Slap Shot, page 9
“Follow me,” Gabriella said to Jarrett as they came within earshot. “East is this way.”
Bryant stepped into their path. “Going to Knoxville? Or China?”
“Perhaps.” Gabriella said it slowly and bit her bottom lip. “But first we’re going to the east verandah for food.” She smiled. “Want to come?”
Oh, yes he did. Maybe he shouldn’t. No. Certainly he shouldn’t. Bro Code. Emotionally unavailable. Those were still facts of life. But they were only going to eat. What was the harm? “Lead on.”
• • •
After they’d finished filling their plates, Jarrett wanted to find a table on the west verandah.
“It’s a nice night and I’m hot,” Jarrett said.
But Bryant vetoed it. “Then take off your jacket. I want to see what I’m eating.”
And that was fine with Gabriella. She wanted to see, too—though she was more interested in looking at Bryant than her food. There was something about a man in a tuxedo—particularly this man in this tuxedo.
When Emile had needed to buy a tux for the first time, she had pushed him in the bespoke direction—and the result was impeccable. It had cost a fortune, but he would wear it for years.
Bryant would probably wear his for years, too, maybe without sending it to the dry cleaners. It was nice—if she had to guess, Ralph Lauren, but definitely off the rack. It fit him well, though not perfectly, so he wouldn’t have bothered with having it tailored beyond having the pants hemmed. Yet, like his shaggy hair and the scar above his right eye, he wore it well. The whole look said, “I’ve got better things to do than get a $500 haircut or stand around while some tailor measures every inch of my body.”
She wondered what those better things were.
“How about the winter parlor, then?” Jarrett asked. “Mrs. Davenport said there were tables in there.”
“What?” Bryant quickly jerked around, and one of his miniature beef Wellingtons fell off his plate. “Whoa! Beef in a biscuit on the loose!” He caught it and put it back. “What did you say? Winner parlor? That’s for us, for sure.”
“Win-ter,” Jarrett enunciated. “It’s next to the music room.”
“Hmm.” Bryant shrugged. “Winter parlor. As opposed to what? Summer parlor? Beauty parlor? What does that even mean?”
“I’m hoping it means it’s cooler in there,” Jarrett said.
“I’m just guessing,” Gabriella said, “but I would think it gets a lot of sun and has a fireplace so it’s a nice place to sit on cold days.”
“There are no cold days in Nashville,” Bryant said. “These people don’t know cold.”
“That’s for sure,” Gabriella agreed.
“Tell me that when it hits zero in January,” Jarrett said. “It might not last long, but zero is cold. I don’t care where you’re from.” He led them through the door of the grand salon. “This way. We have to go back through here to get to the winter parlor.”
There were not as many people on the dance floor now—no men and no women who weren’t hockey wives. They were line dancing to “Wagon Wheel.” The lead singer sounded remarkably like Darius Rucker and the dancers were remarkably in sync. Maybe they went to line dancing class together.
“I’m going to stop by the bar and get a beer,” Bryant said.
“No you’re not,” Jarrett said. “There isn’t any.”
“No beer? What the hell? Who has a party without beer?”
“This is a fancy party. Mrs. Davenport didn’t want beer. She wanted mixed drinks and wine served in nice glasses.” Jarrett’s tone of voice carried not a little measure of satisfaction, probably because he liked delivering facts whether he liked the information itself or not. Gabriella had no doubt the information was correct, though where he’d gotten it, she could not have guessed.
“No beer,” Bryant marveled as if it was unfathomable. “No keg? You could put keg beer in glasses.”
“You could,” Jarrett agreed. “And some would. But others would have shot it straight into their mouths from the nozzle and—if we’re going to be honest—at each other. Sparks and Scottie come to mind. Mrs. Davenport knows this. She’s been down the liquor road with hockey players before.” He headed for a door near the bar. “Through here.”
“How do you know where you’re going? Do you have a map of this house?” Bryant stepped back and allowed Gabriella to precede him into the room.
“I may not know east from west, but I notice my surroundings. It comes in handy.”
The large room did, indeed, have not one, but two fireplaces and numerous windows, though the curtains were closed. It was furnished with a lot of ornate mahogany and multi-striped silk upholstery—not Gabriella’s style, but pretty. Six tables for four were scattered throughout the room, far enough apart for private conversations—though only two of them were filled. Clearly, when entertaining, Mary Lou Davenport left nothing to chance. Jan and Krystal Voleck were sitting at a table with Mr. Klepacki and his wife. There were four young women at the other table who Gabriella took to be office staff.
“How about here?” Jarrett led them to a table in the far corner. “We can still hear the music.”
“Because “Brick House” is my favorite,” Bryant said.
Gabriella could only imagine what the dancing was like.
A waiter appeared immediately and placed two bottles of wine—one red and one white—on the table and poured water.
“Can I get you another martini, ma’am?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Gabriella said.
The waiter nodded. “Anything for you gentlemen?”
“Just water for me for now,” Jarrett said. “Maybe later.”
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask for a beer?” Bryant said hopefully.
“No, sir.” The waiter cast his eyes down like he’d failed. He was probably a pleaser, too. “We aren’t serving beer tonight. Would you like a cocktail? Or can I pour you a glass of wine?”
Bryant sighed. “Can I get a Coke?”
“Of course.”
“So you can take no for an answer,” Gabriella said, “when it’s not ice cream.”
Bryant dropped his eyelids and gave her a smile that seemed to tell a secret—though she didn’t know what that secret was. “I like ice cream better than beer,” he said.
“I find that hard to believe,” Jarrett said.
The waiter reappeared and set a glass before Bryant. “Your Coke, sir. Let me know if I can get you anything else.”
Bryant sighed. “This is the worst party ever. I like to drink out of the can.”
“Absolutely, the worst,” Jarrett said. “If I had known there would be a plague of forced glass drinking, I would have stayed home. What could be next? Widespread cholera with bathroom privileges denied?”
“What’s cholera?” Bryant asked.
“Something that requires bathroom privileges followed shortly by a coffin.”
Gabriella laughed. This was proving to be fun. She had been silly to dread it. She didn’t feel alone at all. More wedding festivities were bound to follow, and they would be fun, too, if she would allow it.
She poured herself a glass of red and gestured to Jarrett’s wine glass. “Would you like some of this?”
“No, thank you,” Jarrett said. “I’ve already had a scotch and water. I only have three drinks in an evening, and I drink two glasses of water between each one.”
“Good thing we haven’t been denied bathroom privileges. You must spend an extraordinary amount of time peeing.” Bryant turned to Gabriella. “Of course, there’s always the yard.”
“No,” Jarrett said. “If Mary Lou Davenport doesn’t want us drinking out of cans at her party, I can just about imagine what she’d have to say about peeing in her yard. Besides, I wouldn’t do that, anyway. It doesn’t pay to get naked in public.”
Bryant cut his eyes at Gabriella. “The Saint has a lot of rules.”
Jarrett raised his water glass. “That why I’m The Saint. I never lose control of my faculties—or my pants.”
Bryant looked somewhere over Gabriella’s shoulder. “Well, if it’s not the fair-haired child.”
Gabriella didn’t have to look behind her to know that Thor Eastrom was approaching. Though the big Swede had an abundance of very blond hair, he’d earned his nickname because he was a favorite of Pickens Davenport.
“Hello, fair-haired child,” Bryant said. According to Emile, Thor didn’t mind the nickname, but no one ever dared say it in earshot of Mr. Davenport or any of the coaches.
“Gabriella.” Thor smiled at her. How could someone so charming off the ice be such a brute on? He was the Sound’s enforcer and also, according to Emile, the most feared man in the NHL. He’d led the NHL in penalty minutes for the last eight years. “You’re lovely. Do you mind if I join you?”
“Please. Our pleasure.” Only don’t hit me. What? That was a thought straight from Crazyville. Thor would never hit her. And anyway, Bryant wouldn’t let him. What, again? And why Bryant and not Jarrett—Jarrett, who never fought on the ice and she had always felt completely at ease with? Angels above and demons below. She wasn’t only a resident of Crazyville; she was the mayor.
“You didn’t ask our permission to sit.” Jarrett pointed to himself and Bryant.
“I don’t care what you want.” Thor set his plate down and sat in the empty chair. “I am only concerned with the lady’s comfort.” He smiled again, reached into the pockets of his tux, and came up with a Heineken in each hand.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Bryant said. “Where did you get that?”
“From the refrigerator in the kitchen.” Thor produced a Swiss army knife from his pocket, popped out the bottle opener, and uncapped the bottles.
“Do you have free rein of this house?” Jarrett asked.
“Yes. Up to a point.” He turned to Gabriella. “I have another. Would you like it, lilla vän?”
“No, but thank you.” What had he called her? She hoped not a muddy pig, or something worse. But on the other hand, she didn’t care.
“In that case, Swifty, do you want it?”
“You bet I do.”
Thor passed him the beer. “You owe me.”
“Sure thing,” Bryant said. “I’ll help you out next time you’re getting your ass kicked on the ice.”
“No help needed. Just give me first crack at that skitstövel Alvin when we face the Avalanche again in a few weeks.”
“He’s all yours,” Bryant said. “I’d rather fight guys I like. I had enough of Alvin years ago.”
Startled, Gabriella dropped her fork. “Guys you like? Are you serious?”
Without missing a beat, Bryant picked up her fork from the floor but handed her his. “I haven’t used it yet. I’ll eat with this one.” He held up the one she’d dropped. “Fighting is part of the culture, part of the fun. There are no friends on the ice and—for the most part—no enemies off. You’ve seen guys fight and then hug and shout ‘good job’ to each other as they skate to the penalty box.”
In fact, she had not. But she always looked away during fights.
Jarrett, who—as far as Gabriella knew—had never had a penalty for fighting, nodded. “There’s a code. Everyone understands it. Not everyone lives by it, but everyone understands it. How do you not know this? You must have grown up at the rink.”
“Emile’s a goalie,” Bryant said. “Always has been. She probably didn’t grow up with a lot of hockey fighting talk. He’s never had a fight on the ice in his life—probably had never had a fight at all until he knocked Cameron Snow into the middle of next week.” He smiled at the memory.
Gabriella almost pointed out that she could speak for herself, but what Bryant said was true—though she hadn’t known it until he voiced it.
Instead, she asked, “If you didn’t want to fight that Avalanche player, why did you?”
“He had to.” Thor paused and ate a bite of seafood pasta. “Alvin is a dirty player. He’s been trying to get a rise out of Swifty for a long time. He finally found a way. You can’t let your skill players get knocked around. It sends a bad message, makes you look soft—weak. And the goalie is absolutely off-limits. Nobody puts up with that. Alvin took a run at Emile. I wasn’t on the ice. Swifty had to take it up. That’s how it works.”
That was food for thought. “So I assume there were no hugs,” Gabriella said.
Bryant shook his head. “Not hardly. Usually, what happens on the ice stays on the ice, but not with that guy.”
“I got it next time.” Thor had a bloodthirsty look about him. “I’ve had enough.”
Bryant finished off his Heineken. “I haven’t had enough of this. Any chance you’ve got another one in your pocket?”
Thor laughed. “I’ll get more when I finish eating.”
Jarrett’s head snapped up. “Here she comes. Don’t look at her.”
“Who?” Gabriella looked over her shoulder.
“Tradd.” Jarrett looked at his plate, as did Bryant. Thor, however, did not. His ice blue eyes were high beams ahead.
Tradd Davenport led with her hips and marched toward them—on a mission with no time to waste. Gabriella hadn’t noticed before, but Tradd wasn’t dressed for this party. She wore black pants and a white silk blouse—not that it wasn’t nice. On the contrary, the outfit was made of exquisite fabric and was a tailor-made perfect fit. You just got the idea that in an act of defiance, she’d refused to wear party attire—which meant probably she didn’t want to be here.
She stopped at Gabriella’s shoulder and looked across the table at Thor. “There you are.”
“Here I am,” he agreed and took another bite of his pasta.
Tradd let her gaze lightly pass over Gabriella and the other two men. “Hello.”
They returned the greeting, but Bryant and Jarrett still didn’t look up.
Then her eyes settled on the Heineken bottles. “Hey! Where did you get that beer? Mama didn’t want to serve beer.”
“She didn’t,” Thor said. “I served myself.” He gestured to Bryant. “And Swifty.”
“You could have put it in a glass,” she said.
“Why?” Thor asked. “The bottle is glass.”
“You are a philistine,” Tradd said.
“No. I am a Swede.” Thor smiled. “Did you want something, Tradd, or are you here to be the beer police?”
“No time to arrest you now. Here.” She handed Thor a key. “It’s almost time for the toast. Daddy wants you to let the caterers in the wine cellar and lock up behind them. He doesn’t trust them.”
“My pleasure.” He rose. “I wanted to get up and get more beer anyway.”
“Whatever. It’s on you if Mama catches you.”
“Are you going to tell on me?” His expression told just how much he cared—not at all.
Tradd shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Like I have time to be bothered with that. I’ve got to go. I have to check on the sparkling cider for the pregnant people and alcoholics.” And she walked away with Thor behind her.
“Is she gone?” Jarrett asked.
“Yes,” Gabriella said. “What was all that ‘don’t look at her’ about?”
Bryant and Jarrett looked up and resumed eating. “The speech,” Bryant said. “It’s short, but intense. We all got it when we signed, and just in case we forget, Davenport repeats it every season when training camp opens.”
“It goes like this.” Jarrett made his face go even more no nonsense than usual. “‘We are a family, but only up to a point. I have a daughter. You will, no doubt, run into her from time to time. She is off-limits. If she speaks to you, be polite. Otherwise, don’t talk to her. Don’t look at her. If you touch her, you’d better be jerking her out of the path of a speeding car or some other like situation that would save her from certain death. Failure to comply will result in a nullified contract regardless of your popularity with the fans or your prowess on the ice. Am I clear?’”
Bryant nodded. “Then we all mutter ‘yes, sir’ like bad Cub Scouts.”
“Some of the guys are offended,” Jarrett said, “like they think he feels like she’s better than us. I don’t think that’s true. He just doesn’t want a messy situation.”
Gabriella nodded. “Emile made me promise when I was thirteen years old that I’d never date a hockey player. He said he didn’t need that kind of trouble.” And neither do I. Though the little exchange she’d had with Bryant on the porch earlier had felt more like a date than any she’d had in a very long time—or maybe ever. If he knew her thoughts, Bryant would probably find that hilarious. But he never would know.
Bryant narrowed his eyes. “Does your arm hurt?”
Gabriella had not been aware she was rubbing her arm. “Oh.” She picked up her fork again. “No. Just a habit.”
“So you’ve never dated a hockey player?” Jarrett asked.
“Never. Emile doesn’t ask much of me.”
“Emile’s not wrong,” Bryant said. “It can get messy.”
So Bryant agreed with Emile. That was good—excellent, in fact. He wouldn’t ask. She wouldn’t go. There would be no mess. Best news she’d had all night.
Bryant continued to spew forth wisdom. “A couple of seasons ago, the Penguins had to trade Vasiliev when he started dating Clay Dempsey’s ex-wife. Talk about a shitstorm. Nobody needs that locker room.”
“Did she go with him?” Jarrett asked.
“Who? Dempsey’s wife?” Bryant looked incredulous. “No. Of course not. He ended up alone, freezing his ass off in Calgary—all for nothing. So no one who doesn’t want to be banished looks at Tradd.”
“Apparently, Thor is allowed to look at Tradd,” Gabriella said.
“But only that,” Jarrett said. “Don’t kid yourself. Even the fair-haired child wouldn’t survive that.”
“Not that he’d go there,” Bryant said. “Or even want to. That is one high maintenance woman.”
Gabriella laughed. “That’s the thing with men. You all want a woman with particular trappings—the look, the intelligence, the personality, the ease in social situations. Then you’re surprised when she has minimal expectations.”
Jarrett got a blank look on his face. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
