger airborne. The energy in the building surged as the fans rose to their feet, cheering.
No one spoke
in the locker room between the second and third period . . . until Michael Dante climbed up on a bench, looked around, and in a quiet voice said, “Will beats skill.”
in the locker room between the second and third period . . . until Michael Dante climbed up on a bench, looked around, and in a quiet voice said, “Will beats skill.”
From the moment the puck was dropped to start the third, the Blades controlled the ice. Saari played like a man possessed, but Cahoon wouldn’t yield. Shots rang off the crossbar and the posts. Frustration mounted as the period entered its final moments. After a rare L.A. flurry, Adam cleared the puck the length of the ice. Saari got a jump on the flagging L.A. defense. He flew down the ice with the kind of speed that had made him a star since he was a little kid playing in a small town outside Helsinki. Getting to the puck first, he sent a blind backhand pass out into the slot. Ulf Torkelson, who’d been flowing the play, one-timed the puck over Cahoon’s blocker.
The fans were on their feet, screaming.
There were only two minutes left, and the Blades had the lead. The rest of the game was a blur to Adam. L.A. pulled Cahoon for an extra skater. The desperation of the L.A. players to tie the game was topped by the desperation of the Blades to hold the lead. Blades were throwing themselves in front of pucks, diving to tip pucks out of the zone. With five seconds left, Adam dug the puck out of the Blades’ left corner and lifted it as high as he could toward center ice. Seconds after it landed, the horn went off.
The Blades were the Stanley Cup champions.
38
Joy. That was
the first word that came to Adam’s mind. He’d dreamed of this moment for years, imagining what it would feel like, but fantasy paled compared to the real thing. The roar of the crowd was louder than anything he ever heard, the pitch of the emotion so high it bordered on hysterical.
the first word that came to Adam’s mind. He’d dreamed of this moment for years, imagining what it would feel like, but fantasy paled compared to the real thing. The roar of the crowd was louder than anything he ever heard, the pitch of the emotion so high it bordered on hysterical.
“We want Cup! We want Cup!” The crowd was like a primitive tribe brought to frenzy by their shared relief.
Tully Webster, red-faced and exhausted as he mopped his face with a towel, nudged Adam in the ribs. “Nuts, isn’t it?” he asked, referring to the crowd.
“It’s great.”
“Cap!” Adam turned, and an exuberant Esa Saari threw his arms around his neck. “We fucking did it! I’m allowed to party tonight, right?” he ribbed.
“As long and hard as you want, Saari.”
“Yess!”
A red carpet was rolled out onto the ice, followed by a table draped in velvet. Two men in suits wearing white gloves came out, carrying hockey’s holy of holies, which they carefully placed in the center of the table. When Commissioner Welsh emerged for the presentation, a chorus of boos greeted him. But the crowd was too excited to vent their anger for long.
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