Anna Sugden - A Perfect Compromise

Issy drank some more water, then tried to fall asleep. But despite the tiredness that washed over her in waves, she couldn’t drop off.

After takeoff, her nausea eased a little. But it returned full-force when the meal service started. The smell of coffee made her stomach roll.

Oh, no. She was going to be sick.

Issy jumped up and dashed for the toilets. She barely got the door closed before she threw up.

Welcome back to reality, Isabelle Brandine.

CHAPTER FIVE

“GOOD TO SEE our Millionaire Ice Boy still gets his hands dirty.”

From wading in the Caribbean to wading in cow crap in three weeks: the two sides of J.B.’s life.

He didn’t give his oldest brother the satisfaction of a verbal response but continued mucking out the stalls in their parents’ barn. Shame the shovel of manure slipped, slewing its contents over Marc Andre’s jeans and boots.

“You ass,” his brother spluttered, jumping back. “I just got cleaned up to go into town.”

“I’m sorry, but what do you expect from a lowly ‘ice boy’?” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m out of practice at shoveling crap.”

“Perhaps I should get Dad to send you over to my place to do chores, too.”

His father would love that. “Nah. Not much call for this skill in my day job.”

“Maybe not, but it might improve your aim, kid.”

“I’d say my aim’s pretty damn good.” He grinned and reached for the hose. “Want me to wash you down?”

Marc Andre laughed and stepped out of the line of fire. “By the time you’re done I’ll need to change everything, even my underwear, and I don’t have time.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone walked around town covered in Eau de Cow Dung. No one will bat an eyelid.”

“True. But sometimes even us yokels need to spruce up.” Marc Andre punched his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, bro. Been too long.”

“I know.” Guilt twinged his chest. The last time J.B. had come to the farm was back in December when he’d flown out a day early for the team’s swing through Western Canada.

Though he knew he should make more of an effort to get home, it wasn’t easy to find the time. Unlike the guys who played sixteen games of football and were done by the end of January, J.B.’s season was eighty-two games over seven months. If he was lucky, that was followed by a postseason that took him through to June.

And it wasn’t like he took the summer off. Technically, J.B. had three months before he had to report for training camp. But in reality, if he didn’t start his workout schedule in the next couple of weeks, he wouldn’t be in peak physical condition come September.

He’d tried in the past to draw the comparison with farming, where there was little downtime in the calendar, but it had gone over his folks’ heads.

“This was a tough year for visits, with me being selected for the All-Stars and then our Cup run.”

“We understand. Well, Dad doesn’t, but the rest of us get it. Who’d have thought a Larocque would be burning up the NHL?” His brother rubbed a hand over his jaw. “It’s a good thing, because you suck as a farmer.”

“Yeah. So, how come you’re going into town during the day, midweek?”

“I’ve got a meeting with the bank. Now Amelie and I know for sure that baby number four is due in the new year I want to simplify my finances.”

“Congratulations.” That would make seven nieces and nephews. Another reason J.B. felt like he’d been born into the wrong family. Much as he loved the rug rats, for sure he wasn’t ready for one of his own. There was plenty of hockey left to play and life to enjoy, before he settled down and burdened himself with those responsibilities.

“If you weren’t so freaking stubborn, you wouldn’t have any mortgages or loans. Neither would Pierre Luc.”

“I’m not taking your money.” Marc Andre’s expression was fierce. “You’ll need it to live off when you’re retired. You sure as hell can’t make a living off the land.”

J.B. leaned on the shovel to stop himself from using it to knock some sense into his brother. This was an old argument that always ended the same. While he respected independence and appreciated that his family weren’t spongers, they were too damn proud. “By the time I’m done, I’ll have more than enough for several lifetimes.”

“You never know. You could get injured or traded. The team could be sold or go belly-up. And once you’re done, you’ll still be young, with a long life ahead of you.”

Like farming was any more secure. “So take the money as a loan. I bet the bank can’t beat a no-interest repayment plan.”

“Appreciate the offer, but it’s best we don’t muddy the family water with money.”

Straight out of the mouth of Bastien Larocque. Their father said the same thing often enough.

“Anyway, we’re not destitute,” his brother continued. “This winter was rougher than usual and things got a little tight. The bank’s been great about reworking payments to help ease the pressure.”

It burned his butt that his brother preferred help from a bank manager over J.B. “If you won’t let me give you the money, at least let me invest in your place. Buy machinery, refurbish buildings or something. It’ll give me a tax break.”

Marc Andre’s jaw set. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

J.B. knew that stubborn look. “All right. But if you ever need money badly enough to not care about muddy freaking water, you know where to come. Deal?” He stuck out his hand.

“Deal.” Marc Andre shook his hand.

“So, what time’s your appointment?”

His brother swore as he checked his watch. “I should get going. See you at dinner.”

J.B. brooded about the situation as he finished his share of the chores.

He understood his dad’s stance. Even when J.B. couched it as repaying what his parents had spent on his hockey, Bastien had refused to accept his money. In his father’s mind, professional athletes were a step above gigolos. Earning money playing sport didn’t count.

The old man had spent his whole life working the farm, which had never made much of a living for the Larocques. If not for his mom, J.B. wouldn’t be where he was today.

He hosed off the floor, hung the tools on the rack and headed to the house to clean up.

In the kitchen his mom was busy cooking. She always made plenty so that her daughters-in-law—who worked alongside their husbands on their farms, as well as looked after their kids—didn’t have to. A good thing since both Amelie and Clare were lousy cooks.

Twelve loaves were cooling on wire racks on the counter, next to a dozen jars of homemade spaghetti sauce. On the table two coolers were filled with foil-wrapped parcels.

His stomach rumbled. It had been hours since breakfast and he wouldn’t get lunch until after his mom had done her weekly grocery shop. J.B. sneaked a piece of the potato salad his mom was mixing. “Mmm. Are you sure I can’t steal you away to come and cook for me in Jersey? You’re still the best.”

She patted his cheek. “Much as I’d like to make sure you eat properly—you look a little skinny—I couldn’t leave the farm. Besides, I’m not sure I’d be happy where you live.”

Like most people who’d never been to the Garden State, his mom thought the whole area was an industrial monstrosity. “You’d be surprised how nice it is, Ma. Come visit and see.”

“Maybe later in the year.”

J.B. wouldn’t hold his breath. Like the discussion about money, this was another old conversation. “Are you ready to go into town?”

“Definitely. If you’re still happy to take me.” She slipped off her apron.

He grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl. “For sure. I’ll have the prettiest woman in the area on my arm.”