Slap Shot, page 10
But Bryant studied her intensely with his eyes half closed. “How about you, Gabriella? Do you have ‘minimal expectations’?” He spoke the last two words as if they were made of cotton candy and dipped caramel.
Oh, yes, I do. I want to be looked at the way you’re looking at me right now. Choppy hair, pansy blue eyes, and a perfectly imperfect tux are only icing on the cake, but very sweet icing. Approved occupations: librarians, accountants, lion tamers, astronauts, chimney sweeps . . . .
She started at her thoughts. Good thing she didn’t have a chance to answer, or she might have spoken the words aloud. That wouldn’t have done anybody any good.
But Mary Lou Davenport saved her when she stepped into the room and rang a little silver bell.
“I’m sure y’all will forgive me for interrupting. If you’ll please join us in the grand salon, it’s time to toast Amy and Emile.” Then she smiled at Gabriella and stretched out her hand. “Gabriella, darling, come with me. Emile’s been asking after you. Family should be near one another for moments like these.”
Elated, Gabriella bounced up, tucked her napkin under the edge of her plate, and joined Mrs. Davenport. It was going to be all right. It really was. Her lapse in good sense was over.
Was it bad manners for the groom’s sister to give a shower for the bride? Seems like she’d heard that somewhere. She’d have to look into it.
Chapter Nine
Watching Gabriella Charbonnet leave a room might be one of life’s finest moments, maybe only surpassed by watching her reenter it. Inasmuch as Bryant was an advocate of the “Bro Code,” there was nothing wrong with looking at sisters as long as that was all you did. Of course, that had nothing to do with Gabriella herself. Watching her was like looking at Michelangelo’s David—though not that exactly. Bryant wasn’t really into statues of naked men, but art. Gabriella was art on two feet.
It was beyond him why Jarrett didn’t seem to notice. “Coming?” Jarrett asked.
“Go ahead. I’ll catch up. I need to pee.” A lie. What he needed was to watch Gabriella walk away until she was out of sight. After all, you didn’t go to the Louvre and glance at the Mona Lisa as you walked by.
“Nice party.”
Packi. At least he hadn’t appeared out of thin air this time—only from across the room.
“Nice for no beer. Hello, Mrs. Packi. Packi.” He’d learned his lesson his first year with the Sound about speaking to Mrs. Packi first. Packi didn’t like it if you didn’t speak to her first, and you had damned sure better not ignore her if you wanted your skates sharpened—and you had better not call her Charlotte.
“How are you, dear?” She placed a hand on Bryant’s arm. “Please excuse me. Krystal was having trouble with her dress. I’m going to see if I can help her.”
“I’ll meet you inside,” Packi told her and Bryant noticed that Packi watched his wife walk away—and that Bryant noticed wasn’t lost on Packi.
When she was out of sight, Packi tuned back to Bryant. “Not a bad pastime—watching a woman walk away. That is, if she’s the right woman and you know she’s going to come walking back to you.”
“A damn sight better than looking at a grave.” Especially one with a baby bear hockey player on it.
Bryant’s heart skipped a beat and then went into overdrive. Had those things really gone through his head and come out of his mouth? He hadn’t been thinking about that at all. No. Locked up and put away boxes weren’t supposed to be able to get out on their own.
There were those on the team who said Packi was never surprised. But Packi’s face was living proof that he could be surprised. Neither man spoke for few beats—it felt like an hour.
“Rough day?” Packi asked in a low whisper.
“Here and there.” Bryant hadn’t expected the here. He slammed the box closed again and double locked it this time. There was a crowd gathering in the grand salon, but Gabriella seemed to be lost among the people. How could that be?
“Some days are like that,” Packi said. “You know, like when you’re injured?”
Bryant shook his head. “I’m not injured.”
Packi closed his eyes for a moment. “Not now. When you’ve been injured in the past.”
“I’ve never been injured to amount to anything.”
“Hypothetically. Boy, can you not just go with it?”
“Okay. Hypothetically.” He tried to imagine it. “Where I am I injured?”
Packi shook his head. “I don’t know. Your groin muscle. Let’s say you pulled a groin muscle.”
Bryant doubted that would happen since he was always careful to stretch, but okay. “I hear that’s rough.”
“Exactly,” Packi said. “And if you rush getting back on the ice, you’re likely to make it worse, if not reinjure yourself entirely.”
Not sure where this was going, Bryant nodded.
“On the other hand, you can wait too long. That’s easy to do because you’re afraid of reinjury. So there comes a time when you just have to do it—or try. Have you heard ‘if you rest, you rust’?”
“A rusty groin would be a terrible thing to have, don’t you know?”
Packi laughed a little. “So would a rusty heart.”
What was all this talk of rusty groins and hearts? He looked into the grand salon again. He could see Emile, but no Gabriella. But wait. There she was. Damn, she was beyond beautiful. And that dress. The sight of her made him calm, made the locked box fade into nothingness.
“We’d better get in there,” Packi said.
“You got that right.” So right. Bryant was already walking that way, walking toward Gabriella, away from graves with baby bear hockey players.
“And, Bryant? How you go about something is almost as important as doing it.”
“You bet.”
Who knew Packi was such a romantic? If only he wasn’t emotionally unavailable, Gabriella was just who he’d want to take a chance with. But he was, so it wasn’t possible. Still, he didn’t have to be emotionally available to talk to her. Plus talking wasn’t against the Bro Code.
He moved through the crowd.
• • •
Everything was lovely, and getting lovelier by the second—lovely enough to block out Bryant.
“Gabriella!” Emile and Amy held their arms out to her as she and Mrs. Davenport approached. It felt so good to be in Emile’s familiar embrace—and Amy’s, too. Her smell and touch were new, but were becoming more and more familiar.
“I am starving,” Amy said. “But I survived the receiving line. You don’t have a cookie in your purse, do you?”
“No. But I know where we can get you some miniature beef Wellingtons and seafood pasta.”
“We three will sit down together and have some food soon, non?” Emile asked. “When the toast is over, I think we must dance, but then we will eat and visit together.”
“Sounds perfect,” Gabriella said.
“Here you are, ladies.” Pickens Davenport appeared with a waiter at his elbow and handed crystal flutes of Champagne, first to Amy, Mary Lou, and Gabriella. Then he gave one to Emile and took one for himself.
Amy said, “Emile, don’t forget. We aren’t supposed to toast ourselves.”
Emile raised his glass. “I toast you. I will toast you for the rest of my life, chérie.”
Pickens laughed. “I never thought I’d see this day. Did you, Gabriella?”
“I had hoped.” And she had. But she’d learned something. Hoping in the abstract was very different than facing reality, because the reality was different from what she had expected—good but different. And the reality could have been terrible. There was terrible in this room.
Inasmuch as Gabriella thought everyone was too hard on Krystal Voleck, it was easy to believe that she had taken full advantage of Jan’s youth and sweet nature. Word was that she hadn’t made any friends in the front office when Jan’s contract had come up for renewal and she’d coerced him into making unreasonable demands.
And Gabriella just plain disliked Mike Webber’s girlfriend, Wyoming. (Yes. Wyoming.) She was sneaky and a mean gossip. Sharon Orlov swore the woman had not only changed her name, but she was also a habitual and chronic liar, always making up outlandish things that had absolutely no purpose—like she used to teach chemistry and had been a massage therapist for the New York Yankees. Gabriella didn’t doubt that she was a liar. Not only was Sharon usually right, but she was also like a dog with a bone she couldn’t put down and had spent an extraordinary amount of time fact-checking the things Wyoming said. She’d shown Gabriella her spreadsheet.
There was no reason to fact-check what happened to Sparks Champagne; it was no secret. His wife had been nice and well liked by everyone, but with absolutely no warning, she’d left Sparks for a music producer. Now, Sparks was a walking broken heart, running wild with Robbie MacTavish.
Amy would never do that to Emile.
“Where’s Tradd?” Pickens asked his wife. “Should we start without her?”
“She’s making sure no Champagne gets on the cider tray,” Mary Lou said. “We’ve summoned everyone in here, so we should go ahead.”
Pickens directed them in front of the portable stage. “Amy, Emile, stand in the middle,” he said. “I’ll stand here by Amy. Mary Lou—on the other side of Emile.” He smiled at Gabriella. “And don’t you leave us. Stand on the other side of me. And don’t run off when we’re done. We’ll want pictures.”
“Do you want my bell, Pickens?” Mary Lou held out her silver bell.
“Thank you, honey, but I don’t have my man card on me to surrender.” He picked up a microphone from the stage, tapped the side of his glass with it, and the chatter in the room ceased.
“Mary Lou and I would like to thank you for coming here tonight to celebrate Emile’s engagement to Amy Callahan. We gather tonight as a family—not only the Sound family, but with Emile and his beautiful sister Gabriella.” Pickens turned and smiled at Gabriella. “We celebrate the family that Emile and Gabriella will be forming with Amy.” Amy reached across Pickens and squeezed Gabriella’s hand. Emile put an arm around Amy and blew Gabriella an air kiss. This was truly one of life’s sweetest moments. How could she have thought she wasn’t part of this?
Pickens continued, “It seems that up until now, Emile has been as successful at keeping women at bay as he is at keeping the puck out of the Sound goal.” Laughter drifted through the room. “Though I’m not sure how Emile managed to capture Amy’s heart, we are so glad that he did. For all that Emile has meant to us for his talent and commitment to this team, he is to be commended even more for bringing this lovely lady into the Sound family—which it will always be, regardless of changes that time might bring about.” Gabriella wondered if that was in reference to whether the team would be sold to Massachusetts. In this moment, that didn’t scare her so much.
Pickens lifted his glass. “Now let’s raise—”
But just then, there was a commotion and what must have been twenty people entered the room.
Amy gasped and ran toward them, with Emile right behind her.
What the hell? Noise filled the room, some from people who were also wondering what the hell, but most from Emile, Amy, and the newcomers expressing delight.
Pickens laughed and said into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome Amy’s family.”
Her family. Of course. Gabriella hadn’t even wondered why they weren’t here. If she’d thought about it all, she would have assumed they’d made the same decision Johanna and Paul had—it was too far when they were coming for the wedding next month.
“They flew in to surprise Amy and Emile, but missed their connection in Atlanta. Haven’t we all been there?” Surprise? Why did Emile and Amy need to be surprised? And even so, why had it had to be a surprise to her as well? But she knew the answer. It hadn’t, but no one had thought about telling her.
Pickens moved closer to Mary Lou and put an arm around her. “Cliff, Amy’s father, called and said to carry on, that they would get here when they could. I promised him we would party late to make up for what Atlanta did to them.” Applause—weak, weak applause. There ought to be a rule. No clapping when holding glassware. “We are so glad they made it in time for the toast. Could someone get these people some Champagne?”
Waiters came out of the woodwork and the newcomers had flutes in less than two minutes. But Emile and Amy didn’t come back to the front of the room. They stayed in the bosom of Amy’s family. There was still a good bit of hugging and handshaking going on.
“To Amy and Emile. To family.” Pickens raised his glass, as did Gabriella from where she stood beside him—forgotten. Again, with the weak, flute-impaired applause. Wasn’t that as bad as a feeble handshake?
Pickens nodded to the band. “We’re going to let our happy couple lead off this dance and then invite their family to join in while the rest of us honor them by enjoying the music. I have it on good authority that this is one of Amy’s favorite songs. It’s also appropriate because Emile must have done something right—though we still don’t know what that was.”
The band struck up “Must be Doing Something Right,” and everyone stepped to the edges of the room to make way for Emile to lead Amy to the dance floor.
Gabriella found a place in the corner completely against the wall.
Emile tenderly ran his knuckles down Amy’s cheek and Gabriella could practically see the sighs floating above the heads of the women in the room. And why not? She felt like sighing herself. Emile was handsome, Amy was pretty, and they were both so clearly drop-dead in love—so together, so one.
Ever the showman, after the first chorus, Emile swung Amy out, brought her back to him, and motioned the family—Amy’s family, soon to be his family—to the floor. What was that old saying? “A son’s a son until he takes a wife, but a daughter’s a daughter all her life.” No son/mother relationship here, of course, but the meaning was clear—clear and true.
Amy’s family filed onto the floor in pairs. She counted. She’d been wrong. Not twenty, fourteen. Seven couples. The parents and grandparents were easy to pick out. There was a young man, who Gabriella took to be Amy’s brother, dancing with an older woman, maybe the other grandmother, maybe an aunt or great aunt. As for the others—Gabriella had no idea. They were of an age with Amy, so they were probably cousins. For sure, one of them would be her co-honor attendant.
She wasn’t going to start feeling sorry for herself again, even if the whole family except for her was dancing. She was family so she had, therefore, been invited to dance. It wasn’t their fault she didn’t have anyone to dance with. So no more mayor of Crazyville. No destitute Regency-era maiden aunt with three hand-me-down dresses and a pair of mismatched knitting needles that she had to make do with. Utter silliness.
Emile loved her and would never leave her behind. Amy not only loved her, they were friends.
But things had changed, she had no one to dance with, and she was sad. Even though she was pretty sure there would be no pictures and no sitting down to dinner for the three of them like they’d arranged before the toast, Gabriella couldn’t leave the party. Soon she would mingle and smile. “I’m Emile’s sister. So glad you to meet you,” she’d say.
But for now, she wanted to be somewhere else—just for a little while before someone noticed she wasn’t on the floor with the rest of the family of the bride and groom. There was a door at the back of the room not far from where she stood. She’d take her chances with it.
But as the chorus ended, a hand closed around her elbow from behind and slid down her arm to her hand. There was something about the warmth and pressure of that hand. She knew it was the same hand that had touched her shoulder before on the porch; she knew it was Bryant before he turned her toward him. There was too much fire in that touch for it to be anyone else.
He looked at her the way every woman wants to be looked at least once, and there wasn’t a trace of pity there. “Dance with me.”
She answered him by moving into his arms and letting him move her to the floor.
Chapter Ten
Bryant couldn’t believe his luck.
He would not have expected to see Gabriella standing against the wall watching the dancers. Every other man in this room was stupid. Didn’t they know this was a dance for Emile’s and Amy’s families and Gabriella didn’t have a partner? He couldn’t get to her fast enough.
She moved in his arms like they’d been practicing for Dancing With the Stars. But it was more than just good dancing; there was a warm buzz between them. He felt it the second he touched her. Was that what people meant by chemistry?
She looked sad and he wanted to make her smile. “This is the sexiest song ever written. I know because five backup singers and a kangaroo told me so.”
“A kangaroo? Really?” She blessed him with that smile.
“Don’t kangaroos dance? Isn’t dancing that thing they do?”
“I don’t think so. At least none I know. I think boxing is that thing they do.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Must have been a dancing bear.”
“I thought as much.” She nodded and the light bounced off little diamond-like gems in her hair. He hadn’t noticed that before.
“Your head twinkles.”
“It’s the jeweled pins holding my braids in place.”
He twirled her under his arm and pulled her in closer. The song demanded it.
“Jeweled pins, huh? You ought to let a guy think your head twinkles naturally. Never give away your secrets.”
“I don’t.” She leaned her head back and looked up at him, though she didn’t have to look far. He’d never had much opinion on the height of a woman until now. Now, he liked tall—especially when dancing. “But the pins weren’t a secret.”
“No?”
“Do you have secrets, Swifty?” That was the first time she’d ever called him by his hockey nickname, and it was wrapped in a bit of a laugh. The warm buzz got buzzier. She felt it, too. Every once in a blue moon, he was sure of something and, for this blue moon, this was it.
