Rachel Gibson: True Love and Other Disasters

“The trade deadline has passed. Our roster is set, but next season we sure could use a guy in the blue zone with a mean right hook,” someone at the end of the table said.

Faith wasn’t sure what that meant, but no one seemed to notice, as they talked over and around her in rapid-fire succession as if she wasn’t even there.

“Someone who can defend as well as fight.”

“We’ve got Sam.”

“Liking to fight and intimating your opponents are two different things,” Ty added to the conversation as he took his seat at the end of the table. “Sam’s better feeding the puck up ice than he is at fighting. No one’s afraid of Sam.”

“That’s true.”

“Andre and Frankie are both coming along.”

“Not fast enough. We need someone like George Parros, but who can shoot the puck like Patrick Sharp.”

“Someone like Ted Lindsay.”

Coach Nystrom said, “Yeah, like ‘Terrible Ted.’”

They all nodded as if ‘Terrible Ted’ was their guy. Faith’s head was spinning and the conversation swirling around her made her feel as if she might hyperventilate. She had every right to hyperventilate; her life was spinning out of control, but she figured she probably shouldn’t pass out on her first day as owner. It might look bad. “How much to get this guy? This Terrible Ted?” she asked in an effort to join the conversation and not appear so absolutely clueless.

The conversation came to a halt and their heads pivoted to stare at her. Somehow she’d rendered them all speechless. All except Ty Savage. His eyes squinted as if he was in pain. “We’re fucked.”

“Saint, there’s a lady in the room,” a man in a Chinooks cap admonished.

“Sorry.” Then Ty tilted his head back and said, “We’re screwed like a crack whore on payday, eh?”

She looked across at Darby. “What?”

“Ted retired in nineteen sixty-five.” He tried to give her a comforting smile but it looked as pain-filled as Ty’s squinty eyes. “Before you were born.”

“Oh.” She guessed that meant Terrible Ted wasn’t available. So much for not appearing clueless.

Then she looked at us with those big green eyes and asked how much to get Terrible Ted to play for the Chinooks?”

Pavel Savage choked on the beer he held to his lips and lowered the mug to the table. “You’re screwed.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Ty nodded and took a long drink of his Labatt’s. His father had shown up at his house an hour ago, unexpected. Like always. “Yep. That’s what I said.” He set down the bottle and picked up his driver. Since his father’s arrival, the two of them had talked about last night’s game against Vancouver and Round Two, tomorrow night. They’d talked about Virgil’s death and what it meant for Ty’s chances at the cup. “The GM suggested she dig up Virgil’s old assistant.” He stood with his feet a shoulders’ width apart and placed the club behind the golf ball. “I don’t care how many assistants she hires to tell her the difference between a cross check and slashing, she’ll never have what it takes.” He brought the club back behind his shoulder and swung. The ball shot across the room and into the center of the big net at the other end. When he’d bought the house on Mercer a month ago, he’d bought it because of the huge media room that would allow him to practice long drives inside. A wall of windows looked out at the lake and the city of Seattle beyond. At night the skyline was spectacular. “The old man could not have died at a worse time, but at least he created a strong front line before he croaked.”

“That is some comfort. God rest his soul,” Pavel murmured as he looked down at the little radar unit monitoring Ty’s speed and tempo. The speed read 101, and Pavel’s dark brows lowered. “Is she as beautiful as her pictures?”

“I haven’t seen her pictures.” Ty hooked another ball with his driver and lined it up on the golf mat next to the radar. He didn’t have to ask whom his father was talking about. “I don’t give a shit about her pictures.” After she’d announced earlier that afternoon that she was not selling the team, the Chinooks PR department had issued a statement to the press that landed Faith Duffy on every channel of the local news. They’d dug up film footage of her walking into an event with Virgil and had spliced it with footage of her wearing a low-cut dress from her Playboy days and smiling with Hugh Hefner.

Ty’s phone had rung nonstop, with reporters wanting to know how he felt about the new owner, and instead of answering, he’d unplugged his phone. After Landon’s behavior, Ty was certain Virgil’s son wouldn’t have been a better choice. The man’s judgment was obviously flawed and influenced by emotion and personal motivations, which was never good in an owner. Now suddenly, a playmate was the better of the two choices. How had that happened? “You’ve seen the photos, I imagine.”

“No. I have not.” Pavel’s eyes pinched at the creased corners as he watched Ty swing.

The ball shot across the room and hit the red center of the net.

“That’s surprising.” Ty glanced at the radar, then at his father: 113. He recognized that squinty glint. Pavel was sixty-five and as competitive as ever.

“Not so much.” He shrugged and motioned for Ty to hand him the club.

“You couldn’t find an old Playboy .”

“No.” Pavel lined up a ball beside the radar.

Ty didn’t tell his father that he had the magazine in his gym bag right across the room. There was just something wrong about showing it to the old man, especially when he hadn’t even seen it himself.

“But then I really didn’t try. There are a lot of beautiful women in this world, why spend unnecessary time and energy on one?” Which summed up Pavel’s relationships with women. Even those women he’d married. He swung and the ball flew across the room and into the net. The radar flashed 83. Not bad for a man Pavel’s age, but of course it wasn’t good enough to beat his son.

“The grip on your club is hinky,” he said and handed Ty the driver. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

There was nothing wrong with his grip and Ty shot a few more balls into the net just to prove it. A little after ten, he flipped on his big-screen TV and settled onto the overstuffed moss-colored couch to watch the news. He thought about tomorrow night’s game and the Sedin twins.

He thought of Faith Duffy and hoped like hell that her announcement not to sell the team didn’t throw the Chinooks off their game. Knowing who was going to end up owning the Chinooks was better than not knowing, but not by much.

He thought about the way she’d looked that afternoon. First composed and together, then obviously shaken. Landon had called her “Layla,” which Ty figured had probably been her stripper name. Virgil’s son was an asshole. No two ways about it. To purposely degrade any woman in public was a nasty thing to do, but to do it to his former stepmother in front of a roomful of people showed a nasty arrogant streak that had made Mrs. Duffy look like the classier of the two. She’d stood there, toe to toe, with her head high and her back straight, and Ty had to give her points for not dissolving into tears or cussing like the irate stripper she’d once been.

He raised his beer to his lips and took a long drink. She didn’t dress like a stripper. Not even like a more subdued playmate. No bright colors or tight T-shirts ripped in strategic places. No tight jeans or short skirts with thigh-high boots. That afternoon, she’d been all covered up from her chin to knees like an uptight socialite. Of course, that sweater had just drawn attention to her large breasts, and every man in the room had been wondering what she looked like naked.