Chasing Stanley (42 page)

Delilah held up a hand. “I know what you mean. See you in fifteen.”

 

 

“Ho-ly shit.”

Michael Dante's big brown eyes bugged out of his head as Jason ushered Stan into the locker room, locking the door behind them. For a split second, everyone just stared at Stanley in awe. The next thing Jason knew, he and Stan were being surrounded by his teammates, and he was being bombarded with questions.

“What is that, a baby bear?”

“How much does that sucker weigh?”

“Yo, what the hell kind of dog is that?”

“Gentlemen,” said Jason proudly, “I want you to meet Stanley.”

Appreciative laughter rippled through the locker room. As always, Stanley basked calmly in the attention. He looked damn regal sitting there, his large black head tilted up nobly.

“Is it okay to pet him?” Tully Webster asked nervously.

“Of course,” said Jason. “He loves it.”

Hands shot out from all directions to pat Stanley's head or stroke his back.

“What kind of dog is this again?” Thad Meyers asked.

“A Newf,” Jason answered.

Michael Dante recoiled slightly as Stan panted. “His breath is foul.”

“I didn't get a chance to brush his teeth this week,” Jason explained apologetically.

“You brush your dog's fucking teeth?” Denny O'Malley jeered.

“Yeah. You might want to try it yourself sometime.”

Accompanied by sniggers, Denny stormed back to his locker to continue dressing. David Hewson, meanwhile, had crouched to examine Stanley's belly.

“What's with the stitches?” he asked.

“Minor surgery. Shouldn't you be off throwing up?”

“Oh. Right.” David stood and rubbed the top of Stanley's head. “For luck,” he explained before trooping off to the bathroom. The entire locker room held its breath, waiting for the sound of David retching. When it came, it was like music to their ears.

“Stanley,” each of the Blades intoned solemnly as they took turns petting Stanley's head, Michael Dante included.

“I don't want to know how you got him in here,” he said to Jason as the team began dressing. “I just hope to hell you can get him out.”

“Piece of cake,” Jason assured him. He crouched down, pressing his forehead against Stanley's.

“Bring us luck tonight, boy,” he whispered. “Please.”

“What are you
doing here?”

“What are
you
doing here?”

Delilah closed the door to the team's skybox and waited for Eric to answer. It wasn't stressful enough she'd had to sneak into Met Gar with an animal the size of a pony and pray she didn't get caught. Now she had to deal with her ex-boyfriend's brother, who had her father's ex-fiancée in tow.

“My brother's in the Cup finals,” Eric answered. “Of course I'm gonna be here.”

“Jason didn't mention anything about you being here.”

“That's because he's stupid, and probably distracted.” Eric looked down at Stanley. “What is
he
doing here?”

“He's the team mascot.” Delilah made a subtle gesture toward Brandi, who'd dramatically turned her back on Delilah the minute she came in. “What's
she
doing here?” she asked quietly.

“She's
my
mascot.”

“Spare me.”

Eric reached down to give Stanley a cursory pat on the head. “You know you're breaking the law, right?”

“Of course I do.” As calmly as she could, since Eric's words made her even more nauseous than she was already feeling, Delilah explained Jason's elaborate, hopefully foolproof, scheme. Eric's response was a snort.

“Oh, man. You are so going to be an item in the
Sentinel
's ‘Police Blotter.' ”

Delilah scowled at him. “That's very helpful, Eric. Thank you.”

Eric shook his head. “I can't believe he talked you into this.”

“Neither can I.” Delilah put a protective arm around Stanley as he sat, leaning against her.

“Why would you help him out on this after he dumped you? If it were me—”

“He told you he dumped
me
?”

Eric looked intrigued. “That's not how it went down?” he asked eagerly.

“I broke up with him first,” Delilah declared.

“Then why are you helping the loser out, risking your neck to bring Stan the Man to Met Gar?”

It was a good question, one that Delilah wasn't prepared to answer honestly, at least not out loud. “We're still
friends
.”

“Yeah? Let's see how good a friend he is when you get arrested with his dog.”

Delilah ignored the comment, escorting Stanley farther into the sanctuary of the skybox. Having never been in one before, she hadn't known what to expect. It was quite plush, with incredibly comfortable seats, its own bar, its own bathroom, and platters of food, one of which Brandi was busily divesting of pepperoni slices. Delilah approached her, uncertain of what to say.

“Your father's a total ween,” Brandi declared, not looking up.

Delilah could deal with a lot of things; a gold-digging bimbo calling her father a “ween” wasn't one of them. “You seem to have recovered from your heartbreak pretty fast,” Delilah noted dryly.

“Now, girls,” Eric chided in a tone so obnoxiously paternal Delilah wanted to smack him, “the only fights I want to see are down on the ice.” He grabbed a beer from the fridge before settling down in one of the comfy chairs with a satisfied sigh. “Game three of the quest for the Cup, Blades versus Detroit. This is gonna rock.”

 

 

“Goddamn, they're kicking
major ass tonight.”

Delilah smiled nervously at Eric's observation as she peered down from the skybox at the action on the ice below. The score was 3-2 with New York in the lead. Eric explained to her how Jason's teammate Doogie Malone had scored the second goal, taking “a perfect feed in the slot” from Thad Meyers and “wristing” the puck into the net on a “power play.” Eric was so excited Delilah didn't have the heart to tell him she had no idea what he was talking about. Her gaze followed the puck on the ice, which she knew wasn't what you were supposed to do; but it was the only thing her eyes could really latch on to, except for Jason. Every time he hit the ice she watched avidly, unable to tear her eyes away from him.

She peered behind her to check on Stanley, who was on his back, snoring, his belly exposed for all the world to see. “Maybe Stan
is
bringing them luck,” she mused aloud.

“I think it's more likely the realization that if they don't win tonight, they're fucked,” said Eric, eyes still glued to the ice as he tilted his head back to finish off his beer. “Je-sus!” he suddenly spluttered. “Did you see that?!”

“What?” Delilah asked, turning from Stanley as the roar of the crowd filled her ears. What had she missed?

“Jason! The fucker just scored on a low slap shot!”

Delilah looked down on the ice in time to see Jason getting pats on the butt from his teammates as he headed back to the bench. Brandi turned to Eric.

“Why do you pat each other's heinies like that?” she asked him.

Eric looked disturbed. “Hockey players don't have heinies, honey. We have asses. Don't forget that, okay?” He directed his attention back to the ice. “Jace is playing incredibly well tonight,” he murmured.

“You should tell him that.”

Eric turned to Delilah with a horrified expression. “Huh?”

“You're his brother,” said Delilah. “Can't you tell him he played well?”

Eric looked disgusted. “What is he, a pussy? He knows what I think.”

“Maybe he needs to hear it.”

“Did he tell you that?” Eric prodded, sounding alarmed.

“No,” said Delilah, feeling put on the spot. “I just thought it might be nice.”

“I'll tell him if they win the Cup. Any sooner, and he'll get a swelled head.” Eric's gaze returned to the action below. Delilah followed suit, watching Jason as he climbed over the boards and back out onto the ice. She didn't know very much about hockey, but even she noticed Jason had been playing a lot. “How are your folks?” she asked abruptly. “You know, I really liked them. They seemed really nice and—”

“Quiet!” Eric snapped. Suddenly he jumped out of his seat. “Yes!
Yes!!
Shot from the left point by the Ulfinator!” He grabbed Delilah and hugged her, hard. “Sorry I told you to be quiet, Delilah. But there are some moments in hockey that require absolute and complete silence.”

“I can see that.”

“Don't I get a hug?” Brandi pouted.

Eric leaned over and quickly hugged Brandi. “Better?”

Brandi nodded.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Eric chanted, pumping his fist in the air.

His enthusiasm was contagious, as was that of the crowd. The louder they roared, the more Delilah longed to understand what was going on. Though she feared being mocked, she finally plucked up the courage to ask Eric to explain the game to her as it unfolded. Eric, ever the show-off, was glad to be of assistance. When it came time for her to leave midway through the third period, Delilah was actually sad to go; she wanted to see how the game would end. She asked the limo driver to put on WFAN, and listened, rapt. The Blades won.

 

 

The mood in the locker room was exuberant after the Blades' 5-2 win against Detroit. They had righted the ship. If they played the next three games the way they'd played tonight, the Cup would be theirs.

Peeling off his uniform, Jason was in an exhausted daze, playing over and over in his mind the goal he'd scored. It had been a long time since he'd been in the zone, a place beyond time and physical boundaries when all the forces of the universe seemed united in your favor, and you just flew. But that was exactly what had happened to him tonight. Each time he was on the ice, everything jelled perfectly; it was almost supernatural. He didn't know how else to explain it, except that it was something he always strived for, but only intermittently achieved. It was great to have been able to get there tonight.

“Yo, Mitchie.” Jason turned at the sound of David Hewson's voice. “You were pretty hot tonight.”

“Thanks.” Jason pressed a towel against his sweaty face with a chuckle. “It must be Stanley's doing.”

“Either that or tossing my cookies before the game,” David replied.

“Could be.”

Compliments flew back and forth across the locker room, along with unprintable barbs about the opposing team. Everyone was feeling pretty damn good, awash in good cheer and high hopes. And then Ty walked in.

“You boys really pulled it out of yourselves tonight. You should be proud. But let's be careful not to get ahead of ourselves,” he cautioned. He motioned for the players to draw closer. Jason and his teammates closed ranks around their coach, whose deep, impassioned voice could be as hypnotic as any drug.

“We can win this series. You know it, and I know it. But if we start feeling cocky, we'll start getting sloppy, which is precisely what I want to avoid.” Ty's gaze slowly circled the room. Jason knew everyone there was thinking the same thing he was:
God, please don't let me be on the receiving end of a prolonged, ball-shriveling stare.
But tonight, Ty distributed the tension equitably. “Some of you have won the Cup before. Some of you haven't. But all of you have the same hunger inside, and that's what's going to drive us to victory. Not guts. Not determination. But hunger. You keep focused, you stay hungry, and you'll win. It's as simple as that.” He headed for the door. “See you tomorrow morning at practice, boys. Oh, and Mitchell?” he called over his shoulder.

Jason froze at being singled out. Shit. What had he done wrong?

“Yes, Coach?”

“Don't forget to bring Stanley to the next game.”

“Delilah! It's so
wonderful to see you again!”

Slipping Stanley into the skybox for game six, Delilah was dumbstruck at the sight of Jason's mother. Tension was unbearably high: if New York won, the Cup was theirs; if they lost, they'd have to go back to Detroit for game seven. It made perfect sense for Jason's parents to be here, though in typical Mitchell family fashion, their presence had taken her by surprise.

She could forgive Jason for forgetting to mention it; he'd been so tense and preoccupied throughout the playoffs he was barely verbal, handing over complete care of Stanley to her as the Blades jetted back and forth between New York and Michigan to battle Detroit.

There was no escaping the excitement that had turned the city into one big, buzzing hive of hockey fans. Everywhere Delilah turned, someone was talking about the Cup. It was all over the TV, the newspaper, and the radio. Even her father, whose idea of sports was arguing with her mother, mentioned it. “That's the boyfriend's team, right?” he'd asked. “Well, if any of them need mattresses . . .”

Delilah told Stanley to sit. “It's nice to see you, too, Mrs. Mitchell.”

Jason's mother nodded with concern in the direction of Jason's father, whose nose was practically pressed up against the Plexiglas of the skybox, even though the game had yet to begin. “He's a wreck,” Mrs. Mitchell confided to Delilah. She seemed nervous as she stood there, clasping and unclasping her hands. “Do you know who all these people are?” she whispered to Delilah. The skybox was filled with people, most of them handsome, well-built men with attractive women and a few children in tow. Eric seemed to be holding court.