Chapter 11 #2
Sabien cuts me off. “We’re all concerned about the state of Brody’s health with all its implications.” He stands close to Brody, and I instinctively go to Brody’s other side as we walk towards the door.
“Not so fast,” Doctor Patrick says. His face is serious as an undertaker when I look at him. “I have instructions. The first is no more hockey tonight.”
“That’s no problem since the game is about over by now,” Sabien says, but he’s not smiling.
Neither am I because I know there’s another proverbial shoe about to drop like an anvil.
Doc grunts and nods. “Rest and quiet. No hockey for a week. Not even practice. No excitement or vigorous activity.” He gives me a stern glance at that last part as if.
Heat floods to my face automatically, and I have to force myself not to look away or down at the floor, or to flee from the room if I’m honest. Chancing a glance at Lou, I see he’s not bothering to suppress a grin as he stares back at me, though there is a tinge of sympathy in his expression.
Doc hands Brody a package of bandages and a tube of cream.
“Change the bandage tonight.” Brody nods, and Doc turns to me. “You can help him—unless you’re too squeamish?”
I glare at the doctor and snatch the bag of medical goodies from Brody’s hand. “I’ll get over it. Don’t worry about me.”
“I was more worried about him.” Doc points a thumb over his shoulder at the kid. “He’s the hottest commodity on ice.”
I’m the last person who needs to be told that.
“Now both of you go home and rest,” Doc says with irrefutable finality.
Stubby waits for the doctor to take his black bag and leave before he speaks up. “First, Brody must attend the post-game press conference and then the fan extravaganza at the Venetian’s expo center.”
“No,” I say. “You heard the Doc. No excitement. The Venetian’s expo center is the worst possible place for—”
“He’s obligated. We’ve sold tickets, and the fans are expecting him.”
My frown deepens, and I’m about to launch into a lawyerly tirade about my client’s health and well-being, but Stubby isn’t stupid, and he reads my expression.
Changing his tactic, he says in a reasonable voice, “He only needs to make a short appearance.”
“I’ll do it,” Brody says to me. His voice sounds like a solid steel skate blade if it could speak.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Sabien asks before I do.
“Of course,” Stubby says. He clearly only cares about his All-Star extravaganza. “Brody can sleep all day tomorrow.” He flashes his too-white teeth at us.
“I’ll be there with you,” I say. I don’t mention in front of Stubby that I plan to make sure Brody gets out of the fan event in fifteen minutes or less.
Sabien nods.
Leaning into me, Brody hitches a brow in a flirtatious gesture. “Are you coming back to the locker room with me?”
“Unfortunately for you,” Sabien says, “you’re coming with me.”
“Go through the back hall,” Lou points. “Then you can wait to confront the media when you come back this way and join your—”
“That sounds like a great plan, Lou,” I say to stop him from saying what I think he’s going to say—to join your wife.
The last thing we need is for Lou to spread the lie that I’m Brody’s wife.
Sabien wastes no time, and I watch him disappear with my—I mean Brody.
Then I’m left with Lou and Stubby, the man in a suit with an NHL label on his pocket and no heart underneath.
We wait in uncomfortable silence interrupted by a hard rap on the door, which Lou answers. There’s a short conversation that Stubby almost interrupts until Lou says with admirable force, “He’s dressing and he’ll be out shortly.” Then he shuts the door and locks it.
Turning, he says, “That was coach. He’s holding off the mob of media—his words, not mine.”
Stubby frowns and glances down at me as if it’s my fault someone knocked Brody into the boards and gave him a concussion. It occurs to me the opposite is true, and never being one to waste a good accusation in an adversarial position, I frown up at Stubby and throw my hands on my hips.
“If you’d run a cleaner game tonight, Brody wouldn’t have gotten injured. I hold you and the coaches responsible for this situation.”
Stubby steps back and looks at me like an animal about to growl.
Apparently, I hit a sore spot, but before he can launch into whatever defensive tirade he has up his slick sleeve, Brody and Sabien return dressed in suits.
I automatically gravitate to Brody’s side protectively, even though right now he looks more like a cover model for GQ than the vulnerable, injured boy-like man he was on the training table.
Stubby has a few insipid words with him and Sabien, thanking them and promising to see them at The Venetian’s expo center later.
Lou takes the opportunity to grab my arm before we head out the door. He whispers, “Don’t let him drink. Doc gave him some meds for the headache that don’t mix with alcohol.” He hands me a bottle of pills. “For later as needed.” He adds in a whisper, “Sorry about your honeymoon.”
Ignoring the prickle of guilt at not clearing up the lie, I nod. “Of course.” Then I make myself ask, “What would happen? If he had a drink?”
Lou shrugs. “Nothing too terrible. He’d probably pass out.”
He’d hate that. I absolutely can’t let him be anything but one hundred percent lucid. That’s the only way we’ll be able to avoid anyone else noticing his wedding band.
“Remember, the marriage is a secret,” I say, wondering at the same time how and when I can undo that ridiculous lie. Maybe the truth wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
I’m contemplating telling Lou the truth right now when there’s another knock at the door, and Lou hurries to open it, letting in the mob-like noise and two arena representatives to guide us into the fray.
I hastily grab Brody’s hand—the one with the wedding band—and try to stuff it in his pocket. His grin goes wide into full dimple form as he glances down at me, giving my hand a squeeze before he slips it inside the pocket of his tight-fitting pants.
Unfortunately, no one told the mob of media that he needs to keep the lights and craziness to a minimum and that we need to get to the event to get it over with.
Shit. Before that, we need to go back to the hotel for a date with Bigelow and Tammi at the jewelers.
The path from the back door to the waiting SUV is littered with media reps wielding mics, cameras, and phones all over the place, shouting questions about his injury.
He waves, and I try to rush him past the crowd as he tries to keep them happy without saying much.
Stubby handles the media’s hunger for an interview by putting Sabien front and center to carry the bulk of the load. Sabe is used to the spotlight with a devoted following back in Portsmouth and all over New England.
When Stubby calls for the last question, he points to a young woman who I’m sure he figures is harmless.
“According to medical experts who observed Brody’s injury, they say it’s one hundred percent certain that he’s suffered a moderate level concussion. Is it advisable for him to be going to the fan event? Shouldn’t he be resting?”
Brody stops in his tracks, and there’s no prodding him forward.
He turns to Stubby, and they exchange a look that speaks of some kind of understanding between them, the kind that gives me a chill.
I whisper, “Maybe we should go straight back to the hotel—”
The young woman reporter shouts, “Brody, you look like you have a concussion too serious for—”
“I’m fine. Not as bad as I look, apparently.” He grins and gets a smattering of chuckles.
Stubby says, “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen.” Then he nods grimly at the arena security guards who surround me, Brody, and Sabien and escort us past the media and fans to the waiting SUV.
“Can’t miss a fan event.” He grins and gives a last wave to the crowd. I hope I’m the only one who notices him stumble as he gets into the back of the car.
Stubby leans into the car before the door is closed. “The car will take you straight to the All-Star fan event at The Venetian’s expo center.”
“Thank you,” I manage to speak politely to the high-handed man, “but I’d rather go back to the hotel so that—”
“Not an option,” the man says, and with a chill, I realize he’s right as he steps back and one of the security men closes the door with a decisive thunk.
The silence is complete. This isn’t just any car. It’s a fully tricked-out limo-style SUV like I’ve never seen before.
I’m almost over the heavy-handedness of the NHL official—until said man gets in the front seat with the chauffeur.
He turns and says, “Change of plans. I’m coming with you.” Then he slides the partition closed. No smile. Guess he doesn’t trust us—or more likely he doesn’t trust me.
The car starts moving, and I whisper, “Why do I feel like a high-value kidnap victim right now?”
“Because you’re a paranoid super-agent,” Brody says. Then he lowers his voice and leans in and whispers, “Did I mention I find your protective streak sexy as hell?”
“I’m right here,” Sabien says, waving his hands. “Leave her alone, Romeo. You just had a fucking concussion, and you look more like Frankenstein with those stitches than a leading man.”
I squelch a laugh because he’s so wrong. Brody’s stitches only enhance his leading man looks with a touch of rugged-chic.
“When am I getting this ring off—” Brody says, and I cover his mouth with my hand before I think through how the feel of his mouth against my palm will electrify all my dormant sexy hormones. I remove it fast like I’ve touched a hot iron. Not far off on the scorch meter.
“Shhh.” I nod my head to the front seat. He waits patiently for an answer.
I owe him that, so I whisper, “We found the showgirl.”
His eyebrows go up, and I don’t miss the twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
Sabien leans in. “What did you do to her?”
Brody suppresses a smile, and I roll my eyes.
“Seriously, she’s returning the wallet and… she needs her ring back. It was meant for her fiancée—her real fiancée.”