Power Play (14 page)

“I got you a press pass for tonight.” Landon stood next to the bed and handed me a black lanyard with a white plastic rectangle dangling from the end.

“A press pass? What for?” I glanced at the pass, surprised to see my headshot already laminated on the card. Where had he gotten a picture of me?

“So you can take photos at the game. I thought it would be good practice. Ya know, moving targets. Awesome subjects.” He winked.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him, hoping that squeezing my chest to his would keep my heart inside. The way it was beating reminded me of a mini race car that might jump out and take a few laps around a fictional track.

The Detroit Pilots in action. Perfect male specimens skating and sweating and spinning and scoring. My own photos. No copyright infringement.

“This is completely amazing. Thank you.” I pulled away slightly so I could reach up and kiss his lips. Landon responded immediately, wrapping his arms around me and parting my lips with his tongue. His persistence made me wish he didn't have to leave for practice. But then again that was probably a good thing, since every time we touched I wanted to take it further. And further.

But after almost two months of dating, Landon still insisted we take our sexual relationship slow. I understood, truly I did, and I appreciated his concern for my internal issues. It made me like him more.

“You make me wanna climb back into bed, Gabriella.”

“Are you tired?” I teased, rubbing the back of his head. I loved the feel of his short hair against my palms.

With that, he crouched down, grabbed the back of my thighs, and flipped me onto the bed. A giggle escaped as my back hit the mattress. Then he pinned me with his body and attacked me with kisses and tickles. I tried to curl into a fetal position to escape his dancing fingers, but I couldn't move with his weight on top of me. I tried to stop him with words, but could barely get them out.

“Lan—” I laughed and gasped for breath. “Stop. Landon.”

His fingers eased up on the tickling, but his lips didn't stop their assault of my neck. Once I caught my breath and could breathe evenly again, I slipped my hands under his shirt and lightly scratched my nails over his back, something I knew he couldn't resist. His kisses came to a halt and he took a deep breath, face still wedged in my neck. His back arched into my fingers like an eager cat who's been left alone over a long weekend.

The silly, sexy situation ended too soon. Landon pressed up on his arms, lingering over me as if he were in mid push-up. Now that I think about it, lying under a sweaty and shirtless Landon while he kissed me every time he came down from a push-up might be really sexy.

“Feel free to continue that tonight,” he said. Then his feet hit the floor and he stood up in one swift motion.

“Feel free to continue with those kisses tonight, too.”

Landon grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bed and back into his arms. “You don't have to worry about that, Miss Bertucci.” He nipped at my earlobe before releasing me. “Stay as long as you want. Key is on the counter.”

“I'll leave with you.” I scooped my backpack from the floor next to his bedside stand. “Toothbrush,” I said out loud as my brain scanned through the list of things I needed to collect.

Landon held the door open with his shoulder and twisted toward me. “Just leave everything, Gaby. You'll be back tonight, right?”

I don't know why it surprised me when Landon said things like that. We were dating. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Sitting in a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g. Probably because I'd never had a boyfriend before. I'd never stayed over at a guy's house or apartment or high-rise condo overlooking the Detroit River and Canada. I couldn't even call Zack, the only other guy I'd ever kissed, a boyfriend. We'd gone to homecoming and one movie. That was it. We'd kissed only twice. I'd ripped my lip on his braces.

True story. I know a lot of people joke around about that sort of thing, but it really happened to me. We weren't even trying to French kiss or anything. He leaned in for a smooch as I laughed, and a tiny metal hook on his front teeth caught my top lip. Most embarrassing injury explanation ever. Especially when Papa had asked how it happened.

“Every time you look at me with those wide, innocent eyes, I want to corrupt you even more. You're killing me, Gaby.”

Landon closed the door behind him, leaving me hyperventilating and ready to throw my wide-eyed innocence out the window.

I pressed my fingers to my mouth and stifled a giggle, though I lay alone in his bed. Suddenly the door burst open and Landon ran to me, swept me into his arms, and pressed his lips to mine. His fingers weaved into my hair and our bodies molded together, bringing a zapping jolt of life to my previously relaxed state.

“Okay. Now you're out of my system. Until tonight.” He released me and spun back around, exiting as quickly as he entered without looking back.

Stunned. Flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. I didn't have the right vocabulary to explain life with Landon Taylor.

“You forgot this.” Papa dropped a pill into my hand. “You should probably keep some with you if you aren't going to come home at night.”

“Thanks.” I closed my fist and walked around the counter, grabbing a water out of the fridge next to the register as I passed by.

“I assume you were with a friend again?” Papa asked as he watched me toss the pill into my mouth and chug it down with water.

“Yes, Papa. I stayed with a friend. Mom knew.” Mom knew every time I stayed at Landon's. Maybe Papa wanted me to admit to him where I'd been staying. But I wouldn't ruin my angelic image in his eyes any more than I already had.

After the rape, three years ago, my doctor prescribed antidepressants. The medicine took away my anxiety. But it also robbed me of my emotions and every ounce of personality. I'd wanted peace from the flashbacks, not to be a lifeless robot. Though I assured my parents I'd been taking the pills dutifully, I stopped. If they asked, I lied, or I'd pop one just for show, then spit it in my hand and throw it away when they turned their backs.

The charade went on for about a month. Then things got bad.

Evidently I wasn't supposed to stop the dosage I'd been prescribed cold turkey. I never thought about the negative effects it could have on my body. I just wanted to feel again, even if feeling meant shame and pain and rage.

Killing myself had never crossed my mind before I'd started taking those pills, even after the rape. But after I stopped the medication, the thought of suicide consumed me. It may have been timing, because a week after I stopped taking the pills, I started seeing my rapist almost every single day.

And I don't mean that in a schizophrenic, hallucinatory way. He graduated from college and started working full-time at Mitchell Family Farms as their delivery driver. Deliveries that used to come in the morning started coming in the afternoon, while I worked at the store.

Then the harassment started.

And I say harassment because it is harassment when your rapist asks if you want him to take you to prom. It is harassment when your rapist asks if you have a boyfriend. It is harassment when your rapist asks you how you're doing with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

The constant interaction combined with jumping off the medication enhanced my depression. I began to feel like the only way to stop everything—the pain, the shame, the harassment—would be to kill myself.

One day Mom found me on the bathroom floor surrounded by empty bottles of sleeping pills and ibuprofen. I don't remember anything except waking up in the hospital. I had to have my stomach pumped, which EMTs can normally do at the scene of the overdose. But I had to have an overnight evaluation in the psych ward of the hospital.

Because I'd never had any suicidal thoughts prior to being on the medication, my doctor chalked it up to my stopping the antidepressants without being weaned off properly. Instead of starting me back up on the robot pills, she listened when I told her how they made me feel. She changed my prescription and it made a world of difference.

Even now, with the new medication, my anxiety is minimal and I have a full range of emotions, just not as intense as they might be if I weren't on anything. I didn't mind; I'd take that trade-off any day.

Still, my parents have kept my seven-day pillbox for all to see on the kitchen counter ever since my suicide attempt three years ago. Now they knew every time I took my medicine—and every time I didn't.

My family has had season tickets for Detroit Red Wings games since the sixties, back when they played at the Olympia, a historic but long-ago torn-down arena. At their current home, Joe Louis Arena, we sat in the upper level, center ice, three rows up. Amazing seats. I'd never complained in my life.

But the laminated rectangular press pass hanging around my neck spoiled me within minutes—no—seconds. Did I care that two minor league hockey teams skated across the ice in front of me? Nope. Same chill. Same noise. Same excitement.

I stood against the Plexiglas, closer than I'd ever been to the action, with my lens in the hole cut out for cameras, shivering happily.

Though I'd already decided Landon would be the model in the advertisements I'd create for 313 Artisans, I didn't want a memory card full of one player. Especially since there was so much action and so many amazing shots to capture. No one could blame me for snapping a few of Luke Daniels, as an homage to the accelerated learning program he'd put me through. And out of sheer respect for the team captain.

I took a few quick pictures of Pavel Gribov, the Pilots' star center who'd started the season in the NHL. He'd been called up to play with the Pilots' NHL affiliate, the Charlotte Aviators, last year when Andy Turner, Charlotte's leading scorer, separated his shoulder. Despite starting in Charlotte, the Aviators sent him back to Detroit.

Up and down. Up and down. The life of a minor-league player.

Well, some minor-league players.

Landon still hadn't been called up to Charlotte. The elephant in the room. The chip on his shoulder. The issue we never spoke about, unless he brought it up. Which he hadn't. Most players spend a year or two developing in the AHL before getting called up. Some spend four years. Other guys—some of the stars—never set a skate in an AHL arena, they go right to the NHL.

But it's hard to see that when you're the one not getting called up. I knew the weight stayed on Landon's shoulders and kept him awake at night. I knew because I slept next to him and saw the glow of his cellphone screen in the early-morning hours when I turned over or got up to use the bathroom.

Landon didn't want to hear me try to console him by spouting empty words about how some players take longer to develop or how there needs to be an opening in the lineup. Landon wanted the call. I couldn't blame him.

Since I wanted the same thing from my own father…And every time I saw Joey in the office at 313, I broke out in angry goosebumps.

As the game went on behind the glass in front of me so close that I could touch the players, I wondered what Landon had to do to get called up to play for the Aviators. He reminded me of a young Nick Lidstrom. Hundreds of amazing defensemen played in the NHL, but since I grew up watching Lidstrom, he's my personal reference to describe the best defenseman in history.

At plus-35, Landon led the team in plus/minus (meaning that he'd been on the ice for more goals that the Pilots scored than goals their opponents scored against them). That said a lot for Landon, a guy who played thirty-five to forty minutes a game, including killing penalties, and power plays.

Power play. Life could be described as a series of power plays. Not in the sense of being up a man, but in a business sense. People in power have the opportunity to play those underneath them. The Aviators coach and general manager all had the power to move Landon up. But it hadn't happened yet.

My father had the opportunity to let me run 313, but he hadn't yet.

I lowered my camera to protect the lens as one of the Pilots and one of the Iowa Wild players slammed into the boards in front of me. The glass shook as two more players from each team descended, all elbowing and pushing as they vied for the puck stuck between their skates. I couldn't see it unless I put my head against the glass and looked down, and that wasn't going to happen with four huge bodies banging the boards.

Finally, someone kicked the puck free with his skate blade, sending it toward the Pilots' goal. One of the Wild players reared back for a one-timer, but a Pilots player dove across the ice and slid in front of the shot.

Number 6. Landon Taylor. No surprise there.

The surprise came when Landon didn't get up. He lay on the ice, curled in a fetal position, clutching his face with his gloves. The whistle sounded immediately, as the referee, along with everyone in the arena, noticed the puddle of blood forming on the ice under Landon's head.

My stomach lurched as I watched the puddle grow into a pool. The Pilots' trainer shuffled across the ice and slid to his knees in front of Landon, blocking my view. I moved along the boards until I ran into a row of seats and couldn't go any farther.

“Can you see what's happening?” I asked the fans in the front row without taking my eyes off the scene on the ice.

“I think he took that shot to the face,” one of the guys in a Luke Daniels Pilots jersey told me.

Landon rolled onto his hands and knees and the trainer applied a towel to his face. The crowd erupted into a chorus of loud applause as Landon pushed to his feet, allowing the trainer to assist him as he skated to the bench.

My stomach felt heavy, as if I'd swallowed my heart. In nineteen years of watching hockey, I'd seen hundreds of guys hit by pucks. Heck, I'd bet my life savings I'd seen Landon take a few before. But when the man you love is the one bleeding, you can't stop the feeling of dread that seeps into the pit of your stomach.