True Love and Other Disasters

Chapter 4

Julian Garcia was Irish and Hispanic, with the fashion flair of Doctor 90210, a.k.a. Robert Rey, thrown into the mix. To his first meeting with Faith, he wore a gold Saint Christopher necklace visible inside the collar of his purple-and-pink-striped shirt. His black trousers were tight and his hair was spiked with gel. He was one snappy dresser, but the most striking thing about him wasn’t his brave use of color or even his green eyes, but his muscles. He was five-six with his boots on and had a neck the size of a tree trunk. The man was serious about his workouts. The kind of serious that made Faith wonder if he was gay. Not that it mattered, but a lot of the muscled-

up bouncers who worked in strip clubs were gay.

Faith had met with Jules at a little after noon in Virgil’s office—well, hers now—inside the Key Arena. The first question she asked was, “Did Virgil fire you, or did you quit?”

“I was fired.”

“Why?”

He looked her in the eyes and answered, “Because he heard me talking about you.”

At least he was honest. He could have lied and she’d have never known. “What did you say?”

He hesitated. “Basically, that he’d married a stripper with big boobs and he was a fool.”

Virgil wasn’t a fool, but the rest was true. She had a feeling there was more, but she didn’t ask. It was ironic that he’d been fired because of her and here she was, offering him his job back five years later. She asked him a few more questions about his relationship and job with Virgil. When he spoke, he looked into her eyes, not her chest. He didn’t talk down to her, nor did he act as if her questions were silly or stupid.

“Don’t worry about not knowing everything. This organization has somewhere around fifteen different departments and basically runs itself,” he told her. “Virgil was a shrewd businessman and he treated it like one of his corporations. Because that’s really what it is, and one thing he did very well was put smart people into position and let them do their jobs.”

“You make it sound easy.” But she knew it wasn’t.

“Not easy, but not hard, either. Virgil didn’t micro-manage the organization, and you certainly don’t have to.” He paused to straighten the crease in one leg of his pants. “In fact, I would suggest that you don’t. The executive management does that hard work for you.”

By the end of the meeting, she wanted to hire him, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted the job. “The thing is,” he said, “I like my job at Boeing. I’m not sure I want to come back.”

Faith didn’t know if he was holding out for more money or if he was telling the truth. “Why don’t you come to the game tonight?” she offered. “You can decide then.”

Now, seven hours later, she and Jules were seated on the sofa inside the owner’s skybox poring over a stack of files he’d carried up from the office. She’d worn her black Armani suit, white blouse, and black spike heels. She wanted to be taken seriously, and she knew there were people out there just waiting for her to show up someplace wearing a short skirt and bra top.

The first order of business was to learn her players’ names and their positions and to look over the schedule. As Jules went over the team roster, cheers and boos from the arena below filtered upward to the luxury box while snippets of music blasted from the sound system.

“Yes!” her mother hollered from the balcony overlooking the arena. “Faith, come quick. The camera’s on me and Pebbles. We’re on the big TV.”

Faith glanced over at her mother, clutching her evil dog and blowing kisses like a movie star. Big pink and orange bracelets slid up and down her wrists. She wore a pair of hot pink stretch leggings and a lace blouse with a pink bra underneath. Her blonde hair was layered and sprayed into the perfect shaggy Farrah ’do. “Oh God,” Faith whispered.

“She’s a nice lady,” Jules said and sat back. Obviously, her mother’s strange brand of mojo still worked. Not that Faith was surprised. Gay or straight, men liked Valerie.

“She’s embarrassing.”

Jules laughed. “She’s having a good time.”

“You can laugh because she’s not your mother.”

“I’m the oldest of eight children. My mother doesn’t have that kind of energy.” He reached into a file and pulled out a stack of papers. “This is a game schedule for the first round of the playoffs.” He handed it to her. “And I printed off a brief bio of each player for you to look at. When you become more familiar with the team, we can go over their contracts so you know who your free agents and unrestricted free agents are.”

Faith pushed her long hair behind one ear and perused the schedule. She’d known they played a lot, but she hadn’t realized there were several games a week. “What is a free agent, an unrestricted free agent, and what is the difference?”

Jules explained that a free agent plays without a contract and can leave anytime before he is renewed. An unrestricted free agent is a player with an expired contract who has been released from his club and hasn’t been picked up yet.

“It all came about when the league stopped using restrictive clauses because of collective bargaining.”

Whatever that meant. “Do we have any free agents?” she asked as an air horn ripped through the area and music blasted from the ice below.

“Not at the moment. Management got them all locked down before the playoffs.” Jules looked up and called out, “What’s the score, Valerie?”

“Tied at two. Number Twenty-one on your team just scored.”

Number Twenty-one was the captain of the team and Faith flipped to Ty Savage’s bio and read his stats. He was thirty-five, born in Saskatchewan, Canada, which explained the accent. He was six foot three and weighed 240 pounds. He shot left, and this was his fifteenth season in the NHL.

He’d played for the London Knights in the OHL before being a first-round draft pick and signing with Pittsburgh in the NHL. He’d played for the Penguins, the Blackhawks, Vancouver, and now the Chinooks. The next bit of information made Faith’s jaw drop. “Thirty million,” she wheezed. “Virgil paid him thirty million? Dollars?”

“For three years,” Jules clarified, as if that made perfect sense.

Faith looked up and reached for a bottle of water sitting on the table. “Is he worth that much?”

Jules shrugged his big, beefy shoulders covered in a teal-colored silk T-shirt. “Virgil thought so.”

“What do you think?” She took a drink.

“He’s a franchise player and worth every penny.” Jules stood and stretched. “Let’s watch and see what you think.”

Faith set the papers on the table, then rose and followed Jules to the balcony. She had so much to learn, it was daunting, and she was too overwhelmed to think. She moved past the three rows of padded stadium seats and joined her mother standing at the railing.

Below on the ice, the action was stopped and the teams were in position. In his dark blue jersey, Ty skated past the face-off circle twice before moving inside. He stopped, planted his feet wide, placed the stick across his thighs, and waited. The puck dropped and the battle was on. Ty shoved his shoulder into his opponent as his stick slapped the ice and he shot the puck behind him. As one, the skaters on each team flew into action, a whirl of organized chaos. The dark blue Chinooks jerseys with their white numbers mixed it up with the white and green of Vancouver.

Number Eleven, Daniel Holstrom, skated toward the Canucks’ goal and shot the puck across ice to forward Logan Dumont, who passed off to Ty. With the puck in the middle of the blade, Ty skated behind the goal, came around the other side, and shot. The puck bounced off the goaltender’s knee pad and a battle broke out. Faith lost track of the puck in the collision of sticks and bodies. From her position, all she saw was pushing, shoving, and flying elbows.

A ref blew a whistle and the play stopped…except for Ty, who shoved a Vancouver player, hard, and nearly knocked him on his butt. The player caught his balance just before he toppled backward. They exchanged words and Ty threw his gloves to the ice. A referee skated between the two and grabbed the front of Ty’s jersey. Over the top of the ref’s head, Ty pointed to his face and then at the other player. The ref asked him something, and as soon as he nodded, the smaller man let go of his jersey. Ty picked up his gloves and while he skated to the bench, an instant replay flashed on the sports screen. “Welcome to the Jungle” blasted from the arena speakers, and on the big sports screen suspended above the ice, Faith watched Ty raise a hand before his face and point to his intense blue eyes. Over the ref’s head, he stared out from beneath black brows and white helmet. Then he turned his hand and pointed at Number Thirty-three on the opposing team. A menacing smile curved his lips. A shiver ran up Faith’s spine and raised goose bumps on her arms. If she were Number Thirty-three, she’d be afraid. Very afraid.

Just in case anyone missed it, it was replayed one more time in slow motion. The crowd below went wild, cheering and stomping their feet, as once more Ty’s intense blue eyes locked on his opponent, the scar on his chin slicing through the dark stubble.

“Lord have mercy.” Valerie took a step back and sank into her seat. “And you own him.” She set Pebbles down and the little dog waddled over to Faith and smelled her shoe. “You own them all,” she added through a sigh.

“You make it sound like they’re slaves.” Pebbles raised her beady black eyes to Faith and yipped.

Stupid dog. “I employ them.” But how many women in the world could say they employed twenty or so good-looking, buff men who swung at pucks and pounded on other players?

She was probably the only one, and the thought was both exciting and terrifying. She looked down at the row of men sitting on the Chinooks bench, spitting on the ground between their feet, wiping sweat from their faces, and chewing on their mouth guards. The sight of all that spitting and sweating should have made her feel a little nauseous, but for some reason didn’t.

“After the games, Virgil always went to the locker room and talked to the team,” Jules told her.

Yeah, she knew that, but she’d never gone. “I’m sure they won’t expect me to make an appearance in the locker room.” It had been a long time since Faith had been around so many men in a confined space. Not since they’d stuffed money in her G-string. A lot of them had been jocks. As a rule, she generally didn’t like jocks. Jocks and rock stars didn’t think they had to abide by the rules.

“You have to, Faith,” her mother said, pulling her attention from the ice below. “Do it for Virgil.”

Do it for Virgil? Was her mother smoking weed again?

“Reporters will be there,” Jules continued. “So it’s important. I’m sure they’ll want you to make some sort of statement.”

On the ice below, a whistle blew and the action resumed. “What kind of statement?” Faith asked as she studied the players, who looked like a swarm of organized blue and white jerseys.

“Something easy. Talk about why you decided not to sell the team.”

She glanced at him then returned her attention to the game. “I decided not to sell the team because I hate Landon Duffy.”

“Oh.” Jules chuckled. “When you’re asked, you should probably say you love hockey and Virgil would have wanted you to keep his team. Then mention that people should come out and watch Game Four next Wednesday night.”

She could do that. “What if they ask me something about the game?”

“Like what?”

She thought a moment. “Like icing. What’s an icing call? I read the rules last night and didn’t understand it.”

“Don’t worry about it. Not many people understand icing.” Jules shook his head. “We’ll go over a few basic answers before you talk to reporters. But if there is a question you don’t understand, just say, ‘I can’t comment at this time.’ It’s the standard non-answer.”

She could do that. Maybe. She sat next to her mother and watched the rest of the game. In the last three minutes, Ty knocked an opponent off the puck and raced to the opposite end of the ice. The crowd inside the Key cheered, and just inside the blue line, he pulled back his stick and fired. The puck shot across the ice so fast that Faith didn’t know it scored until a horn blasted and the light above the net flashed. The fans jumped to their feet screaming, “Rock and Roll Part 2” thumping the concrete beneath Faith’s pumps, and the Chinooks skated around Ty, slapping him on the back with their big gloves as he skated with his hands in the air as if he was the champion of the world. All except Sam, who punched some player in the head, then threw off his gloves—and the fight was on.

Jules lifted one hand and gave both Faith and Valerie high fives. “That hat trick is why you pay the Saint thirty million.”

Faith didn’t know what a hat trick was and made a mental note to look it up in her Idiot’s Guide.

He grinned. “Damn, Virgil put together one hell of a team this season. I’m going to love watching them play.”

“Does that mean you’re my assistant?”

Jules nodded. “Oh yeah.”

In the aftermath of Seattle’s 3–2 victory over Vancouver, the post-game media scrum inside the Chinooks locker room was more jovial than the last time they’d played in the Key Arena. The coaches allowed the reporters in after a few minutes, and the players laughed and joked as they toweled off after their showers.

“You’re tied in the playoffs. What are you going to do to advance to the next level?” Jim Davidson, the reporter from the Seattle Times asked Ty.

“We’re going to keep doing what we just did tonight,” he answered as he zipped up his dress pants. “After our last loss to the Canucks, we couldn’t afford to lose points in our building.”

“Having been the captain of both the Canucks and the Seattle teams, what would you say is the biggest difference?”

“The coaching philosophy in each club is different. The Chinooks give me more freedom to play the kind of hockey I like to play,” he answered, and wondered when they were going to get around to asking about his hat trick.

“Which is?”

He glanced over the reporter’s head to Sam, who was being grilled by someone from a Canadian news organization. Ty smiled. “Coach Nystrom thinks outside the box.”

“The team already has twenty combined penalty minutes. Just last week, Nystrom expressed his desire to keep penalty minutes per game at a minimum. Don’t you consider twenty excessive?”

Ty shoved his arms in his shirt and buttoned it.

“Not at all, Jim. We kept Vancouver from taking advantage of the power plays. So, I’d say we did our jobs tonight.”

“You scored your first hat trick of the season on your home ice. How does that feel?”

Finally. “Real good. The whole team deserves a lot of credit for tonight’s win. I just happened to be in the right place when Daniel passed me the puck. Monty’s first assist since being called up from—”

“Mrs. Duffy’s in the lounge,” someone from the Post Intelligencer called out, and Jim turned toward the commotion in the doorway. “Thanks, Savage,” the reporter said and followed the stampede out of the locker room.

Ty buttoned the front of his blue dress shirt and shoved the tails into his gray wool pants. He glanced around at the guys, who looked as stunned as he was. This was the second game of the playoffs. They’d won in their own house and the coach had granted the press full access to the team. Reporters loved full access. They loved it like a kid loved cake, but the sudden appearance of Faith Duffy prompted an en masse exodus. Like rats bailing from a sinking boat. What the hell?

Ty pulled on his socks and shoved his feet into his shoes. He combed his fingers through his damp hair and moved into the team’s lounge. Mrs. Duffy stood in the middle of the huge Chinooks logo woven into the blue carpet, smiling for the cameras and answering questions thrown at her by a knot of sports reporters. She looked almost fragile in the totally male environment. Beneath the bright lights and camera flash, her smooth hair shined, her skin kind of glowed, and her lips were a glistening pink. She wore a black suit that hugged her waist and buttoned beneath her breasts. He and the boys had worked their asses off tonight, and apparently all she had to do was show up all bright and shiny and the guys in the press went ape-shit nuts.

“What made you decide not to sell the team?” someone asked.

“My late husband, Virgil, knew how much I love hockey. He left me this team because he wanted me to be happy. It was only right that I keep it.”

What utter bullshit. Ty moved further into the room and shoved one shoulder into the doorway leading to the workout gym.

“What are your plans for the team?”

A smile curved her lips at the corners and damned if it wasn’t innocent and seductive all at the same time. She must have been one hell of a stripper. “To win the Stanley Cup. Virgil put together some great players, and I plan to do every thing I can to make sure we bring the cup home to Seattle.”

“We hear there’s no plan to pick up Fetisov for next season.”

The corners of her mouth dipped and Darby Hogue stepped forward and saved her butt. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information,” Darby said, “but we have no plans to trade Vlad.” Then Coach Nystrom stepped forward and answered a few questions concerning trade restrictions while Mrs. Duffy smiled like she knew what he was talking about.

Ty glanced about the room at his teammates, and his gaze stopped on his father, who stood near the coaches offices talking to some woman in a lacy blouse and pink bra, and holding one of those hairy little dogs that yipped a lot. She was definitely the old man’s type: overblown, big blonde hair. Not bad looking but a little torn up around the edges. He wondered where the old man had managed to find her in the two hours since Ty had spoken to him.

“When was the last time you were at the Playboy Mansion?” a reporter asked, pulling Ty’s attention to the owner of the team.

A frown wrinkled her smooth brow. “Over five years ago.”

“Do you keep in touch with Hef?”

“No. While I appreciate Mr. Hefner and will always be grateful to him, my life is very different now.”

Ty half expected the reporters to ask for her number now that she was single. He thought of her naked photos in Playboy and wondered how many of them had seen her spread out across the pages.

“Tonight, the team had twenty combined penalty minutes. At the beginning of the playoffs, Coach Nystrom expressed his desire to keep penalty minutes per game at a minimum. Don’t you consider twenty excessive?” Jim asked the same question he’d asked Ty a few minutes earlier.

She smiled and tilted her head to one side. “I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to comment on that at this time.” A man with dark hair and wearing a teal silk T-shirt stepped forward and whispered something in Faith’s ear. “Oh. Okay. Our penalty minutes were up and we never like to see that,” she parroted.

Ty might have laughed if he wasn’t so annoyed. The reporters all glanced at each other and instead of calling her on being such a bonehead, someone asked, “What did you think of tonight’s game?” Totally letting her off the hook.

“It was great. All the guys played very well.”

“Virgil put together a solid team. I know that he’d tried to sign Sean Toews. What happened?”

Toews wanted more money than he was worth. That’s what had happened.

“I’m not at liberty to answer that.”

“What did you think of your captain’s hat trick?”

Bastards had barely asked him about the hat trick. She smiled, and Ty doubted she even knew what a hat trick was.

“We’re ecstatic, of course. My late husband believed in Mr. Savage’s talent,” she said, once again pronouncing his name wrong.

“It’s Sah-vahge.” He spoke out loud before he gave it much thought.

The press turned and looked at him. He pushed away from the doorjamb. “Since you’re the owner of the team, you should know how to pronounce my name. It’s Sah-vahge. Not savage.”

She pushed up her smile. “Thank you. I apologize, Mr. Sah-vahge. And since I sign your checks, you should know that it’s Miss July. Not Miss January.”