Body Check (28 page)

“Remember Chicago?” Kevin asked quietly at Ty's side, handing him a bottle of water.

“Chicago.” He took a sip of the water, taking his sweet time. He wanted them to twitch, to squirm. Wanted them held in absolute thrall. “When we played for St. Louis about a hundred years ago”—that got some laughs—“it was us versus Chicago in the finals. This was in '92. Chicago was a veteran team. They'd won the Cup twice before. It was our first trip to the finals. It came down to game seven, and Chicago won, 3-2, in overtime. After the game, we went over to their locker room to congratulate them, expecting to find the bubbly flowing and the team partying their asses off. You know what we found?”

He paused, waiting, waiting, reeling them in, holding their attention in the palm of his hand.

“We found guys stretched out on the floor, crying, because they were in such physical pain. Guys sitting in the shower, too weak to stand after the war they'd just been through. That's when we understood why Chicago had won three times, why they deserved to win. Because they wanted it more than we did, because they gave more than we gave. They were willing to put the Cup first—before fame, before glory, before everything.”

His eyes carefully circled the room again. “For us to win, we have to be like Chicago. We have to be a team in every sense of the word. That means I watch your back and you watch mine. It means if I race into the corner to dig out a puck that's been dumped in, and I find myself getting creamed against the boards, I want to be damn sure that the Blade I centered it to is going to take a hit, too, that I'm not out there all by myself putting my career and health on the line.

“What I'm talking about here is support. It's about each and every one of us being totally and completely committed to the same goal, and to each other. It means that none of you are going to do anything, either on or off the ice, that might fuck up a teammate.”

He took another sip from the water bottle, his mouth already parched from talking. Then he turned to Lubov. “Stand up.”

Lubov looked bewildered. “What?”

“Stand up,” Ty repeated. “Now.”

Embarrassed, Lubov slowly rose, glancing around anxiously at the faces of his teammates, all of whom were still as trees in the dead of night. Finally, he raised his eyes to Ty's.

“You've let everyone on this team down. We put our asses on the line out there for you, backing you up in this lawsuit, and you fucked us over.” He walked over to Lubov, getting right in his face. “Your story is bullshit and we both know it. We stuck our necks out for you and you let us, because you're a selfish, immature asshole. You stabbed everyone in this room in the back, not only by doing what you did, but by hiding behind our support when you knew you were guilty of what Theresa Falconetti charged you with.”

Fury heating his veins, he jerked back from Lubov in an effort to keep from pummeling him. He was glaring now, he could feel it, but he didn't care. “Does anyone else have anything to say to our sexual harasser here?” He waited. He was answered with stunned silence. “Anyone?”

“I do.”

Slowly, and with great purpose, Kevin Gill rose and crossed to where Ty stood before Lubov. His normally serene face was turning pink, the veins in his neck cording as he struggled with his rage.

“I'm pissed beyond belief that you didn't give enough of a damn about everyone in this room to think about the repercussions of your actions. But what really makes me sick is what you did to that woman, and God knows how many others before her who may have been too afraid or too embarrassed to speak out. How dare you treat a woman that way?” Quaking with anger, Kevin turned his head and spit on the floor. “You're a scumbag, you know that? And you know what happens in this locker room to scumbags?”

Before Lubov could brace himself, Kevin's left fist connected with his mouth and sent him sprawling. Shock shuddered through the room. The mellow assistant captain never raised his voice off the ice, never mind decking a rookie! No one moved.

Kevin turned his back on Lubov and slowly walked back to his bench.

Gasping, his face fiery red with mortification, Lubov pulled himself back up onto the bench, the back of his right hand pressed to his mouth to staunch the flow of blood. Ty grabbed a clean, white towel and tossed it to him.

“Lex, you're a great hockey player, and we need you. We need you to go to war with us so we can win. But here's the catch. You've got to play by our rules. What that means is that every guy in this room has to know that you're never going to fuck us over like this again. Because if you do, you're the one who's going to be hung out to dry. All it takes is one player on this team letting it slip that we're not gonna back you up on the ice, and soon there will be defensemen going for your knees, and it won't be pretty.”

“So . . . so what you do want me to do?” Lubov rasped.

Ty crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Prove yourself to us.”

“I—I have been proving,” Lubov stammered. “Kidco say—”

“Fuck Kidco!” Ty yelled. “This has nothing to do with them. They're not the ones playing their guts out on the ice every night. This is about
us
, the guys in
this
room, winning the Cup. You're either one of us or you're not. You decide.”

“I am one of you,” Lubov answered in a barely audible voice.

Ty cupped his ear. “What?”

“I am one of you!!” Lubov shouted, close to tears.

“Good man.” The tension in the room broke somewhat as Ty clapped him on the back. “Now here's what you're going to do: You're going to call your lawyers tomorrow, and you're going to tell them you want to settle out of court. And you're going to pay out whatever price Theresa Falconetti's lawyer names.” He turned his attention back to the rest of the team. “As for the rest of you mama's boys, this meeting never happened. This story is over—I repeat, over. From now on, you will all live, eat and breathe hockey.” He glanced down at the broken man sitting beside him. “That includes you, Lubov. We don't have to like each other. But I want every player in this room to believe that if he sticks his neck out for his teammates on the ice, his teammates will do the same. Am I making myself clear?”

Lubov nodded.

“And the rest of you jerks?” Ty prompted.

The rest of the team nodded, murmuring their assent.

“Good. See you all tomorrow at practice.”

 

 

Two weeks later,
the case was settled out of court for an “undisclosed amount”—undisclosed to the public, at least. Theresa told Janna how much it was. It hadn't been about money in the beginning, and it wasn't about money now. She planned to invest what was left after paying her lawyer's fee, and get on with her life, hopeful that she did the right thing, and that whatever had taken place in the Blades' locker room would stop Alex Lubov from ever traumatizing another woman.

Janna hadn't pressed for details of the meeting, but when she saw Lubov's bruised and swollen mouth at practice the next day, she knew it involved more than talk. Since then, she noticed a subtle change in attitude among the players. They'd always been a dedicated team, even during practice, but now they seemed to share an almost mystical singularity of focus that she couldn't quite put into words. It was like they were possessed, each player feverish to do his part, their dedication fierce, unwavering. When she'd asked both Ty and Lou about it, their answers had been identical, as if the Blades' behavior was self-evident: “They're preparing for the run for the Cup.”

The Cup, the Cup, the Cup. Janna made the mistake of playfully admonishing Ty to stop talking about it like it was the Holy Grail and was greeted with a silence so ominous it made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. The Cup
was
the Grail. The Cup
was
Nirvana. The Cup was going to make her life hell once Playoffs began.

 

 

“You're clear, hit
the left lane.
Now!
”

Janna clutched the steering wheel hard and flashed Lou a look that could shatter glass, then proceeded to ease carefully into the left lane. Lou's back-seat driving was really pushing her buttons this afternoon. It was bad enough that Mother Nature had dumped another foot of snow on the ground. But his constant instructions were interrupting her flow of thought . . .
Am I imagining it, or does Jack Cowley look at me like he prays for my death? Ty—would there ever be more than great take-out food and even greater sex? Why does it have to snow so much this wint—

“Hit the gas! Go!”

Lou again. He was going to drive her nuts today! Plus, he had the heat cranked up so high the car was a virtual inferno on wheels. She'd be glad when they got back to Met Gar and she could breathe.

“Lou, can we turn the heat down a bit?”

“Whaddayou, a polar bear? It's freezing in here.”

“Just a little bit. Please. I'm getting a headache.” Janna reached out and turned the heat down one notch.

Lou frowned. “Fine, make an old man freeze to death.”

“You could walk,” Janna offered sweetly, imagining Lou's roly-poly body tumbling from the car like a boulder.

“Ha ha,” Lou deadpanned. “Hey, look, I meant to tell you how proud I am that you got your pal to drop the suit against Lubov. Corporate is over the moon.”

Janna eyed him sideways. “I had nothing to do with that. Theresa decided on her own.”

“Yeah, sure.” He began rubbing his gloved hands together, the briskness a counterpoint to the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers.

“I'm serious. I had nothing to do with it.”

Lou sighed and his hands stopped moving. “Whatever. I just wanted to let you know that I'm meeting with that skinny guy today—what's his name, Sweeney? Feeney?—and I'm gonna suggest to him that we promote you.”

Janna nearly skidded off the road. “What?”

Lou leaned forward and casually turned the heat back up. “You've been doing a real bang up job since we hired you, doll face, you gotta know that.”

“I know, but a promotion? I mean, to what?”

“Associate Director of PR.”

Janna's stomach clenched. “But wouldn't that put me above Jack Cowley?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“Don't you think that's going to upset him?” Janna could already imagine Cowley's reaction—the murderous glare, the not-so-veiled threats.

Lou shrugged philosophically. “Yeah, but it's his own fault. Maybe it'll light a fire under his ass.”

Or under my chair
, thought Janna.

“I thought you'd be happy about this,” Lou continued, sounding disappointed.

“I am,” Janna hastened to assure him. Frowning, she eased up on the gas, increasing the distance between herself and the car in front of her, whose driver seemed addicted to riding the brakes for no reason. “I just don't want it to rock the boat, you know? I mean, I've been here less than a year.”

“Yeah, and you've handled the Lubov case like a pro, and even got Gallagher to show his ugly mug at a PR event. That ain't peanuts.”

“He's not ugly,” Janna muttered to herself.

Lou strained to hear. “Huh?”

“I said if we don't turn the heat down I'm going to start hallucinating,” she covered quickly, lurching forward and pointedly turning the heat down three notches. “Look, Lou, I'm sorry, but having the heat on too high is making me sleepy. If you're really that cold you can have my beret—it's on the back seat.”

Lou grumbled something unintelligible and stuck his hands deep in his coat pockets, sulking. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Janna saw a black Range Rover gaining on her, brights flashing for her to get out of the way. It was Ty. Mr. Big Shot in his SUV, barreling down the road like it wasn't slick with snow and he was Mario Andretti.
Macho idiot
. She eased back into the right lane.

“Whatcha do that for?” Lou complained.

“Because Ty Gallagher is going to blow past us in about five seconds, that's why.” She counted.
One, two, three, four, five
. As if on cue, Ty honked, giving them a friendly wave as he tore past them.

“Crazy bastard,” Lou said admiringly. “None of those guys can drive, you ever notice that?” Janna barely nodded, all her concentration fixed on the weather outside, which was worsening.

“Can I let you in on a little secret?”

Janna gritted her teeth, bracing herself for another driving directive. “What?”

“Between you and me, I think Gallagher's having some serious back trouble. You see him at practice? He seemed a little stiff. And the minute he got off the ice, he was on that trainer's table getting his muscles kneaded.”

Janna sighed. “If he's not a hundred percent, then we have to make sure the press has no idea.”

“Exactamundo. We don't want to go into the Playoffs with the other team knowing there's a problem—they'll be on him faster than white on rice, literally trying to hit him exactly where he's hurting. ”

“I'm sure he's fine. Or will be. But until then, I'll keep all reporters out of the locker room after practice, even the beat reporters. Okay?”

“That's what I wanted to hear. The other thing is, you really gotta push him into doing some stuff, especially with the Playoffs coming up. Sports radio, stuff like that.”

“Sports radio won't be a problem,” Janna assured him. “Neither will that photo spread for
Sports Illustrated
on ‘The Greatest Leaders in Team Sports'—I think. However, there's no way he'll take part in that Bachelor Auction to raise money for heart disease. I've run that by him twice and he just doesn't want to know.”