Slap Shot, page 8
But that was a problem for a different day. Tonight was all about celebrating the engagement.
And here she was—alone. To be fair, Emile and Amy had asked if she wanted to come with them to the party, but she’d said no. As the honorees, they’d had to arrive early and would have to stay until the last guest left. She didn’t relish the thought of either of those things. Being here alone was bad enough without trying to look like she belonged there when it was only the hosts, honorees, and help.
Of course she supposed she could have come with Bryant. He’d offered to pick her up during that weird phone call he’d made to her from the road. She still didn’t know what that had been about, but it had been amusing. She hadn’t even realized she’d been half hoping he’d call again until she’d felt a little disappointment for the next few days every time someone else had called. But that had passed and it didn’t matter.
She had considered bringing a real date to this party but had decided that even with a date, she’d feel alone. The only thing worse than being here alone was being here with someone to entertain. And there was no doubt—date or not, she’d be alone in a houseful of hockey players. There’d been a time when she would have been uneasy—afraid even—to be among so many hockey players. Thankfully she’d gotten past that. No one here would hurt her, but she still felt that phantom pain in her arm that haunted her now and then.
Time to go in. Past time. She opened the tiny beaded bag that hung from her wrist, turned off her phone, refreshed her lipstick, and finished climbing the steps to the porch.
“I wondered if you were going to stand at the foot of the steps forever,” said a voice from the shadows.
“Who! What!” Gabriella’s heart rushed to her head and pounded like a bass drum as she threw up her hands to defend herself.
• • •
Fuck, fuck, fuck. In that moment, Bryant hated himself. He knew she’d had an abusive childhood. Emile spoke freely about it. But he’d jumped out from behind that twisty little tree and scared the shit out of her. Would he never learn to think? Never learn to take care of people who needed taking care of?
“Hey, hey, hey!” He stepped into the light. “It’s just me. I’m so sorry.” To his relief, the fear left her face and his self-loathing lifted. He moved closer and gently laid his hands on her shoulders—and his hands felt at home, more than they’d ever felt on any other woman or even wrapped around a hockey stick. Maybe he was the one who ought to be afraid, but he wasn’t. “You know I would never hurt you, don’t you?” He gave her shoulders a little squeeze.
She looked at him blankly for a moment and then let out a shaky little laugh. “Of course. You just startled me. Why were you hiding behind that topiary?”
The truth was he’d been trying to recover from the latest round of pictures his mother had sent from the Official Day of Mourning for Mary Philomena. He beat back the memory of those pictures and concentrated on Gabriella.
“Just enjoying the view.” He dropped his eyelids and gave her his best smile. “And I have to agree with that valet. You’d bring a dead man back to life—especially in that dress.” And most especially out of it. But it wouldn’t pay to think about that. He dropped one of his hands and dared to loop an arm loosely around her shoulders. She didn’t pull back.
She laughed in a pleased kind of way. “You wouldn’t tell Pickens Davenport the valet said that, would you? He said he’d get in trouble.”
“Tell Pickens? Hell, I want to give the kid a trophy for his good taste.” But I also want to tie him up and throw him in the river.
“You clean up pretty good yourself,” she said.
“You think? I own this tuxedo, you know. I didn’t rent it.”
“I am impressed.” She gave him a look that could get them in so much trouble—sexy, sweet, and curious all at the same time. “I made my dress.”
“Really? You can sew?”
She laughed from the depth of her soul. “No!” That laugh was tonic for a tired heart. “I would be more likely to bake a dress than sew one.”
“An edible dress? That’s an interesting thought.”
Her eyes danced and she opened her mouth to speak—but she never did, because Jake Champagne’s red Lamborghini roared up and Gabriella moved away from him. Now he wasn’t touching her anymore, and he’d never know what she’d been going to say. He might beat the hell out of Champagne at the next practice.
“I should go in.” Gabriella arranged her little purse on her wrist and folded her hands like she was about to take communion.
He nodded. “Let’s go.”
She hesitated. “Why don’t you let me go first?”
He could have pretended that he didn’t know why, but he did. There had been electricity between them—the kind that hung on. If they went in together now, they’d look like the couple of the year. And that was something that would not amuse Emile.
He nodded. “I might go talk to Champagne a minute. Scottie’s probably with him. Maybe I’ll see you inside.”
“Maybe.”
He ran down the steps as his teammates got out of the Lamborghini.
• • •
What had just happened with Bryant? It felt like nothing and everything. Gabriella tried to shake it off as she rang the bell.
“Come right in, darling.” Mary Lou Davenport always called Gabriella darling. She was pretty sure Mary Lou knew she was Emile’s sister but doubted if Mary Lou remembered her name. In a foyer big enough for a family of twelve to sit down to Christmas dinner, the Davenports—Mary Lou, Pickens, and their daughter, Tradd, were lined up like Walmart greeters, only better dressed. Emile and Amy were next in line.
“Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Davenport.” She was wearing black sequins.
“We’re just so glad you could come. Gabriella, have you met our daughter, Tradd?” Gabriella stood by her conviction that Mary Lou hadn’t known her name at first. Probably had some little game to help her out. Emile. Goalie, starts with G. Sister’s name starts with G. Emile talks constantly. Gabby. Gabriella. Her little exchange with Bryant on the front porch was fading now like a dream she couldn’t quite remember. And there was good reason not to remember. It—like the phone call—was nothing.
“Hello, Tradd,” Gabriella said. “We haven’t met, but I heard you sing at The Café Down On The Corner in Beauford last summer.”
Tradd didn’t look delighted to be at this party, but she brightened a bit and smiled. “That wasn’t me. That would have been Rita May Sanderson.”
Pickens laughed. “Our Tradd feels like she has to have a stage name for her little singing hobby.” Ouch. “Rita May” had sung backup in a few Keith Urban and Jackson Beauford videos and appeared here and there around Nashville, so Gabriella could only assume she wanted a real career. Figuring it was the kindest thing to do, Gabriella didn’t look back at Tradd. Pickens hugged Gabriella, not in a creepy way, but a hug just the same. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. “Tell me, young lady, how do you feel about your brother finally tying the knot? Did you think he’d ever do it?”
“I think he is incredibly lucky to have Amy—as am I to be gaining her as a sister.”
“Oh, Gabriella!” Amy held out her arms—hugging again. She had definitely become a hugger. Amy and Pickens must get on like a house afire.
“The dress really works,” Gabriella whispered in Amy’s ear. And it did. It was silvery gray organza with a full, knee-length skirt and a heavily beaded strapless bodice.
“Thank you for helping me choose it. You were right. No one else is wearing this color. Lots of black, red, gold, bright blue, and bright purple.”
“This ain’t my first sequin rodeo.”
Amy squeezed her hand. “And you look beautiful.”
“She is always beautiful.” Emile ran his hand over Gabriella’s shoulder and she briefly covered his hand with hers. That was their answer to hugging and it felt good. “Your dress is pretty.”
“Thank you. You bought it,” she blurted out. Why had she said that?
He looked confused. “I did?”
“Never mind.”
The door opened again.
“It’s Sparks and Scottie!” Emile exclaimed and went to greet them. That would be his teammates Jake “Sparks” Champagne and Robbie MacTavish. Angels above and demons below. Robbie was wearing a full dress kilt.
But where was Bryant? Why wasn’t he with them? Had he left?
Amy leaned toward Gabriella. “Does the noise level always go up with those two come in the room?”
“Every single time.” Time to move on. Johanna had taught her not to linger too long in receiving lines at weddings and funerals. This was neither, but it would apply. Besides, Bryant would be in soon. Maybe. If he hadn’t left. “I’ll leave you to the loud twins. And a word of warning. They will try to kiss you in the mouth—with tongue.”
Amy laughed. “There’s a bar in the grand salon, buffets in the dining room and the east verandah, and tables set up on the west verandah, the parlors, and music room.”
“You sound like a tour guide.”
“I got the tour,” Amy admitted.
“I think I’ll go find a drink.”
“Try to find some fun, too.”
“Don’t I always?”
Grand salon, my ass. Gabriella made her way into the next room that was easily three times the size of her apartment. A waiter appeared in front of her with a silver tray of assorted drinks. She chose a martini because the glass went with her look. What did the Davenports do with a room this size when they weren’t having a party? Roller skate? Fencing tournaments? Dog races?
Tonight there was a bar, a band playing “Brown Sugar,” hockey players standing around the edges of the room, and a lot of sequined women dancing with each other. Krystal Voleck caught Gabriella’s eye and small wonder. Who had thought it was a good idea to make sequined zebra print? Remembering Bryant’s remark about her feet, Gabriella let her eyes drift there. Yeah, buddy. Bryant had been right. Those were some big feet, though Gabriella would not have called them clown sized.
“Why do you think women dance with each other? Everywhere I go where there’s dancing, women dance with each other.”
Gabriella turned to find Jarrett MacPherson at her side.
“I suppose because their men won’t dance with them.” Her smile came easily when she spoke. She liked Jarrett. He didn’t have much of a sense of humor, but he was a solid guy and a loyal friend to Emile. She had always felt completely comfortable with him, even before she’d gotten over her fear of being around hockey players. After all, it was hard to believe a spokesperson for Walt Disney World would hurt a woman or child.
He sipped his drink and gave her a smile that was gone almost before it appeared. “Mikhail is dancing with Sharon. Glaz is dancing with Noel. Case is dancing with the flavor of the month.” Jarrett was nothing if not literal. There were a few other men on the floor who looked familiar—probably Sound front office people.
“You could go dance with one of them.”
He looked incredulous. “I’d rather eat. Do you want to eat with me? The food’s good. There’s prime rib, shrimp and grits, and some kind of seafood pasta. And I know where it is.”
“Dining room and east verandah?”
“East verandah? I didn’t know about that. Let’s hit that. There might something there I didn’t get my first time through.”
Gabriella laughed out loud. He hadn’t even meant to be funny. “Why not? We wouldn’t want to you to be too weak from hunger to dance.”
“Or eat again.” He put his hand on the small of her back, then looked around. “Which way is east?”
Chapter Eight
In the short time it had taken for Bryant to do his duty in the receiving line, his phone had vibrated no less than five times. He reached into his pocket and turned it off. It was the only way to stop the incessant calls and text messages from his family and former in-laws.
And the pictures. If they’d been old-school Kodak prints, what they’d sent in the last hour alone would have been enough to fill one of those huge ten-pound albums that had always been on his grandparents’ coffee table.
Determined to share the day with him despite his absence, the pictures and messages had started when they were at church—the flowers given in memory of Philie, the notice in the bulletin for her special Mass, the Mass card. It was a wonder they hadn’t videoed the whole thing, but Father would have probably frowned on that. Then there were the family group shots in front of the church. Then they had moved on to the cemetery to put the flowers that had been at the church on Philie’s grave. Pictures all around. None of this was new. He’d even expected it.
What he had not been prepared for were the ones he’d received as Gabriella had arrived. Someone had gotten the bright idea to dress a stuffed bear in an infant-sized Sound jersey and leave it on the grave beside the flowers—a memorial for his son who never was. His mother’s text had said, “This is for you, Bry. None of us have ever had the heart to honor the baby, but it’s time.”
He’d almost hyperventilated.
They meant well. There was no doubt. And they had lost Philie and the baby, too. But the whole thing left him in a cold sweat—so much so that he’d scared Gabriella.
Then they’d moved on to the house for the big feed. They’d even taken pictures of the food. Apparently, no one except him thought it was right down spooky that they always made Philie’s favorite foods—wild rice hot dish, Juicy Lucy burgers, strawberry fluff Jell-O salad, and chocolate Bundt cake.
He’d been half expecting some baby food and a bottle on an empty highchair, but no one had thought of it. Maybe next year.
As he stepped from the foyer into the room with the band, the bar, and a gaggle of dancers who looked something like a multi-colored disco ball, he closed his eyes. He cleared his mind, willed himself to relax and let it go—which he could do. If he had a talent apart from skating backward faster than most could skate forward, he could put things in a box and lock them away. He imagined stacking all the pictures, all the texts, all the memories, in an iron box, locking it, and putting it on shelf in a room with hundreds and hundreds of identical boxes. There. Gone. The box would never be opened again. There would be more boxes to be sure, but all of today was gone. There was nothing left but this party.
Though he could use a beer.
“Hey, Swifty! Taking a nap?” The words were accompanied by a hard clap on his back and spoken in a Scottish brogue.
Bryant opened his eyes to a whole new world where things would happen that wouldn’t have to be locked away. “Hi, Scottie. I closed my eyes hoping I would miss seeing you in that skirt.”
Robbie MacTavish planted his feet wide apart and put his hands on his hips. “This is the formal attire of my people—same as that monkey suit you’re wearing.”
Bryant laughed. “Not the same at all. My legs are covered.”
“Coach can force me into a suit and tie on game day, but it’s not game day.” He waved over his shoulder as he headed to the bar.
Bryant laughed at the memory of the first game of Robbie’s rookie season last year when he’d shown up at the rink in a kilt. It had ended up all over ESPN. No one knew what Coach Colton had said to Robbie, but it hadn’t happened again.
Robbie stopped and motioned. “Come on, Swifty. Let’s get a drink.”
Maybe he would. He really needed that beer and Robbie was always a good distraction.
But as he turned to follow, Bryant learned what a true distraction was.
There in the midst of a flock of sequined peacocks, Gabriella stood out like a swan with nothing to prove. Though he’d seen her earlier on the porch, he’d been up close and concentrating on her face. Now, from a distance, he got the full effect of her perfection.
“Go ahead, Scottie. I’ll catch up.” But he didn’t say whom he’d be catching up to.
She was laughing at something someone was saying, just like she’d laughed with him earlier. He didn’t like that she was sharing that laugh with someone else. From where he stood, Bryant couldn’t see who, but he wanted to be the one who was amusing her. Her magnificent hair was caught up in swoopy, twisted braids, like a sweet secret that had gone into hiding for the night. She brushed some little wispy curls away from her face and laughed some more.
Gorgeous. If he’d had to name the color of her dress, he would have called it purple, but it wasn’t exactly that—at least not like bright Nashville Sound purple. Lighter—like watered-down, see-through grape Kool-Aid. It was made of some kind of gauzy cloth like scarves piled on top of each other.
But the best part was where the skirt ended—over her thighs, but with inches and inches to spare above her knees.
The sight of her legs left him sweating and floundering for air. He’d never seen her legs before. How was that possible with as much time as he’d spent with her over past few years? Had she always worn pants? That had to be it, or he would have remembered. A man didn’t forget a pair of legs like that, at least not this man.
She took a sip of her drink. And laughed again. Who the hell was she talking to? Just then, she took a half step aside. Oh. It was only Jarrett. He wouldn’t be putting any moves on her—and he never said anything funny. So why was Gabriella laughing?
Maybe he’d better investigate. He took a step in their direction just as they headed toward him. Jarrett had his hand on the small of her back. That was no good.
