Chapter 2
Detroit
This season
Nick had once been one of the fastest men in hockey. Now he couldn’t even block the door to his apartment. When his doorbell rang, he buzzed Devin into the building foyer, then stepped into the hallway and leaned on a cane to swing his apartment door shut behind him. The point was to keep Devin from seeing inside. It didn’t work.
Devin bounded up the stairs with an athlete’s grace, a foil pan in his hands. “Vanessa sent a lasagna!” He beamed.
Well, shit.
“Hey, that’s nice. Don’t let me forget to thank her.” Nick tried to take the pan while he stuck his key back in the lock, but the cane was in the way, and Devin wouldn’t let go. He was being helpful, damn him.
“I got it,” Devin said. Nick hesitated, then bowed to the inevitable and pushed the door open. Devin stepped in and his smile froze. “Dude.”
“Yeah, I know.” Nick took the lasagna and walked around the counter into the kitchen, his cane tapping on the tile.
“You have one chair.”
Nick shrugged. “I have one ass.” He swung the fridge shut and then turned, his eyes sweeping the apartment. It was a nice place—everything new and high end. He’d furnished it with one easy chair in the middle of the living room. Although to be fair, there was also a mattress on the floor in the bedroom. He patted his pants pocket to make sure he still had his keys, then ushered Devin out.
Before they left, his teammate stopped by the open bedroom door and craned his neck around the doorframe. He didn’t say anything until Nick was buckled into the passenger seat of a slick black sports car. Devin pushed the start button, glanced over, and then looked away as he spoke, edging the car out into Detroit traffic. “You can’t keep living like that. You know that, right?”
“Thanks for picking me up,” Nick said.
Devin slid his eyes sideways but didn’t say anything more.
Devin lived in a mansion in the suburbs. The house was pale stone in a vaguely French style, and tastefully landscaped. There were three other cars in the driveway, but they’d left room for Devin, the Red Wheels’ captain, to pull in.
“I’ve got him!” Devin called as they entered through the kitchen door.
Four guys sat around an oval table off the kitchen—André Bouchard, a Black Canadian defenseman; Jakub Cermak, a small Czech left wing; Leif Bjorkland, the Swedish goalie; and Filip Simko, a US defenseman. Nick had played against all four the previous year, and he’d learned more about Detroit’s system from going to practice, although he couldn’t skate yet. He had a lot to learn—and a lot to unlearn. He’d played with Sammy so long that Nick always knew where Sammy was going to be. Now Nick worried that when he returned to the ice, he’d pass to where Sammy would have been. And how would he explain to the coach why he’d dumped the puck to empty ice?
The cards and chips were already out, the beers opened. “Sit down!” Jakub called. The guys shifted with nervous energy. Now that preseason had started, there was a buzz beneath everything they did, as though their skate blades touching ice completed a circuit. Anyone who thought ice couldn’t conduct electricity had never been to an NHL game—that was for damn sure.
“We’re ready to take your money,” Jakub said cheerfully.
“You better not be talking to me,” Devin said, pushing back a chair.
“No, we’re gonna fleece the new guy,” Jakub said. He grinned at Nick.
“The new guy plans to launch a more vigorous defense than last week,” Nick said.
“The new guy’s one of the best defensive forwards in the league,” Devin said, putting a coaster down at the empty spot.
“And one of the worst poker players,” Filip said, laughing, and then turned serious. “So you’re getting rid of the cane tomorrow?”
Nick nodded. “They’re gonna do a final scan and let the PT torture me for a while. But I ought to get the go-ahead to do full workouts. And they’ll let me drive again.”
André tapped his bottle on his lower lip. “You miss it?”
“Skating? Hell yes.” He pointed at the defenseman’s bottle. “Is that a local brew?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty good. There’s more in the garage.”
Devin started to get up, but Nick waved him off. “I took out a loan against my car after last week,” Nick joked over his shoulder. “So I’m ready for this game.” The guys laughed.
Actually, money wasn’t a problem, and they were playing very low stakes. This was a friendly game that Devin had started a few weeks back so Nick could get to know some of his new teammates before he was back on the ice. It was a thoughtful gesture that he’d returned by losing buckets of money to these guys. That hadn’t been intentional, but he thought it was nice of him anyway.
Nick knew there were three stairs down to the garage, but he didn’t notice the box beside the steps. His cane caught on the flap and when he stepped down it pulled him sideways and he missed a step. He sprawled down the last two steps, landing awkwardly on the box. His shoulder smashed the cardboard and his ribs bounced off the paint cans inside, knocking his teeth together.
“Oh my god,” a woman said. Nick looked up from the garage floor. A tall woman with honey hair rushed to help him. She extended a hand down, but he ignored it, pushing off against the cans, which dislodged a lid and knocked the can over. A cold slick of sapphire blue spread across his shirt.
“Shit.”
“Oh no,” the woman said. “I am so sorry.”
Nick stood without using his hands, and leaned out, trying to keep the paint from dripping onto his pants. The woman looked around frantically. No strategically placed rags. Nick sighed and pulled his shirt off, balling it to prevent the ooze from ruining anything else.
“Wow,” the woman said.
He looked at the soggy mess in his hand. “Yeah. I don’t think I got too much on me.”
She stared at him another moment, then darted toward a workbench along the back wall. “Paper towels!” she said triumphantly. She returned with the roll over a finger and pulled two narrow sheets off for him. He dabbed at his side, which was faintly sapphire.
“Too bad our colors are red and white,” he joked. She just bit her lip. “Have I got everything?” He held his arms out slightly and turned in a slow circle.
“There’s a little bit on your back.”
He whacked at it with a fresh paper towel, but she shook her head. “Um, you mind?” he said, holding it out to her. She flushed bright and scraped gently at his back. Was it inappropriate to ask a random woman to swab the paint off your bare torso? Of course it was. God, he was an idiot.
“Just need to get this wet!” she said, her voice strained and high. She bounded up into the kitchen and a moment later Devin and André appeared in the door.
“So, you’ve met Nick’s abs,” Devin called to the woman.
“Yep,” she said, her voice still high. She hurtled back toward Nick, a look of determination on her face. “Turn.” He swiveled so his back was to her, but that made him face Devin and André while she scrubbed him pink.
“You’re not hurt, right?” Devin said.
“No.”
“Good,” André said. “Because we’re definitely laughing at you, but we’d feel bad about it if you were hurt.”
“Why is Nick getting a sponge bath in the garage?” Leif said, his head popping between Devin and André’s.
“Okay, I think I’m clean,” Nick said. “Um, thanks.”
“Of course,” the woman murmured. “I am so, so sorry.”
“That’s your paint?” he said. She nodded.
“Okay, let’s fleece Nick now,” one of the guys at the table called.
“Don’t worry about it, Alyssa,” Devin said. “He’s going to be blue all evening anyway, because he’s a terrible poker player.”
“Hey now,” Nick said amiably, reentering the house and maneuvering around chair legs and feet to his spot.
Devin grabbed the beer Nick had been going for and then retrieved a T-shirt from the back of the house while the honey-haired woman disappeared into the thicket of rooms. Nick pulled the shirt on, and Devin gathered the cards and began to deal. Nick glanced around the house. There was a family room off the kitchen table area, and a glassed-in, three-season room that overlooked a deck and beyond it, a manicured yard. Then a bunch of rooms up front. It was a lot of house to maintain. Harder than a chair and a mattress, for sure.
Devin’s wife, Vanessa, a gorgeous brunette, stood in the three-season room with the tall woman who had helped him when he’d been ambushed by her paint cans in the garage. She was pretty, and he already knew she was a good blusher. He smiled to himself. Vanessa ran her hand over a pillow, and Nick watched them until André lodged an elbow in his ribs. He grunted and picked up his cards. Play began and Nick called.
He kept an eye on the women. A moment later the blonde—Alyssa—glanced over, saw him looking, and smiled. She had warm brown eyes and a stunning smile, and he felt like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
He covered by saying, “I think your wife is replacing you with a pillow.”
Devin swiveled in his seat to see Vanessa caressing the accessories. The throw pillow was turquoise and shimmery and set off the other turquoise accents in the room, adding a pop of color after a kitchen with whitewashed cabinets and a family room in neutral tones and light wood furniture. “Yeah, that’s the designer who redid that room. I didn’t introduce you, did I? Sorry about that.” Devin examined his cards and bit his lip. “It’s a final walk-through or something.” He rapped his knuckles on the table to pass. “They’ve become friends, and now I’m caught in an endless cycle of having rooms redone because they want to hang out.”
“They could just have lunch,” Leif said with a thick accent. “Call.”
“But that wouldn’t cost me as much money,” Devin said.
They threw their cards down, and the Swede grinned and raked the pot in.
“Speaking of losing money,” Nick said.
“Yeah, you can go broke even without buying furniture,” Devin said, and then his eyes widened.
“No,” Nick said.
“Hey, Vanessa!” Devin called.
“No.”
“Could you guys come over here?”
“No!” Nick hissed.
Vanessa and the designer walked over, smiling. The designer glanced at his torso and then looked away, blushing. Nick gathered the cards in and began to shuffle with a vengeance.
“It’s my deal, man,” the left wing next to him said.
“It’s mine now.”
“Vanessa, you remember Nick.”
He looked up and smiled. “Thanks for the lasagna. That was very thoughtful.” The captain’s wife beamed at him.
“And this is Alyssa Compton, our interior designer. Or decorator, or something,” Devin said.
“The paint terrorist,” Nick said, meaning to make light but regretting it when he saw the look of horror on the blonde woman’s face.
“Again, I am so sorry,” she said.
Nick waved a hand. “Nice to meet you. Officially.” She smiled tightly. She looked as comfortable as he felt. “Sorry to interrupt your walk-through.” He began dealing.
“Alyssa, Nick is in possession of the saddest apartment in all Detroit,” Devin said. “He desperately needs your services.”
“Oh, I’d be happy to do a consul—”
“No, thanks,” Nick said. “I like it fine the way it is.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Leif, the goalie, asked.
“There’s nothing in it,” Devin said. They all looked at Nick—Vanessa, Alyssa, and five NHL players.
“I’m a minimalist.” He stopped dealing and looked around the table in confusion, then sighed and beckoned for the cards back. He’d dealt out the whole deck. No one said anything. “Be a damn shame if at the end of the season I win the Selke Trophy but lose Apartment of the Year.” Alyssa crossed her arms. Was he being a jerk? He just wanted them to leave him alone. He dealt again and this time did it right.
André picked up his hand, sighed, and said, “Yeah, I’m gonna need another beer.”
“Don’t forget the snacks on the island,” Vanessa said.
“There is no chance of that,” Devin said, wrapping an arm around her hips and giving her a squeeze. The other guys grunted in agreement.
Alyssa leaned across the table and handed Nick her business card. Her arm was long and lean and her hair swung as she moved. “If you ever want a consultation, I’d be happy to take a look. I can do minimalist.” She gave him a dazzling smile.
“Thanks.” He gave what he hoped was an indifferent smile and raised, just to have something to do.
“I could do something hockey themed if that’s your thing. Put in a potato baker for you. Maybe a chicken sculpture.” She shrugged and it made her hair bounce.
Nick stared at her. “Potatoes? Chickens? You want to turn my apartment into a farm?”
She laughed. “No, like old-time hockey. It was just a joke. I wouldn’t really …”
“Yeah, you’re gonna have to explain that,” André said.
Her eyes lit up and she gestured as she spoke. “Well in the old days, they baked potatoes in foil in the locker room before a game, and then the players put the foil in their gloves to keep their hands warm. And they had a nice snack for later.”
Nick laughed.
“It replenished their carbohydrates or something,” she said defensively.
André flipped an empty chip bag inside out and stuck his hand in it. “I’m putting on the foil!” he said, waving it around. The guys cracked up. He wasn’t being mean—it was just funny.
Nick lowered his head and said, “They taped foil on their hands so they could do more damage when they fought. It was an old WHA thing.”
“Nope. I’m pretty sure it was potatoes,” Alyssa said.
Nick’s eyes sparkled. This woman was gorgeous, but she sure didn’t know anything about hockey. “And the chickens?”
“It was just one chicken. Although I suppose they needed one in each town.”
“I’m not following this,” Leif said.
“Nobody is,” Devin said.
“For the beginning of the game! So they knew which direction to go.” She looked at them, waiting for them to get it. “My stepfather explained it to me. Instead of a coin toss or whatever you do now, they used to have a chicken. They’d take it to the middle of the ice at the beginning of the game and the referee would let it loose. Whichever direction it flew, that was the way the home team headed that period.”
Nick laughed loud and long. He hadn’t laughed that hard in months. He wasn’t sure he’d laughed at all. “The chicken flew?”
“Yes,” Alyssa said with great confidence. “And they needed the chicken wire to keep it from going into the stands and, you know, messing up people’s hair.” The guys howled. Jakub fell out of his seat. Vanessa dropped her head and put a hand on Alyssa’s arm, opened her mouth, and then just shook her head. She and Alyssa headed out into the driveway, stepping over Jakub wiping tears from his eyes.
“Should anybody tell her the chicken wire was for stopping the puck before they had plexiglass?” Devin said.
“Definitely not,” Nick said. “I mean, she was so confident.” He laughed again and André waved his foil hand in his face.
They finally settled down, and the game began again. Devin lowered his head and stared at Nick from under his eyebrows. “Vanessa says she needs work. She’s with some agency whose head is an old battle-ax, and she has to do so much business every month or something.”
“They let a chicken loose at center ice. And it flew.” Nick wiped an eye with his knuckle.
“You know a lot about this,” Leif said. “The agency. Not the chicken.”
Devin shook his head. “You can’t imagine how much I hear about this interior design stuff. If I had a nickel for every time someone said the word ‘curtain’—”
“You could give it all to me,” André said, raking in the pot.
“Seriously? Damn,” Devin said. He leaned back on two chair legs to snag a bag of baby carrots off the island, and ripped it open, then turned his attention back to Nick. “This girl needs business, and you desperately need to spiff your place up. You’re not planning to live like that forever, are you?”
“Of course not,” Nick mumbled. Yes, I am.
“Good.”
“Next week I want to hear about your consultation,” Filip said, waggling an eyebrow. “She’s hot.”
After that they concentrated on the game, drinking beer, laughing, and trash-talking one another loudly. When Vanessa came back in from seeing Alyssa off, she curled up with a novel on a sofa in the family room. Nick glanced up once and saw her looking at him appraisingly. She smiled faintly and went back to her book. It gave him an uneasy feeling, people watching him. And tomorrow, when he lost the cane and got back in the game, it was going to get worse.