Delayed Penalty: A Pilots Hockey Novel (32 page)

The Taylor family—Charlie, Sharon, Jason, and Landon—had shopped at Eastern Market religiously every Saturday morning for as long as I can remember. They always bought a bushel of apples from our stand and ate them as they walked around the market.

That was back when Bertucci Produce was just a small, but thriving, stand in Shed One at Eastern Market. Years before my mom and dad decided they wanted to open 313 Artisans, the small store I currently ran, which began as a way to feature local artists as well as their own artistic creations.

Back when Landon was just a kid named Landon, not Landon Taylor, superstar defenseman for the Detroit Pilots. Detroit’s next NHL-bound player.

Rule Two: Real love is between two people. If it’s one-sided, it’s just infatuation; a crush.

Which is why I couldn’t call my feelings for Landon Taylor love. Sure, my forehead broke out in a cold sweat and my heart pumped and thumped like a rock ’n’ roll drumbeat every time I watched him walk through the door. But since I didn’t seem to have the same effect on him, it couldn’t be love.

In defense of my hormonally charged reaction, every time I saw him now he looked like a fitness model who’d just left a photo shoot. Today, for instance, a teal Detroit Pilots Under Armor shirt skimmed the curves of his chiseled chest, and black basketball shorts swished against his muscular thighs. I even knew he had on little white ankle socks under his gray and blue Brooks running shoes.

Because I’m that
~~obsessed~~
observant.

The only other times I saw him was during games, while decked out in the teal, black, and silver of his Detroit Pilots’ hockey uniform. Landon was a defenseman for the Pilots, the American Hockey League (AHL) team that had relocated from Raleigh, North Carolina, to Detroit a few years ago.

I doubt Landon noticed anything about me, except that I could sling a stuffed tiger with NFL quarterback–like precision. As the only girl in my family, getting overlooked had become as regular as the sun setting in the west. My brothers would argue that I was the princess, and I may have been when I was younger, but that was far from the truth anymore. If my dad had his way—and I’m sure he will—my brothers would be the heirs to the Bertucci Produce legacy. Even though I’m the only one who’d consistently worked at the stores.

“You guys gonna win the Calder this year?” Papa’s voice boomed from the other side of the store. Papa’s voice always boomed, but it was exceptionally loud in a large retail space with one customer.

“Hope so, sir. This city needs another championship right about now,” Landon answered.

“You’ve got a lot of work to do with Varenkov and Gribov gone.” Papa weaved through the narrow space between product displays to stand beside Landon.

Landon set the stuffed tiger I’d thrown at him on the counter to shake the outstretched hand Papa offered him. “Charlotte just drafted Blake Girard. He’s a sick left wing. So we’re hoping he makes up for Varenkov. And Gribov got sent back down.”

Papa grumbled. “When are they calling you up?”

“Charlotte’s D is pretty young, so I’m hoping I get my chance soon.” He moved his hand to the top of his head and rubbed it.

“Stick to your game and you’ll get there.” Papa slapped Landon on the back before moving to the other side of the counter. He tapped a few keys on the register, generating the buzz of a report printing on receipt paper.

I knew the reports he was printing: sales, daily sales, weekly sales, sales since he’d opened this store six months ago. He poured daily over them in silence. The stress from a stupid piece of paper was going to kill him.

I scanned the back wall of the store, contemplating where I could hang the rest of the T-shirts that wouldn’t fit on the shelf. We needed one of those torso-only mannequins to show off the T-shirts.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Landon move toward the door and my heart sank. He had no reason to stay longer since we didn’t have the gift he wanted, but I wanted him to stay anyway. If only I were well-versed in small talk like Papa.

What if I picked up the box of T-shirts at my feet and “accidentally” fell? Would big, strong Landon Taylor run to my rescue?

Better yet: Landon could stay and use his fitness-model good looks and physique to model for our store. Instead of a weird, headless, legless mannequin on display, we could pop a shirt on Landon and have him walk around the store. If customers could see his real-life muscles expanding and contracting under the fitted T-shirt, it would cause a Call-911-this-store’s-on-fire sellout of our stock.

Rule Three: If you’re infatuated with someone, it’s super creepy to come up with ways to make him stay longer in your presence.

Super creepy, Gaby.

“See you soon, Joe! Later, Gaby!” Landon called. He pushed the door open with one arm, while he raised the other in a farewell gesture.

Papa lifted his left arm, but instead of returning Landon’s wave, he clutched his right bicep. His head dropped, his chin hit his clavicle, and his shoulders slumped over the register.

“Papa?” I asked, unable to conceal the screech in my voice. “Papa?”

My heart stopped. Dropped. Imploded.

I knocked over the display table and tipped a mountain of freshly folded T-shirts onto the floor in my haste. “Papa!”

Papa lifted his head and tried to speak, but no words came out. I could hear his quick, sharp intake of breath from across the room. As I got closer, I saw drops of perspiration beaded across his forehead. When I reached him, I swung my arm across his shoulders.

“I’m calling 911, Gaby.” Landon appeared next to me, cell phone already against his ear. I hadn’t even noticed he’d come back in the store.

“Papa!” I whispered. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I held my dad. “Maybe I shouldn’t touch him. Landon? Landon, what do I do?”

“I don’t know. I think he’s having a heart attack. I don’t know. Um, Eastern Market.” Landon was talking to the operator. “Gaby, what’s the address?”

“Twenty-five-oh-eight Russell.”

“Twenty-five-oh-eight Russell,” Landon repeated. “It’s a store in Eastern Market called 313 Artisans. Male, probably fifties, six-foot-something. I don’t know, he’s not overweight or anything.”

“The ambulance is on the way, Papa. Stay with me,” I whispered to my father. Papa nodded. It was slight, but at least he was responsive.

Landon stayed on the line with the 911 operator, and I held on to Papa until the ambulance arrived. The emergency technicians charged through the door wheeling an empty stretcher, and other nonmedical people followed. It made me sick to think people would come in just to get a glimpse of the “action.”

Strong arms pulled me away from Papa to allow the EMTs access to him. I collapsed against Landon’s chest and he wrapped me in his arms. He smelled like too much cologne and stale beer, which wasn’t what I’d expected.

Though staying in Landon’s arms was the easy response, I wiggled free of his grasp and spun around, knowing I’d be upset with myself if I didn’t watch the two EMTs lift my dad onto the stretcher.

My stomach rolled and I swayed forward. Landon gripped my arms, holding me still, strong. “Pretend it’s a random customer, not your dad,” he whispered.

I nodded, trying to analyze every action the EMTs performed with a nurse’s clinical eye, rather than a daughter’s frightened one. The many types of situations that they needed to be prepared and properly trained for boggled my mind. They had to know a bit of everything. The difference between life and death revolved around each tech knowing exactly what to do for a heart attack, a burn victim, a gunshot wound. The list was endless because they could be called to any scene. They saved lives every day, and I’d bet they didn’t make one third of what a doctor made.

“You coming with him?” The shorter, smaller tech nodded at Landon.

“I am.” I spoke up. “No, wait, the store. I—” I surveyed the store. “I can’t leave.”

“I’ll stay,” Landon said.

I whipped my head around to look at him. “What?”

“I’ll stay. I mean, if that’s okay with you. I can hold down the fort.”

Make a decision, Gaby.

I watched the EMTs glide the stretcher through the open door. I had to get going.

“Are you sure?” I asked. Wasted words. Wasted time. Time to go.

“Yes.” Landon squared his shoulders before he took both of my hands and looked me straight in the eyes. “Gabriella, go with your dad.”

“Okay.” I slumped in his grip, before finding the strength to straighten again. “I’m going to call my uncle Sal. I hope he can get here soon.”

“Just go. Everything will be fine.” Landon spun me around and guided me toward the door.

I knew Landon could handle the store. I’d be surprised if any browsers came in, let alone customers who’d make him try to figure out the register.

Before I followed the EMTs to the ambulance, I remembered my purse hidden away in the cubby under the register. As I retrieved it, I fumbled for words. “Thank you, Landon. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Gabriella. Go.”

I nodded and pushed through the doors.