closed the door and the bus rolled across the tarmac.
The San Jose Marriott was in the heart of downtown and not far from the HP Pavilion. On the short drive to the hotel, Ty folded his arms across the front of his wool jacket and watched the sun hitting the buildings and lighting up rows of palm trees. It was still early in the playoffs, but a win against the Sharks tomorrow night was very important. After practice today, he wanted to review game tapes of the San Jose defense and their goalie, Evgeni Nabokov. In last night’s game, Nabokov had stopped twenty-three shots on goal. He was cool under pressure and consistent, but even cool, consistent goalies had bad nights. Ty’s job was to make him wish they’d sent in the rookie.
A few rows up, Faith slid her hand up the sides of her hatbox, over the top, and then back down. Her long thin fingers brushed the Louis Vuitton monogram, back and forth, caressing it like a lover. Her shiny red nails scraped the hard surface, and Ty’s scalp got tight, as if she’d touched him again.
“Jesus H,” Ty whispered and leaned his head back. He was tired and his right ankle hurt like a bitch. He had a game against the Sharks to think about, and his old man was making him nuts. And thanks to Sam, one prevailing thought pushed everything out of his head: What the hell was in the damned hatbox? Sam might fantasize about nurses, but Ty was a lingerie man. He loved lacy garters and thigh-high stockings on a pair of smooth thighs.
Chapter 8
Being a trophy wife had been hard work. It had been more than champagne wishes and caviar dreams. It had been always looking perfect and going to country clubs and parties that you learned to enjoy. It meant sometimes socializing with people you might not like and who might not like you. Although Virgil had become Faith’s best friend, he’d always been the boss. There was never any doubt about it, but after being responsible for her own survival for so long, it had been nice to let someone else take care of her. To kick back and not worry about paying her bills. To have her biggest concern of the day involve which dress to wear to the Rainier Club.
Virgil had never made her do anything she’d felt strongly against, but he’d been in charge. The captain of his life, and for the most part, hers. She’d dressed to fit into his life, and she’d learned about perception and image. She’d learned subtlety. That sexy had more to do with what you covered up than what you let hang out. It was more than skintight clothes and flashy makeup—something her mother had yet to learn.
For the first time in years, Faith went shopping that afternoon to please herself and no one else. She hit the streets of downtown San Jose and shopped at Burberry and BCBG and Ferragamo. She shopped the more edgy designs by Gucci and a new, up-and-coming French designer. She bought casual clothes from Diesel in colors she hadn’t worn in years. She bought soft cotton T-shirts and jeans. She bought hoodies that she intended to wear for occasions other than to work out. By the time she was finished, it was six hours later and her feet hurt.
The sun had set. She waited next to the curb by Cole Haan for a town car to pick her up. Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of the depths of her Fendi tote.
“Some of the guys are at an Irish pub a few blocks from the hotel,” Jules said into her ear. “You need to go in there and have a drink with them.”
“What?” She’d spent the morning spying on the Sharks’ practice with Jules and the afternoon shopping. “I’m exhausted.”
“It’s a good way for the guys to get to know you. In case you didn’t notice, they’re kind of uptight when you’re around.”
Two teenage girls with complicated haircuts, tight black pants, and thick eyeliner walked past. They looked at her mountain of bags with sad emo eyes and shook their sad emo heads at her disgusting display of consumer greed. “I noticed, but I don’t know what to say to them.”
“Just be yourself.”
That was a problem. She wasn’t sure who she was anymore.
“I know you can be witty and charming,” he said, clearly lying. “Let them see a bit of who you are. Other than the owner of the team and a former playmate and Las Vegas stripper. Which is how they see you now.” He paused and added a quick, “No offense intended.”
The town car rolled up to the curb and she waved it to a stop. “None taken.” She was never offended by the truth. And the truth was that the last time she’d been in the same room with that many athletes, they’d been stuffing money in her G-string and trying to cop a feel.
“You need to develop a rapport with them.
Make them feel comfortable around you while they keep a healthy respect for you as the owner of the Chinooks.”
Which sounded fairly tricky. “Could you put these all in the trunk?” she directed the driver. She hooked her pinky finger in the cuff of her light wool jacket and looked at her watch. “It’s almost seven.”
“I know. Happy hour is over soon, so you need to get your butt in there.”
She wanted nothing more than to take a nice, long soak in the spa tub, put on a fluffy hotel bathrobe, and order room service. “Fine. I’ll meet you in the lobby.” The driver opened the door for her and she climbed inside.
“I’m in the lobby waiting for you. We need to go over a few things before we go to the pub.”
“What? Why?”
“While you spent the afternoon shopping, I went to Chinooks practice and I took some notes.”
“I’m tired. I’ve hit the wall. I can’t absorb any more information. You need to relax a little.” The driver got into the car and she gave him the address of the hotel. “I’m not paying you by the hour, Jules.”
“You said you don’t want to look stupid in front of the guys.”
“Fine,” Faith moaned. “You can talk to me about it while I change my clothes.” There was a long pause. “I have to change, Jules. I’ve been wearing the same clothes since this morning.”
“I told you I’m not gay.”
She frowned as the car pulled out of the huge parking lot. “I know.”
“You can’t change in front of me,” he said, his tone a bit scolding. “That isn’t professional.”
She rolled her eyes. “I was planning on changing in the bathroom.”
The Irish pub claimed to be the most authentic in San Jose. Ty didn’t care about “authentic” as he sat in a room near the back with ten of his teammates, eating shepherd’s pie and drinking a pint of Guinness. The playoffs beards around him ranged from Vlad’s outer Siberian scraggle to Logan’s baby fuzz. Ty had his share of superstitions; itchy beards just weren’t one of them.
“The Sharks’ offense is all speed and no seed,” said Ty, while U2’s “With or Without You” wafted from the pub’s sound system. He took a drink of the dark ale then licked the corners of his mouth. He’d spent that morning and part of the afternoon practice watching San Jose game tapes, and he was less concerned about their scoring than he was about their defense. “Speed might entertain the crowd, but it doesn’t put pucks in the net.
Clowe is their highest scorer, but he’s not setting any records with his goals or his points.”
“Defense is good.” Frankie “Sniper” Kawczynski took a bite of his sirloin. “If Nabokov is in his zone, he might be hard to score against.”
Sam grinned. “I like a challenge.”
Ty took one last bite and shoved his plate away. “If Marty plays like he did the other night,” he said, referring to their own goalie, “there’s no reason why we shouldn’t beat ’em with our offense
Alexander Devereaux stood and tossed money on the table. “I’m meeting up with some of the guys at a bar across town. I heard they have good music and hot waitresses in little outfits.” He reached for his leather jacket hanging on the back of his chair. “Anyone want to catch a cab with me?”
Ty shook his head. Even if his ankle hadn’t been aching like a son of a bitch, he wouldn’t have gone. He’d done his time in hundreds of bars in hundreds of cities, and he’d figured out a while ago that he wasn’t missing a thing.
Daniel and Logan stood and reached for their wallets. “I’m in.”
“Me too.” Vlad tossed two twenties on the table. “Cali-forn-ya girlz need zome Vlad.”
Ty laughed. “Don’t drop your pants on the dance floor and scare the ‘Cali-forn-ya’ girls.” More than one American woman had run screaming from Vlad’s uncircumcised impaler.
“I don’t do zhat no more.” Vlad’s deep Russian laughter mixed with the ending strains of U2. Vladimir Fetisov
