Chasing Stanley (7 page)

“
No.
I just like to know as much as I can about the person who's going to be taking care of my dog.”

“Mmm.” Eric seemed distracted as he watched a leggy blonde in a short skirt saunter by. “Man, they sure don't make 'em like that in North Dakota, eh, bro?”

“The dog walker?” Jason prompted.

“Oh. Right.” Eric turned back to him. “All I know is that she loves her dogs and everyone else's, but keeps them in line. You know, the whole tough love thing that Mom and Dad tried with us but didn't work.”

Jason laughed appreciatively.

“Sometimes I see her at the Starbucks around the corner with some tall, skinny, black guy.”

“Her boyfriend?” Jason asked, hoping he wasn't too obvious.

“Nah. He's a queen. I think he's a coworker or something. I've seen him out walking dogs, too.” Eric narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You gonna ask this chick out or what?”

“Will you quit calling her a chick? This isn't an episode of
The Mod Squad
.”

“Nice attempted deflection,” Eric drawled. “What's the deal?”

“I already told you,” Jason replied, playing up his exasperation. “She's probably going to wind up spending more time with Stanley than I am. I need to get as much info on her as I can.”

Eric looked skeptical. “Didn't you interview her?”

“Of course I did. I'm looking for off-the-record stuff; dirt you might have heard about her on the street.”

Eric snorted. “Look who's talking like Linc's sidekick now.”

“Don't bust my balls, Eric.”

“I haven't heard anything bad about her, and that's the truth. What's her name?”

“Delilah.”

“Delilah,” Eric repeated slowly. “She good with Stanley?”

“She's great with Stanley. Lets him lick her face and everything.”

“That is totally gross.”

“You'll understand when you become a father,” Jason teased.

Eric looked thoughtful. “Well, she's cute, I'll give her that much,” he repeated.

Jason suppressed a scowl. That was the second time his brother had used the word
cute
in connection with Delilah. It set his teeth on edge.

“I'd do her,” Eric continued.

“Who wouldn't you do?” Jason retorted.

“Hmm. Good question. I'll get back to you on that.”

While his brother ran down a mental checklist searching for any woman he wouldn't bed, Jason found himself wondering what Delilah was doing. Probably walking dogs. Or feeding dogs. Or something else dog-related. She'd be proud to know he'd been practicing the Halti/leash trick with Stanley, and it was working like a charm; Stan paraded around the house with it on, no problem.

He was looking forward to their next dog training lesson. He considered it a coup that he'd gotten her to talk about herself. It was clear she was painfully shy.

“You ready to get your ass kicked tomorrow night?” he asked Eric. Tomorrow was the Blades home opener against New Jersey. Jason couldn't wait to get on the ice and play his first game as a Blade. That he'd be facing off against his brother made it that much sweeter.

Eric's mouth curled into a sneer. “Fuck you. You're the one who's gonna be crying for Mama tomorrow night, not me.”

“Right.”

“Haven't you been reading the sports pages?”

“I try to avoid it,” said Jason with a yawn. “It gets kind of boring reading about how great I am.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Gee, I musta missed that article. The ones I keep seeing are those talking about what a powerhouse Jersey is.” He reached across the table to swipe Jason's final morsel of cake. “Be afraid, little brother. Be very, very afraid. 'Cause I'm gonna show no mercy.”

Jason laughed dismissively. “I'm shaking in my skates.”

 

 

Jason was well-acquainted with the adrenaline rush that came with preparing to play, but dressing for his first game as a Blade, he was close to giddy. Lacing up his skates on the bench in front of him sat the Blades' new goalie, David Hewson, while across the room, the team's new defenseman, Ulf Torkelson, was slipping on his Blades jersey for the first time. The locker room hummed with an odd mixture of solemnity and excitement. Barry Fontaine, a gritty veteran, grinned at Jason as he worked on affixing his shoulder pads.

“Nervous?”

“Nah,” Jason lied.

“As long as you play your balls off, you'll be fine,” Fontaine advised, moving to turn down the volume on the pregame music.

“Hey!” Denny O'Malley, the Blades backup goalie, protested. “I was gettin' pumped!”

“Maybe you can get your mojo workin' without turning me into frickin' Helen Keller in the process,” Fontaine growled. O'Malley backed off.

Jason turned to his locker, slipping the small gold crucifix his mother had given him when he was seven around his neck. It was his good luck charm out on the ice. Down the hall in the visiting team's locker room, he imagined Eric doing the same thing. He, too, wore a cross from their mother as his good luck charm. Sometimes Jason worried the two of them wearing the same talisman might somehow divide whatever luck there was to be had between them. But so far, they'd both seemed to do okay.

He had just pulled his sweater over his head when Michael Dante entered the locker room, already dressed. Michael wasn't the scowling type, but his hot temper could be a force to reckon with.

“Okay, listen up.” Michael's voice matched his gaze: calm. “I want us to set the tone for the season from the moment we step out on the ice. We need to let those Jersey assholes and every other team know that no one fucks with us.”

As if on cue, Ty Gallagher entered. There was total silence as he looked at each and every player in turn. When his gaze fell on Jason, it took every ounce of Jason's concentration not to look away.

“Talent means shit. Will beats skill every time. We play to win the game—every game. That means I don't care if it's the first game of the season or the fiftieth. If you don't give your all out there, you sit. The Blades have one goal every year: winning the Cup.” Players started banging their sticks on the floor. “All right; let's get out there and hit 'em in the mouth.”

 

 

“
Get off me
, you pussy.”

Jason laughed at his brother's taunt. He'd just crushed Eric with a body check so satisfying, he wished he could smoke a cigarette afterward. There was something gratifying about jamming Eric up against the boards; always had been. Sniggering, Jason returned to the Blades' bench with the rest of the second line, watching avidly as the first line returned to the ice. Jersey was trying to open things up, but the Blades were having none of it. Instead of getting into a pond hockey game, the Blades were playing dump and chase in order to establish physical dominance.

Jason couldn't believe the energy rippling through Met Gar. The fans in Minnesota were enthusiastic, but these New Yorkers were nuts, their fanaticism infectious. Jason said a silent prayer thanking the hockey gods for granting his wish to play for the Blades, and waited for Ty to send his line back out onto the ice. They were doing pretty well. His forechecking had led to a couple of scoring chances, and he'd gotten the second assist on Thad Meyers's goal, the only score of the first period.

Back on the ice, he was skating the left wing, looking for a breakout pass from defenseman Nick Roberts. They failed to connect, thanks to Eric, who interrupted the attempt and chipped it deep into the Blades' zone.

“You wearin' concrete skates or what, asshole?” Eric jeered.

“Fuck you,” Jason snapped.

And so it went for the rest of the game. Every time Jason met up with his brother, insults were traded along with checks. While Eric didn't play as chippy as Torkelson, he had his moments. With less than three minutes left in a 2-2 tie, Jason carried the puck into Jersey's zone when Eric met him with a high hit that included a two-glove face wash.

“You are one fuckin' wuss, baby bro,” Eric taunted.

“Yeah?” Jason panted. They were battling for the puck in the corner. Eric dug it free and cleared it. They were both on the bench when Michael Dante scored on a seeing eye wrist shot from the top of the circle.

When the horn sounded, Jason and the rest of the Blades rushed off the bench to congratulate David Hewson. As the two teams slowly cleared the ice, Jason couldn't resist getting in one more dig.

“What happened? I thought you were gonna kick my ass!” Jason called to Eric, who was heading off ice for the locker room. “Decide you'd rather kiss it instead?”

“It's a long season, asshole, and payback is a bitch,” Eric called over his shoulder.

“We'll see!” yelled Jason.

Exhilarated, he headed back in to the Blades locker room.

 

 

“Good game!” Michael Dante commended as Jason headed toward the shower. He patted Jason on the back.

“Thanks, Cap.”

“You and Eric always go at it like that?”

Jason shrugged. “Yeah. It's been that way since we were kids.”

“Hey, I know. My brother and I still lock horns. Something about sibs, I guess.”

“I guess.”

“Well, keep up the good work,” said Michael.

“Will do.”

Jason watched his captain walk away. Michael Dante had never had speed or great skills, but he was relentless and never backed down. If Jason showed half the grit and determination Michael did, he'd make his mark on New York.

“Yo, country boy.”

Jason turned at the sound of Denny O'Malley's voice. Malls, as he was known, wasn't the sharpest tack in the box, but he was a nice guy, and he knew how to have a good time. Jason had already been out on the town with Malls, Eric, and a couple of other guys before the season started.

“A bunch of us are going over to the Chapter House for a few brews. You in?”

“Definitely,” said Jason.

“Meet me in the Green Room, and we'll split a cab.”

“Cool.”

Jason continued on to the showers, grinning like a fool. He'd heard about the Chapter House; it was the Blades' unofficial bar, a place where they could shoot pool and sink a few drinks without being hassled. Jason had yet to set foot inside. That was about to change.

Jason was delighted with the Chapter House. The jukebox was older than dirt, the windows hadn't been washed since Prohibition, and none of the rickety tables had matching chairs. But that was its charm; besides, not one head turned when he and a few of his teammates strolled in. Jason wouldn't have minded being recognized, but he knew the other guys relished the bar as one of the few places they could drink without hassle. His ego could deal with anonymity for one night.

“Total shit hole,” Denny O'Malley agreed in a voice laced with affection. “But to me, it's a second home.”

“That doesn't bode well for your first home, dude,” quipped Barry Fontaine, who'd tapped Jason to pay, since he was “one of the new guys.” Jason didn't mind. Ulf Torkelson would pay next, and besides, it all evened out in the end. What mattered was hanging out with these guys
here.
If it wasn't so dorky, he'd pull out his cell and call Guillaume Steves, his buddy back in Minnesota who was still playing for the Mosquitoes. “Guess where I am?” he'd say. “At the Chapter House!” Guillaume, who worshipped Ty Gallagher like a god, would understand.

Ulf slapped him on the back. “So, how are you liking New York?”

“How are
you
liking it?” Ulf played for Ottawa before being traded to New York just before Jason.

“Amazing.” Ulf shook his head in wonder. “The food, the people . . .”

“The women,” added Thad Meyers.

“That, too,” said Ulf with a grin. “So many babes, so little time.”

“Hear, hear!” said Malls as they all raised their glasses high.

“You got a girlfriend?” Ulf asked Jason.

An image of Delilah flashed in his mind. “Not right now. You?”

“Divorced. Finally. Thank God.”

Jason didn't know what to say. He didn't know Ulf's wife, but judging from the approving nods of his teammates, Jason gathered Ulf was better off sans Mrs. T.

An hour and a half passed in the blink of an eye. Talk became decidedly more raucous as booze and increasing familiarity loosened their tongues. Malls, Thad, and Barry were cracking Jason and Ulf up telling them about their adventures on the Blades. Malls looked pissed when Barry reminded him of the time he'd told a magazine he liked women with “Big kazungas” and Ty's wife, working PR for the Blades at the time, had had to do damage control. All agreed it sucked that Paul van Dorn had to hang up his skates.

Ulf slapped a hand against the edge of the table. “We will win the Cup this year! I know it!” He clinked his beer glass against Jason's. “I might have to cripple your brother to do it, though.”

“Who's his brother?” Barry Fontaine asked.

Denny stared at him. “You're shittin' me, right?”

Barry looked haplessly around the table. “What am I missing here?”

“Your fuckin' brain,” Denny O'Malley snorted. “This is Jason Mitchell, right?” Barry nodded. “His brother is
Eric
Mitchell.”

“No shit. I didn't make the connection.” He chugged the remains of his beer, wiping the foam off the top of his lip with the back of his hand. “He's one tough fucker, your brother.”