Body Check (29 page)

“Maybe he's got some little chippie stashed away somewhere he doesn't want to upset.”

“Maybe.”
Chippie? Do people still use that word? Is that what I am, a chippie?
The windshield was beginning to fog, so she turned the car defroster up.
Chippie . . . she'd have to remember to tell that one to Ty
.

Sighing to himself, Lou pulled a handful of Tootsie Rolls out of his coat pocket and offered one to Janna. “You haven't asked whether your promotion entails a raise.”

Janna mindlessly took the Tootsie Roll, but when she saw the wrapper was coated in lint, she discreetly let it drop to the floor. “I was waiting for you to say something.”

“I think I can get you a raise,” Lou said confidently. “It may not be much, but I'll do what I can.”

“You'd better! I'm worth it, dammit!” Janna joked.

“No argument here, sweetie pie. No argument here.”

 

 

 

 

What was the
saying? April is the cruelest month?
Ty snorted to himself.
What a load of bull that was!
It was only the beginning of March, and already he was feeling that to get through the weeks ahead—roughly one month until the Playoffs—he was going to have to pull the will to win out from way deep inside.

He hated admitting it, but when he was younger, the hunger for victory had been enough. It carried him through pain, injury, bad press, the 1001 petty locker room dramas that took place every day. But now that he was older—not old, old
er
—it was getting harder to ignore the ligaments and tendons that wouldn't behave, the players' constant need for him to hear their thoughts and opinions, the back muscles that spontaneously spasmed. He'd get through it, he always did, but in the meantime he was really going to have to put a brave face on it. If any of his guys suspected his bones were aching, or that he occasionally felt mentally fatigued, it could throw a cog in their finely tuned machine.

Goddamn, they were hot right now! Downright supernatural! Everyone on the ice doing their part, hearts and minds tuned to one thing, and one thing only. . . . If it played out the way he thought it might, they could wind up playing Boston in the first round. What a bitch that would be. The Blades were punchers, but Boston was renowned for punching right back. And for playing the neutral zone trap, a system he hated. Round one would be a real fight to the death, no two ways about it. But if the Blades won, if they made it to round two and maintained the same drive and perseverance they were showing now, then he knew they'd go on to win the Cup. Knew it. And then Kidco could really kiss his ass—after renegotiating his contract for another three-year stint. At several million dollars higher.

He checked his Rolex. Ten to nine, he'd be right on time. Tubs had asked him to stop by before practice, which was odd. Usually, they shot the breeze after practice was over. Tubs relied on him to give the lowdown on where the players' heads were at, and they discussed strategy, line changes and possible last minute trades. They were a good match, he and Tubs. He'd dealt with coaches in the past who were threatened by his power as captain, coaches who refused to listen to him on issues of personnel and strategy because he was a player. But Tubs wasn't like that. Tubs trusted him and valued his opinion. In turn, he was loyal to Tubs, refusing to brook criticism of him from the players, never disputing Tubs in public, even on issues they disagreed on.

On automatic pilot, Ty headed straight into the locker room to change and lace up before he realized his mistake. He shook his head and walked back down the photo-lined hall towards Tubs's office. He had to admit, he felt a little tired today. He had spent a good part of the night before trying out positions from the
Kama Sutra
with Janna. They killed themselves laughing when things didn't quite work out thanks to his failing knees or her fear of passing out if her head was upside down. But when it did work . . . just thinking about it made him hot all over again. He'd had more than his share of women, but this one . . . this one knew how to keep him coming back for more. And it wasn't just the sex, although he didn't want to dwell on that too much. The important thing was, he hadn't had this much fun off the ice since . . . shoot, he'd never had this much fun off the ice.
And fun is what it's all about with Janna,
he told himself.
Remember that.

As usual, the door to the coach's office was closed. Ty knocked once and went in. Tubs was standing in the middle of the room in his usual uniform, khakis and a white tennis shirt, reviewing a video of the game against Dallas from the night before. Hearing Ty enter, he paused the video and got them both bottles of Gatorade from the small fridge beside his desk.

“What's up?” Ty asked, accepting the Gatorade while clearing away a mountain of papers and equipment so he could sit down on the beat up couch across from Tubs's desk.

“Couple of things.” Tubs sat and swung his short, chunky legs up on the desk. His body had earned him his nickname way back when he was a hockey player himself. “How you feeling?”

“Fine. Why?”

“Don't bullshit me, Ty. I've been watching that hit you took from Porter over and over again on video. He hurt you bad, didn't he?”

Ty grinned. “I've been hurt worse.”

“How bad is it? Tell the truth.”

“We might need to freeze the shoulder Thursday night, I don't know,” he replied, massaging the area in question. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“In a way.”

Ty's ears pricked up cautiously. “Yeah?”

Tubs sighed—not a good sign. “I can't afford not to have you in the Playoffs.”

Ty laughed. “No kidding.” Not to be too modest, but there was no way the team could win without him, and everyone knew it. He was about to tell Tubs so, but the look of worry on the coach's face precluded it. “What else?” he prompted.

“I've been thinking of resting you the next month. Shave a few minutes off your ice time each game.”

“That's ridiculous,” Ty scoffed. “I'm fine.”

“You're thirty-three, and you've got guys ten years younger than you trying to destroy you every minute you're out there.”

Ty allowed himself a small, self-congratulatory smile. “Too bad they're not doing such a good job of it.”

“Oh, no?”

Tubs picked up the remote from his desk, rewound the video, and hit “play.” Ty watched his own feet leave the ice as Greg Porter, a gorilla-sized defenseman for Dallas, smashed him into the boards, his left shoulder jamming up into his ear. He watched his own eyes glaze over with pain for a split second before grimacing and skating, semi-hunched, back to the bench, where one of the trainers began working on him immediately. Seeing it annoyed him.

“Turn it off.”

Tubs complied.

“I'm still not getting your point.”

“My point is the less chance they have to mess you up, the better the chances of you kicking ass in the Playoffs.”

Ty slowly lowered the bottle he had just put to his lips, not bothering to drink. “Are you benching me?”

“Just on Thursday. I want to see how it goes.”

“ ‘How it goes'?” Ty echoed incredulously. “Are you out of your mind? This is not the time to experiment. You and I both know that. You bench me, and they're going to think I'm injured. They think I'm injured and then they're really going to go for me, try to take me out for the rest of the season.” He shook his head. “Don't do it, Tubs. It's a mistake.”

“It's one game.”

“One game is all it takes.”

Tubs hesitated. “You've been a little off your game, Ty.”

Ty lurched forward. “What?”

“Just a little,” Tubs amended, swinging his legs back under the desk. “Not enough for anyone but me to notice, maybe, but you are.”

“Explain.”

“Your skating hasn't been as sharp as usual. Your stick handling's been a little sloppy.” He peered at Ty with brotherly concern. “Everything okay?”

“Everything's fine,” Ty insisted.

“Anything distracting you? Girlfriend trouble?”

“I don't have a girlfriend,” was Ty's terse reply.
Janna,
he thought.
This is all because of Janna.
Because of her his concentration was off. He wasn't eating, breathing, dreaming the Cup.

“Well, I don't know what it is, then,” Tubs was saying, “but I really think you should try to be more in tune with what's up with you. Because we don't want it to turn into a real problem.”

“No, of course not.” His eyes held his coach's. “Don't bench me Thursday. I'm telling you, it's a major tactical error. Trust me.”

Tubs seemed to be considering it.

“Who would you put on the line with Kevin and Lonnie if you sat me out?”

“Lubov.”

“Lubov!” Ty exclaimed. Talk about adding insult to injury. “That line'll never mesh.” He shook his head despairingly. “If you're going to be stupid enough to bench me, then put Deans in with Kev and Lon. It's a better fit.”

“Maybe.” Tubs tapped a pencil on the edge of his desk, thinking. “You really think it's a green light to beat on you if I sit you out?”

“Jesus Christ, you know it is. Look, I told you. I'm fine. If you want, I'll rest more when we're not playing, okay? I'll take naps, I'll sip warm milk, I'll go to bed at nine. Shaving a few minutes off my ice time from here until the Playoffs is acceptable. Benching me is not.”

“You sure there's nothing distracting you?”

“I'm sure,” Ty swore.

But there was, he knew there was. And he had to figure out what he was going to do about it.

 

 

That was the first thought that sprang to Janna's mind as she emerged from the velvet fog of sleep to the phone ringing. Early morning phone calls, late night phone calls, both meant only one thing. Bad news. It was five A.M.
Please don't let it be Daddy or Wills,
she prayed, squinting against the brightness of her bedside lamp as she turned it on, bracing herself.

“Hello?”

“Janna? It's Jack Cowley.”

“Lou's had a heart attack. He's in Columbia Presbyterian.”

Janna closed her eyes. “Oh my God.” The shock brought her body instantly, jerkily, awake. “What happened?”

“He was watching TV with his wife, complaining of heartburn after supper, which apparently was nothing unusual. About an hour later, he rose to get a snack from the kitchen and collapsed, saying that he felt like his chest was being crushed. His wife called nine-one-one. The paramedics got there in time to save him, but the damage to his heart is massive. He might be in the hospital awhile.”

“Oh my God,” Janna repeated numbly. She could see it all. Lou in a ratty old bathrobe, leaning back in a comfy, reclining chair, pounding his chest while he crabbed about Lily's spaghetti sauce being too acidic. Then waddling off to the kitchen at a commercial break to get some ice cream, only to be seized with the sensation of his rib cage cracking apart. The fear he must have felt, the panic as he wondered if this was it, the end. She gave herself a small shake to force the vision away. “When did you find out?”

There was a small, almost infinitesimal pause on the other end of the phone. “Lily called me at around midnight, actually.”

“And you're just getting around to calling me now?!”

“I've been in the office all night taking care of things,” said Jack coolly. “Now that Lou's going to be out of action for a while—”

“You thought you'd just move into his office and take over,” Janna finished for him. “You must be so disappointed he didn't die.”

Cowley ignored the barb. “You might want to come in, since you're clearly going to be doing my job for a while in addition to your own.”

“You seem to forget I'm your superior now, Jack.”

“And you seem to forget I've worked PR for the Blades years longer than you have. I think experience trumps job title in this case, don't you? So come on down. I need to show you the ropes.”

“Go hang yourself with them. It's Sunday. The only place I'm going is to the hospital to visit Lou, unless someone from Corporate calls me to do otherwise. Anything else?”

“Nothing that I can think of,” Jack replied with false pleasantness. “Send him my love, won't you? I don't know if I'll be able to get there.”

“Send it yourself.” She slammed down the phone.
JERK!!!

God, she hated that . . . creature. The thought of him going to Lou's office in the middle of the night and rifling through Lou's things, thinking he could fill Lou's shoes, made her nuts, even more nuts than knowing that Cowley was probably right. She probably
was
going to have to take orders from that oily, unctuous, awful, megalomaniac swine. The fact he didn't phone her as soon as he got the news rankled her, too. Waiting to call was a deliberate slap in the face.

She slid back down and pulled her comforter up to her neck, then over her head, thinking,
I could hide here and fall asleep. When I wake up, I will deal with it then.
She closed her eyes, opening them again less than a minute later. Forget it, she was too wired. She would get up, put on coffee, and watch bad infomercials on early morning TV until the paper came. Then she'd read until it was time for visiting hours at the hospital.