“Mother.” Faith looked behind her own shoulder as a white Pekingese jumped up onto her white leather sofa. “And Pebbles.” The nastiest dog on the planet. “You should have called.”
“Why? You would have told us not to come.” Valerie Augustine wheeled her large pink suitcase into the penthouse; her overly painted lips air-kissed Faith’s cheeks as she passed.
“It isn’t that I don’t want to see you,” Faith said and shut the door behind her. “I’m just swamped.” She followed her mother and pointed to the pile of books open on the glass-and-stainless coffee table.
“What are you studying for?” Her mother shoved the handle down into her suitcase and
moved toward the leather couch on her five-inch spike heels. Pink, of course. To match her leather pants. She picked up a book and read, “
Idiot’s Guide To Hockey
. Why are you reading this? I thought you sold the team.”
“I decided not to.”
Valerie’s big green eyes widened and she shook her head, disturbing her perfectly feathered Farrah ’do. In the seventies, someone had told Valerie that she looked like Farrah Fawcett. She still believed it. “What happened?”
She didn’t want to get into the whole story with her mother. “I just decided to keep it.” She thought of Landon reaching for her and Ty Savage stepping between them. She was grateful he’d been there. Grateful he’d stepped in. Almost grateful enough to forgive him for calling her “Miss January” in the press.
“Well, I’m glad. Now that the old bastard is gone, you need something to do.”
“Mother.”
“I’m sorry, but he
was
old.” It wasn’t exactly a secret that her mother hadn’t liked Virgil. The feeling had been mutual. Virgil had provided a nice monthly income for Valerie, but there had been strings attached that Valerie resented even as she cashed the checks. One of them being that she could not show up whenever she felt like it. “Too old for a young, beautiful girl,” she added
as she tossed the book on the sofa and picked up her dog. Pebbles looked at Faith through beady black eyes and growled and snapped as if Faith had tried to snatch a piece of jerky from her jaws. “Oh hush,” Valerie said through pursed lips as she raised the dog to lick her face.
“Yuck. That’s disgusting.”
“I love Pebbles’s kisses.”
“She licks her butt.”
Valerie frowned and tucked the dog under one arm. “No, she doesn’t. She’s very clean.”
“She pees the bed.”
“Not my bed. And she just did it that one time because you yelled at her.”
Faith sighed and walked into the kitchen. “How long are you staying?”
“As long as you need me.”
Faith groaned inwardly and opened the door to the small wine cellar. It wasn’t that Faith wasn’t happy to see her mother or that she didn’t love her, she just didn’t want the responsibility right now. Not for Valerie and certainly not for the evil Pebbles.
For as long as Faith could remember, her mother had never really been a mother. They’d been “friends,” as opposed to child and parent. One of the best days in Valerie’s life had been the day Faith got a fake ID and they could party together.
And when Faith had turned eighteen, she’d followed in her mother’s acrylic-heeled footsteps on the stage.
She pulled a perfectly chilled bottle of chardonnay from the rack and closed the door behind her. She knew her mother believed anything could be solved with a fine bottle of wine, a good cry, and a new man. While Faith didn’t believe that herself anymore, she did believe everything tasted better served in Waterford—something she’d learned from her late husband—and she set a pair of crystal glasses on the black granite countertop.
“I ran into Ricky Clemente at Caesars last weekend. He asked about you,” Valerie said as she ran her pink nails through her dog’s fur.
Faith didn’t know which was more appalling, that her mother chatted with “Ricky the Rat,” the guy who’d cheated on her with half the dancers in Vegas, or that she was in Caesars. She glanced at her mother as she uncorked a bottle of Virgil’s finest.
“Don’t look at me like that. I was meeting Nina at the Mesa Grill for dinner. I stayed away from the slots.”
Faith wanted to believe it, but she didn’t. Her mother had relapsed too many times to be trusted in a casino. Her mother was a pleasure seeker. She needed it like oxygen, and playing the slot ma
chines had been pure bliss for her. Thank God she’d never really developed a fondness for cards or dice.
“Ricky said you should call him.”
Faith made a gagging noise as she poured the wine.
“If not Ricky, someone else. You need to jump back on the horse. Take a few rides around the track.” She reached for the glass and held it to her lips. “Ah, the good stuff. This will make you feel better.”
“I feel fine, and it’s too early to date.”
“Who said anything about dating? I’m talking about riding around the track a couple of times with someone fun. A man closer to your age.”
“I don’t want to
ride
anyone.”
“It would get rid of that sad look on your face.”
“My husband just died.”
“Yeah. Last week.” She set Pebbles on the floor, and the dog waddled to the pantry door and sniffed around. “You need to get out. Have fun. I’m here to make sure you do both.”
Most mothers would have come over with a casserole and cautioned their daughters not to jump into anything too quickly. To take it slow.
Not Valerie. Valerie wanted to party.
“Tomorrow we’ll go shopping and go somewhere nice for dinner.”
“Tomorrow I have to meet with Virgil’s former
assistant.” Darby had put her in touch with Julian Garcia and he’d agreed to meet with her the following afternoon. If he also agreed to work for her, and she wanted to hire him, he’d begin working tomorrow night. Starting with the second game against Vancouver. If he didn’t agree and she didn’t like him, she didn’t know what she’d do next.
“After your meeting then.”
“After the meeting, I want to read my hockey books.”
“What’s happened to you?” Her mother shook her head, disturbing wisps of fine, blonde hair. “You used to be so full of life. You used to be so fun.”
She used to be a stripper who partied until the sun came up. She used to be a lot of things she wasn’t anymore.
“You used to be audacious and sexy. Virgil made you old before your time. You don’t dress like yourself anymore, and I could just cry.”
No. She didn’t dress like her mother anymore. “Maybe we can go out to dinner afterward. Tomorrow night’s game against the Canucks will be my first as the official owner and I don’t want to screw it up.”
“How could you possibly screw it up?”
So, so many ways. “I’m sure the press will want to talk to me afterward. I just don’t want to embarrass the guys.” She took a drink and thought
of the pain in Ty Savage’s eyes when she’d asked about hiring Terrible Ted. “Or myself.” Especially herself. “I don’t want to look dumb. I’m terrified they’ll ask me questions and I won’t know the answers.” And the likelihood of that happening was probable to certain.
Valerie nodded like she understood the dilemma perfectly. “You need a good outfit,” she said, offering motherly advice. “Something tight.” She pointed to her large breasts. “Low cut. Flash any man enough cleavage and he’ll forget every intelligent question in his head.”
J
ulian Garcia was Irish and Hispanic, with the fashion flair of Doctor 90210, a.k.a. Robert Rey, thrown into the mix. To his first meeting with Faith, he wore a gold Saint Christopher necklace visible inside the collar of his purple-and-pink-striped shirt. His black trousers were tight and his hair was spiked with gel. He was one snappy dresser, but the most striking thing about him wasn’t his brave use of color or even his green eyes, but his muscles. He was five-six with his boots on and had a neck the size of a tree trunk. The man was serious about his workouts. The kind of serious that made Faith wonder if he was gay. Not that it mattered, but a lot of the muscled-
up bouncers who worked in strip clubs were gay.
Faith had met with Jules at a little after noon in Virgil’s office—well, hers now—inside the Key Arena. The first question she asked was, “Did Virgil fire you, or did you quit?”
“I was fired.”
“Why?”
He looked her in the eyes and answered, “Because he heard me talking about you.”
At least he was honest. He could have lied and she’d have never known. “What did you say?”
He hesitated. “Basically, that he’d married a stripper with big boobs and he was a fool.”
Virgil wasn’t a fool, but the rest was true. She had a feeling there was more, but she didn’t ask. It was ironic that he’d been fired because of her and here she was, offering him his job back five years later. She asked him a few more questions about his relationship and job with Virgil. When he spoke, he looked into her eyes, not her chest. He didn’t talk down to her, nor did he act as if her questions were silly or stupid.
“Don’t worry about not knowing everything. This organization has somewhere around fifteen different departments and basically runs itself,” he told her. “Virgil was a shrewd businessman and he treated it like one of his corporations. Because that’s really what it is, and one thing he did
very well was put smart people into position and let them do their jobs.”
“You make it sound easy.” But she knew it wasn’t.
“Not easy, but not hard, either. Virgil didn’t micro-manage the organization, and you certainly don’t have to.” He paused to straighten the crease in one leg of his pants. “In fact, I would suggest that you don’t. The executive management does that hard work for you.”
By the end of the meeting, she wanted to hire him, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted the job. “The thing is,” he said, “I like my job at Boeing. I’m not sure I want to come back.”
Faith didn’t know if he was holding out for more money or if he was telling the truth. “Why don’t you come to the game tonight?” she offered. “You can decide then.”
Now, seven hours later, she and Jules were seated on the sofa inside the owner’s skybox poring over a stack of files he’d carried up from the office. She’d worn her black Armani suit, white blouse, and black spike heels. She wanted to be taken seriously, and she knew there were people out there just waiting for her to show up someplace wearing a short skirt and bra top.
The first order of business was to learn her players’ names and their positions and to look over
the schedule. As Jules went over the team roster, cheers and boos from the arena below filtered upward to the luxury box while snippets of music blasted from the sound system.
“Yes!” her mother hollered from the balcony overlooking the arena. “Faith, come quick. The camera’s on me and Pebbles. We’re on the big TV.”
Faith glanced over at her mother, clutching her evil dog and blowing kisses like a movie star. Big pink and orange bracelets slid up and down her wrists. She wore a pair of hot pink stretch leggings and a lace blouse with a pink bra underneath. Her blonde hair was layered and sprayed into the perfect shaggy Farrah ’do. “Oh God,” Faith whispered.
“She’s a nice lady,” Jules said and sat back. Obviously, her mother’s strange brand of mojo still worked. Not that Faith was surprised. Gay or straight, men liked Valerie.
“She’s embarrassing.”
Jules laughed. “She’s having a good time.”
“You can laugh because she’s not your mother.”
“I’m the oldest of eight children. My mother doesn’t have that kind of energy.” He reached into a file and pulled out a stack of papers. “This is a game schedule for the first round of the playoffs.” He handed it to her. “And I printed off a brief bio of each player for you to look at. When you become more familiar with the team, we can go over their
contracts so you know who your free agents and unrestricted free agents are.”
Faith pushed her long hair behind one ear and perused the schedule. She’d known they played a lot, but she hadn’t realized there were several games a week. “What is a free agent, an unrestricted free agent, and what is the difference?”
Jules explained that a free agent plays without a contract and can leave anytime before he is renewed. An unrestricted free agent is a player with an expired contract who has been released from his club and hasn’t been picked up yet.
“It all came about when the league stopped using restrictive clauses because of collective bargaining.”
Whatever that meant. “Do we have any free agents?” she asked as an air horn ripped through the area and music blasted from the ice below.
“Not at the moment. Management got them all locked down before the playoffs.” Jules looked up and called out, “What’s the score, Valerie?”
“Tied at two. Number Twenty-one on your team just scored.”
Number Twenty-one was the captain of the team and Faith flipped to Ty Savage’s bio and read his stats. He was thirty-five, born in Saskatchewan, Canada, which explained the accent. He was six foot three and weighed 240 pounds. He shot left, and this was his fifteenth season in the NHL.
He’d played for the London Knights in the OHL before being a first-round draft pick and signing with Pittsburgh in the NHL. He’d played for the Penguins, the Blackhawks, Vancouver, and now the Chinooks. The next bit of information made Faith’s jaw drop. “Thirty million,” she wheezed. “Virgil paid him thirty million? Dollars?”
“For three years,” Jules clarified, as if that made perfect sense.
Faith looked up and reached for a bottle of water sitting on the table. “Is he worth that much?”
Jules shrugged his big, beefy shoulders covered in a teal-colored silk T-shirt. “Virgil thought so.”
“What do you think?” She took a drink.
“He’s a franchise player and worth every penny.” Jules stood and stretched. “Let’s watch and see what
you
think.”
Faith set the papers on the table, then rose and followed Jules to the balcony. She had so much to learn, it was daunting, and she was too overwhelmed to think. She moved past the three rows of padded stadium seats and joined her mother standing at the railing.
Below on the ice, the action was stopped and the teams were in position. In his dark blue jersey, Ty skated past the face-off circle twice before moving inside. He stopped, planted his feet wide, placed the stick across his thighs, and waited. The puck dropped and the battle was on. Ty shoved
his shoulder into his opponent as his stick slapped the ice and he shot the puck behind him. As one, the skaters on each team flew into action, a whirl of organized chaos. The dark blue Chinooks jerseys with their white numbers mixed it up with the white and green of Vancouver.
Number Eleven, Daniel Holstrom, skated toward the Canucks’ goal and shot the puck across ice to forward Logan Dumont, who passed off to Ty. With the puck in the middle of the blade, Ty skated behind the goal, came around the other side, and shot. The puck bounced off the goaltender’s knee pad and a battle broke out. Faith lost track of the puck in the collision of sticks and bodies. From her position, all she saw was pushing, shoving, and flying elbows.
A ref blew a whistle and the play stopped…except for Ty, who shoved a Vancouver player, hard, and nearly knocked him on his butt. The player caught his balance just before he toppled backward. They exchanged words and Ty threw his gloves to the ice. A referee skated between the two and grabbed the front of Ty’s jersey. Over the top of the ref’s head, Ty pointed to his face and then at the other player. The ref asked him something, and as soon as he nodded, the smaller man let go of his jersey. Ty picked up his gloves and while he skated to the bench, an instant replay flashed on the sports screen. “Welcome to
the Jungle” blasted from the arena speakers, and on the big sports screen suspended above the ice, Faith watched Ty raise a hand before his face and point to his intense blue eyes. Over the ref’s head, he stared out from beneath black brows and white helmet. Then he turned his hand and pointed at Number Thirty-three on the opposing team. A menacing smile curved his lips. A shiver ran up Faith’s spine and raised goose bumps on her arms. If she were Number Thirty-three, she’d be afraid. Very afraid.
Just in case anyone missed it, it was replayed one more time in slow motion. The crowd below went wild, cheering and stomping their feet, as once more Ty’s intense blue eyes locked on his opponent, the scar on his chin slicing through the dark stubble.
“Lord have mercy.” Valerie took a step back and sank into her seat. “And you own him.” She set Pebbles down and the little dog waddled over to Faith and smelled her shoe. “You own them all,” she added through a sigh.
“You make it sound like they’re slaves.” Pebbles raised her beady black eyes to Faith and yipped.
Stupid dog.
“I employ them.” But how many women in the world could say they employed twenty or so good-looking, buff men who swung at pucks and pounded on other players?
She was probably the only one, and the thought
was both exciting and terrifying. She looked down at the row of men sitting on the Chinooks bench, spitting on the ground between their feet, wiping sweat from their faces, and chewing on their mouth guards. The sight of all that spitting and sweating should have made her feel a little nauseous, but for some reason didn’t.
“After the games, Virgil always went to the locker room and talked to the team,” Jules told her.
Yeah, she knew that, but she’d never gone. “I’m sure they won’t expect me to make an appearance in the locker room.” It had been a long time since Faith had been around so many men in a confined space. Not since they’d stuffed money in her G-string. A lot of them had been jocks. As a rule, she generally didn’t like jocks. Jocks and rock stars didn’t think they had to abide by the rules.
“You have to, Faith,” her mother said, pulling her attention from the ice below. “Do it for Virgil.”
Do it for Virgil?
Was her mother smoking weed again?
“Reporters will be there,” Jules continued. “So it’s important. I’m sure they’ll want you to make some sort of statement.”
On the ice below, a whistle blew and the action resumed. “What kind of statement?” Faith asked
as she studied the players, who looked like a swarm of organized blue and white jerseys.
“Something easy. Talk about why you decided not to sell the team.”
She glanced at him then returned her attention to the game. “I decided not to sell the team because I hate Landon Duffy.”
“Oh.” Jules chuckled. “When you’re asked, you should probably say you love hockey and Virgil would have wanted you to keep his team. Then mention that people should come out and watch Game Four next Wednesday night.”
She could do that. “What if they ask me something about the game?”
“Like what?”
She thought a moment. “Like icing. What’s an icing call? I read the rules last night and didn’t understand it.”
“Don’t worry about it. Not many people understand icing.” Jules shook his head. “We’ll go over a few basic answers before you talk to reporters. But if there is a question you don’t understand, just say, ‘I can’t comment at this time.’ It’s the standard non-answer.”
She could do that. Maybe. She sat next to her mother and watched the rest of the game. In the last three minutes, Ty knocked an opponent off the puck and raced to the opposite end of the
ice. The crowd inside the Key cheered, and just inside the blue line, he pulled back his stick and fired. The puck shot across the ice so fast that Faith didn’t know it scored until a horn blasted and the light above the net flashed. The fans jumped to their feet screaming, “Rock and Roll Part 2” thumping the concrete beneath Faith’s pumps, and the Chinooks skated around Ty, slapping him on the back with their big gloves as he skated with his hands in the air as if he was the champion of the world. All except Sam, who punched some player in the head, then threw off his gloves—and the fight was on.
Jules lifted one hand and gave both Faith and Valerie high fives. “That hat trick is why you pay the Saint thirty million.”
Faith didn’t know what a hat trick was and made a mental note to look it up in her
Idiot’s Guide
.
He grinned. “Damn, Virgil put together one hell of a team this season. I’m going to love watching them play.”
“Does that mean you’re my assistant?”
Jules nodded. “Oh yeah.”
In the aftermath of Seattle’s 3–2 victory over Vancouver, the post-game media scrum inside the Chinooks locker room was more jovial than the last time they’d played in the Key Arena. The coaches
allowed the reporters in after a few minutes, and the players laughed and joked as they toweled off after their showers.
“You’re tied in the playoffs. What are you going to do to advance to the next level?” Jim Davidson, the reporter from the
Seattle Times
asked Ty.
“We’re going to keep doing what we just did tonight,” he answered as he zipped up his dress pants. “After our last loss to the Canucks, we couldn’t afford to lose points in our building.”
“Having been the captain of both the Canucks and the Seattle teams, what would you say is the biggest difference?”
“The coaching philosophy in each club is different. The Chinooks give me more freedom to play the kind of hockey I like to play,” he answered, and wondered when they were going to get around to asking about his hat trick.
“Which is?”
He glanced over the reporter’s head to Sam, who was being grilled by someone from a Canadian news organization. Ty smiled. “Coach Nystrom thinks outside the box.”