Chasing Stanley (27 page)

“Oh. Okay.” Brandi looked displeased with her assignment, but she did what she was told. As soon as she crossed the park, Delilah poked Eric in the shoulder.

“You better quit this right now.”

“Quit what?”

“You know what! She's engaged to my father! If you wreck his life, I will break your knees with a baseball bat. I will tie you down and have Stanley stand over you and drool. I will shove your hockey stick up your—nose.”

Eric's eyes flashed with surprise. “Delilah! I never knew you were so feisty.”

“I'm not kidding, Eric.”

“I can see that,” Eric replied, sounding impressed. His eyes were glued to Brandi. “How old's your father?”

“Sixty-seven.”

“You think she really loves him?”

“She better.”

Eric squirted more Gatorade down his throat. “You think he really loves her?”

Now there was a question worth pondering. Did her father really love Brandi? He certainly seemed smitten. And having someone so young and beautiful on his arm had to be a huge boost to his male ego. But love? That thing her parents seemed to share when they weren't fighting? No way.

“I don't know,” Delilah answered, noticing that Brandi was having trouble getting Stanley to budge. “But it's no concern of yours.”

She threw Eric a final look of warning before calling out “Stanley,
up
!” in exasperation. Hearing Delilah's command, Stanley reluctantly rose to his feet and ambled toward them, Brandi smiling proudly as if she'd been the one to get him moving.
God help me,
thought Delilah.

Eric stood. “It was nice seeing you again, Brandi.” Brandi blushed deeply. “You, too, Eric.”

“Good-bye, Eric,” Delilah said loudly.

Eric winked at her over his shoulder as he jogged off. “See you 'round the campus, Leelee.”

 

 

“Are you gonna
tell me what the hell happened?”

Jason stopped brooding into his beer long enough to lift his head and consider David Hewson's question. The two were sharing a drink following the Blades' 4-2 victory over Indiana, the second goal courtesy of Jason. Returning to the hotel after the game, Jason had proceeded directly to his room with every intention of holing up and calling it a night. But David wouldn't let him. “One drink,” David cajoled, “just to take the edge off.” Since Jason's edge had been dangerously sharp since boarding the bus back in New York, he agreed.

Though all the Blades knew there had been a fight, Jason was certain no one but he and Denny knew the details: their teammates treated both of them the same as always, though he did detect an undercurrent of wariness, as if Ty's displeasure might somehow rub off on them. Jason understood completely.

Denny's words had haunted him all the way to Indianapolis. Jason couldn't believe the ease with which such poison had slid off his teammate's tongue. He couldn't believe he had the balls to say something so sickening aloud. Obviously, Denny knew what he was saying was offensive; why else would he have he spoken to Jason in hushed tones? The whole confrontation left Jason feeling bewildered and betrayed. How could one friend say to another what Denny said to him and think it was okay? He thought he knew Denny. Apparently he was wrong.

Jason sipped his beer, wondering how best to answer David's question. “We had words,” was all he'd offer. “That's all.”

David raised his eyebrows. “They must have been some pretty powerful words for you to deck him.”

Jason grunted in response. He was surprised David was pressing this. It was rare, but not unheard of, for two players on the same team to fight. When they did, they usually kept the reason to themselves, especially if there was no one else there to witness the dispute. Even then, a code of silence tended to prevail. As Ty had so forcefully pointed out, when all was said and done, it was an issue of morale. The more people who knew, the higher the odds of distraction—for everyone.

Perhaps sensing Jason had no intention of divulging any more details, David changed the subject. “I had a good time the other night. Your girlfriend seemed really nice.”

Jason's eyes hooded. Was David mocking him? “She can be a little shy,” Jason replied.

He waited for David to chime in with some comment about Delilah's bumbling and fumbling, but he didn't. “That's okay. It just takes some people a while to warm up.”

“She's not big on socializing in groups,” Jason continued.

David seemed unfazed. “Some people aren't.”

Who are you, friggin' Gandhi?
Jason thought with irritation. It dawned on him that he'd been hoping David would confirm his own belief that Delilah's extreme shyness was unusual, even unacceptable. That he didn't gave Jason pause; maybe he was overreacting to Delilah's ineptitude.

The bar door swung open, and Denny entered, along with Thad Meyers and Tully Webster. It was inevitable the trio would make their way over to where Jason and David were sitting; they were teammates, after all. Thad reached the table first, slapping Jason on the back.

“Good game.”

“You, too,” said Jason. He could feel Denny staring at him and returned the favor, saddened by the contempt in his eyes.

Jew lover,
Denny mouthed silently.

Jason crushed his right hand into a fist beneath the table. Why the fuck was Denny trying to provoke him? He heard Ty's voice in his head telling him to exercise control. He wondered how controlled Ty would be if someone insulted his wife. Answer: not very.

Thad pointed to the three empty chairs at the table. “Mind if we join you?”

It was a simple question with no hint of challenge or sub-text. Whatever hostility existed was purely between himself and Denny.

“That would be great,” said David, flashing Jason a quick look of confirmation. Jason nodded curtly, even though the last thing he wanted was to bend an elbow with Denny. In fact, what he really wanted to do was crush Denny's melon-sized head like a grape. But since that would be considered unacceptable social behavior, even between boneheaded jocks, he refrained.

As Jason knew he would, Denny sat down right next to him. Jason drained the final dregs of his beer, noticing David was already done. “Next round's on me,” he announced.

“Get the fuck out of here,” David scoffed. “You paid last round.”

“Hey, let him pay,” said Denny with a smirk. “You've got access to a lot of money now, right, Jace?”

Tully looked at Jason with envy. “You SOB! You land an endorsement deal?”

“Something like that,” Jason muttered as he pushed his chair back from the table and headed to the bar, as much to place orders as get the hell out of Denny's orbit. There was no fucking way he was going to spend the rest of the night—or the rest of the season, for that matter—dealing with this bullshit. No way.

He returned to the table with five Guinness drafts, thanked by everyone but Denny. If anyone else noticed, they didn't say. Together, they conducted a post mortem on the evening's game, each one with his own opinion on what went wrong and what went right. It seemed Denny had decided to give the hate mongering a rest. Then Jason leaned over to grab a tortilla from the plastic basket at the center of the table, and the gold crucifix from his mother fell free from his shirt. Back in New York, he only wore it during games. But on the road he wore it all the time, a safeguard against losing it.

“Nice necklace,” Denny observed quietly. “Though I would have thought a Star of David—”

Jason grabbed Denny by the throat, lifting him spluttering out of his chair. He didn't give a flying fuck if Ty suspended him for life, or even sent him back down to the minors. This crap was going to stop here and now.

“Shut your mouth now, or I'll shut it for you.”

Tully, Thad, and David jumped to their feet in alarm.

“Jesus Christ, Jason.” David looked disturbed as he pried Jason's fingers from around Denny's throat. “What the hell is going on?”

“Asshole,” Denny rasped. He looked embarrassed at having been physically bested, shaking himself off before storming off in the direction of the exit. “The fuck you lookin' at?” he snarled at no one in particular as all eyes in the bar watched him go.

Tully stared at Jason with pity. “I so would not want to be you when the coach finds out about this, dude.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jason muttered. He tucked his cross back into his shirt and departed before the bartender had a chance to throw him out.

 

 

Jason was neither
surprised nor alarmed when Michael Dante called a team meeting the next day. Jason knew word would get back to Ty and Michael about him and Denny mixing it up again; he also knew there was no way either of them was going to cough up the reason why, unless they were totally, balls to the wall pressed.

The mood was somber as the team filed into one of the hotel's conference rooms. Michael was already there. Ty was not. Jason could imagine the discussion that must have taken place between the two, Ty reminding Michael that as Blades captain, it was his responsibility to squash team disputes before they mushroomed into something more serious. Despite the ring of empty chairs circling the sleek, oblong table at the center of the room, Michael had chosen to stand against the far wall, arms crossed against his chest. The team followed suit, everyone standing rather than sitting. Jason had no idea whether it was conscious or not, but most of the players stood at a distance from Michael, a fact their captain noticed immediately.

“I'm not gonna bite, you
cafones
. Come closer so I don't have to yell to be heard. That would put me in a really bad mood. And you do not want to see me in a bad mood,
capisce
?”

The team shuffled closer to Michael. Jason had visions of the door swinging shut behind them, trapping them inside forever. He felt as if he was being sealed up in a vault; there were no windows, no air moving. Michael enjoined the team to form a semicircle around him before employing Ty's time-honored technique of making eye contact with each player. Jason waited his turn; when it came to him, Michael's gaze lingered. Jason looked back unflinchingly. He'd had a whole night to think about his actions, and the conclusion he'd come to was this: he may not have dealt with Denny in the most effective or intelligent way, but he knew what he'd done was
right.

“Okay.” Michael looked grim. “Just in case some of you boys have been in a coma and don't know why I've called this meeting, I'll lay it out: Mitchell's attacked O'Malley twice, and no one seems to know why.” Michael's gaze lit on Jason. “Care to share?”

Jason shook his head, fixing his gaze on a spot on the wall right above Michael's head. He heard Michael sigh in frustration. “What about you, O'Malley?”

“No idea at all,” Denny said.

You lying sack of shit,
Jason thought, his pulse ratcheting up. If he could get away with clocking the asshole again, he would.

Jason looked at Michael, who was rubbing a weary hand over his face.
“Madonn',”
he marveled to himself, “I'm captain of a team of idiots.” Someone snorted and Michael's world-weary expression turned into a glare. “Something funny?” There was a nervous cough and the room returned to silence.

“One more time.” Michael came and planted himself right in front of Jason. The two men locked eyes. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Son of a goddamn bitch,” Michael muttered. He approached Denny. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Denny echoed.

“So, Mitchell hit you for no reason.” Michael shook his head, frustration in his eyes. “What am I going to do with you two? Murder's against the law, so that's out.”

“Fine Mitchell,” Denny murmured under his breath.

Michael thrust his head forward. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Fine Mitchell.' ”

“Why should I do that?”

“It'll hit him where it hurts,” Denny explained. He shot Jason a sidelong glance. “Mitchell's become very cheap all of a sudden.” Denny chuckled at what he obviously believed to be his own cleverness.

“Explain,” Michael demanded sharply.

“What?” Denny asked, all innocence.

“What do you mean, ‘Mitchell's become very cheap all of a sudden'?”

Denny shrugged. “It's just, you know, he's hanging out with people who don't like to part with their money.”

Michael looked completely exasperated. “What the hell are you talking about, O'Malley?”

“You know.” Denny started to hum “If I Were A Rich Man” from
Fiddler on the Roof.

Jason thought:
You've just dug your own grave, you idiot.
He could see Michael piecing two and two together, disbelief pinching his face as the source of the conflict became clear to him.

“Let me make sure I'm getting this straight,” Michael said slowly. “You've got a problem because you think Mitchell is Jewish?”

“He's not Jewish,” said Denny. “His girlfriend is.”

“And you were giving him a hard time about that?”

“I wouldn't say I was giving him a hard time,” Denny claimed. “It was more expressing my surprise, you know?”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “At—?”

“You know. That he was going out with—”

“A Jew?” Michael supplied.

“Well, yeah,” Denny sniggered as if it were self-explanatory.

“You know what, O'Malley?” Michael sounded contemptuous. “If I were Mitchell, I would have beaten you to a fucking pulp.”