Risky Business (2 page)

Eight months later

It wasn't every day that a man watched his dreams go down the toilet, but it seemed to be happening to Theo Lacroix with alarming regularity. He banged his stick against the door to the penalty box, his eyes on the wall-mounted television screen behind the snack bar on the far side of the ice rink. The nightly news program replayed the courtroom scene from earlier that day as the judge sentenced Lowell Whitley to ten years in prison.

Theo spit his mouth guard into his gloved hand. “
Caliss de chien sale
.”

His curse was drowned out by a buzzer marking the end of his time in the box. Nevertheless, the French sounded too polite to his tongue. To capture the full weight of his fury, only crude American English would do. “Fucking bastard.”

That was more like it.

With his eyes fixed on Whitley's red face as the TV replayed his post-sentencing statement of apology, Theo stood and jammed the mouth guard in place. He dropped his head to the side to crack his neck, then shouldered through the door onto the ice. If only this wasn't a no-contact game, he'd be throwing down gloves with the first Bridgeport Puckheads player he came up against.

He sneered one last time at Whitley's image on screen—which was why he didn't see it coming when he was slammed hard from the side into the wall. The plastic sheeting rattled from the impact. Chucking his stick to the ice, Theo jammed his elbow back to pry the offender off him, then swiveled forward.

Will Corgan grabbed Theo's jersey and twisted, pinning him to the plastic sheeting. “Get your head back in the game, Lacroix.”

Fucking Corgan and his temper. Corgan wasn't the only soldier with a short fuse, not by a long shot. Theo belonged on that list, too, but at least he knew better than to think the world owed him anything. “We're on the same team, asshole.”

Corgan gave Theo's chest a push. “Oh yeah? Because you don't seem like you're on anybody's team tonight. We're tied with a minute left and you're watching the goddamn TV.”

Like Corgan was unaware of what had gone down in court that afternoon and what Whitley's conviction meant to Theo's future. “Who do you think scored our two goals, huh? Why don't you give me a break?” He punctuated the last word with an open-handed shove to Corgan's cheek.

Corgan snickered. “I promise we'll throw you a pity party after we win. But you know what this game means to Brandon.”

He did. Mostly because Brandon had reminded them at least a hundred million times over the past several weeks.

The ref blew his whistle. One of the coaches had called a time-out. Theo gave Corgan a final push and muscled past him to the bench where the rest of the Destiny Falls Bomb Squads were gathering.

From across the ice, Brandon and Liam, one of Bomb Squad's defensemen, skated to the bench, with Brandon executing a showy side stop that sprayed ice shavings over Theo's legs. “You guys suck,” Brandon said. “Brawling? Really? You know the scouts are in the stands. What the hell?”

All Theo could think to do was shrug. It wasn't like getting into a scrap during a hockey game—even no-contact games like the Canal Towns Men's League played—would offend the scouts' delicate sensibilities. He couldn't muster a single ounce of give-a-damn
.
Any other day, he would've been fired up to win. Beyond fired up. Other than his bike and Lanette, hockey was all he cared about.

It was Lanette, his beloved houseboat, who had him distracted tonight. She was why, despite his bone-deep irritation of both the name of the boat rental company and the tourists that flocked to it, he'd been poised and ready for more than a year to buy Cloud Nine Landing from its negligent owner—negligent, and now a convicted criminal, according to the verdict announced by the judge earlier that day.

Corgan twirled the tip of his customized, hockey-stick-holding prosthesis toward the center of the rink, his smirking eyes on Brandon. “How about you go out to the middle of the ice right now and execute a few twirls and jumps on that bionic leg of yours. That'll show 'em all they need to see.”

“Screw you.”

Liam snorted and fixed his hundred-watt Irish smile on Brandon. “Brandon's just pissed because Harper's not here for his big night.”

Duke, their coach, slammed his hands on the rail. “Shut up, all of you. Wounded Veterans International flew two executives across the country to watch you play tonight. Do you want to be chosen for the Project Hope exhibition game or not?”

Theo winced at the names. He hated being thought of as a project about as much as he hated having other soldiers' hopes dumped on his shoulders.

Brandon knocked his stick against the ice. “Hell, yes.”

With only seconds left in the time-out, Duke rattled off the details of their next play—a play that was designed to give Brandon center stage with a goal from the Puckheads goalie's blind side after an assist by Theo. No problem. The Puckheads' defensemen weren't nearly aggressive enough to get in Theo's way.

He chanced a look over his shoulder. The news program had moved on to the weather. He'd been so close to securing his future in Destiny Falls. So agonizingly close that he couldn't quite believe ownership of the landing, along with Lanette—who was his in every way but on the deed—was slipping through his fingers.

It was a good thing the game was almost over because he'd tuned up his Harley Fatboy that day and was ready to hit the road for a ride in the mind-numbing, early spring night air.

He knocked gloves with his teammates, then shoved off to the center circle, ready to take the puck drop. Once in position, he focused his mind on the muted sound coming through his right ear, on the rush of static that always happened when his adrenaline spiked, which sounded to him like someone had permanently attached a conch shell to the side of his head. With the absence of outside noise, his concentration sharpened until all that existed was him, the puck, and the job he had to do. Nothing else mattered for the next minute. Not even the uncertainty of his future.

He was born with hockey in his blood. Born for clinch moments like this, his blades on the ice, a stick in his hand, the clock ticking down to the wire.

The ref extended his arm. Theo leaned in, releasing a slow, steady exhale as the puck fell toward the ice.

Thirty minutes later, Theo was on his bike, his hockey bag slung across his back, congratulating himself for sneaking out before any of his Bomb Squad teammates could corner him about celebrating their win or commiserating about Whitley's sentencing.

It'd been a great end to the game. Brandon was still talking to the Wounded Veterans International scouts when Theo had hit the shower. Good for Brandon. As for Theo, he wasn't even sure he'd be living in Destiny Falls by the time the exhibition rolled around next month.

He pulled the bike onto the concrete staging area between Cloud Nine Landing's office and the footpath that ran along the Erie Canal near the stairs to Lanette's dock. All he had to do was drop off his gear and grab his riding jacket, and then he could hit the road. The water in the canal rippled green and gray in the fading evening light. A pair of snow geese scavenged for food near the dock. He cranked the Fatboy's juice, revving it hard until the rumble drowned out the rest of the world, even the whirring in his ear.

The geese bolted. He watched them fly, grinning, reveling in the feel of the machine's harnessed power vibrating against his legs and body. Yeah, a long, hard ride was exactly what he needed to clear his mind so he could figure out what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life. This was going to be his third life reboot—a pathetic statistic for a thirty-six-year-old, but there it was.

He left the engine idling and walked to Lanette, banging the locked back door of the landing's office with his fist as he passed. The C
LOSED
sign on the office door danced against the glass. It would hang there until the warmer late-spring weather ushered in a fresh flood of tourists looking to cruise the canal. That was,
if
Cloud Nine opened again, depending on what Whitley's attorneys and creditors plans for it were.

He gave Lanette's hull a rub of affection before hefting his gear bag over the rail.

“This place needs some warmth. You should get a dog.”

Theo cringed at the sound of Brandon's voice. Guess he'd congratulated himself too soon about his escape. He should've expected his teammates not to let him off the hook so easily. He braced himself to ignore what he knew was going to be the first of many pitying looks about the Whitley verdict from his neighbors and friends, then turned. “You forget, dogs are your thing, not mine.”

He and Brandon had had this conversation before, usually while three sheets to the wind. It was the unconditional loyalty of dogs that Theo found grating. He wasn't in the business of helping people or creatures unless it was playing defense during a hockey game. A millwright by trade, his life revolved around fixing machines. Theo could fix anything mechanical, which suited him because the only thanks machines gave him was working again. Machines didn't look at him like he was their savior.

Brandon took great amusement in teasing Theo about his antisocial tendencies, which was annoying as hell, but Theo couldn't seem to shake the guy, as though Brandon had made recruiting Theo to be a part of the veteran culture in Destiny Falls his personal mission in life.

“I'd say you're more of a wild bird guy because they don't need you,” Brandon quipped.

“True enough. But they never turn down a free meal. Kind of like me.” Theo leapt over the railing and stowed his hockey bag in the underdeck storage. “What are you doing here?”

Brandon propped a foot on the canal railing, not at all fazed by the iciness in Theo's tone. “I'm here because the guys and I heard Locks calling our names and we thought it'd be rude not to answer.”

Locks was otherwise known to out-of-towners as the Lock, Stock, & Barrel Tavern. It was the best bar and eatery in Destiny Falls and, lucky for Theo, located within stumbling distance of Lanette. Behind Brandon, their Bomb Squad teammates came into view.

Right. Of course. A whole unit of well-meaning vets was on hand to get some liquor into Theo before they forced him to get all touchy-feely about the Whitley conviction. Wasn't the first time they'd attempted that strategy. They were a good enough group of guys on the rink, but that was as far as Theo was interested in taking the acquaintance, though they didn't seem to be getting the memo about Theo's disinterest in joining their ranks.

Even if he did agree to sit down with the team for a drink and guts-spilling about the future of the landing, Theo definitely wasn't up for facing the bar patrons' pity. He needed to be alone so he could stew properly.

He smeared a hand over his five o'clock shadow. “Another night.” He gestured to his Fatboy. “I was on my way out for a ride.”

Brandon frowned, then spun on his heel toward the bike. The engine rumbled off. “Not anymore. Let's go.”

With a snort of disbelief, Theo threw up his hands, but Brandon and the others didn't give him a chance to reply before taking off along the footpath that skirted the grassy commons between the landing and the tavern.

Theo hopped over Lanette's railing. “
Caliss de chien sale
!”

They kept walking, ignoring his insult. Will held up the middle finger of his prosthetic. “Whatever you said, Frenchy, here's my response. I promised you a pity party and you're going to get one, whether you like it or not.”

Brandon turned around and walked backward. “One drink isn't gonna kill you.”

Theo could have started Lanette's engine again, but dissing his team by roaring past them on his bike crossed a line of petulance he wasn't prepared to cross. “It just might,” he grumbled, striding up the stairs. “It just might.”

With its waterfront location on a bend of the canal that afforded both the upper and lower patios sweeping views, Locks was flooded with tourists during warmer weather, but winter had reclaimed it for the locals again. Tonight, the tavern greeted them with beckoning golden lights, the hum of midweek revelers, and the unmistakable scent of beef stew simmering from the pots in the kitchen behind the bar.

With a wave to Harper, the owner and sometimes bartender, they pulled a trio of tables together near the window. Theo claimed a chair angled to put his good ear toward the group. Within minutes, Harper had delivered their first round, including Theo's aged rum, neat. “First round's on the house,” she said as she set the glass down.

Here we go . . .

Better to face the music and get the conversation over with fast. One drink while they peppered him with questions and sympathy, then he could get back to his Harley. “I guess that means you heard about Whitley's sentencing, too?”

Harper grabbed a chair from another table and wedged it between Liam and Brandon, facing Theo. She shook her dark blond hair away from her face and helped herself to a swig of Brandon's beer. Rather than mind, Brandon's gaze never left her lips. If Theo had to move out of town, he might never find out if Brandon ever convinced her to go out with him. Stupid thing to focus on, but it still hit him where it hurt.

“What an asshole that man is,” Harper said. “If your home and livelihood weren't tied up with Cloud Nine, we'd be having a good riddance celebration here tonight. Did you know he used to cop a feel on my tits every time I served him a drink?”

At the mention of the word
tits,
every eyeball belonging to the Bomb Squad players shifted to her chest. Theo would never point this out, but she did have a habit of wearing tank tops that were a couple sizes too small and she'd perfected the art of thrusting her chest into patrons' faces while serving them.

She'd even admitted one night after hours when it was just her, Brandon, and Theo that her wardrobe was a calculated business move—the smaller the tops she wore, the more full the tip jar got. Still, there was a clear line between looking and groping, a line that a rich politician like Whitley didn't think applied to him.