Thin Ice (20 page)

"Mom? Are you okay?"

Disoriented, she blinked and turned to her son. The raw fear in his eyes snapped Emily back to the present faster than anything else could have. “I'm fine, sweetheart. Just fine.” With a shaky hand, she reached back and smoothed his hair, letting her love for him wash away her inner horrors. They were safe, now. Free from Ryan, and together. Just the two of them. “I got nervous in there, with al that shouting and noise. Like I do sometimes in traffic. I just needed to get out of there. But I'm fine now. Just fine."

He nodded, but looked far from convinced.

* * * *

His hair stil wet from his shower, Eric cut short his post-game radio interview and slipped away from the rowdy celebration in the dressing room to make a beeline for the wives’ waiting room just down the hal. He'd asked Miranda to keep an eye out for Emily and Robbie, and bring them down after the game, win or lose. He spotted Miranda the minute he crossed the threshold.

"Where are they?” he asked, peering past her shoulder into the room filed with card tables and couches. Many wives and girlfriends attended the games, some played cards while their partners were working, others read or napped while they waited to find out whether the night would end with a party or a silent ride home.

"They left. During the second period."

"Left?” Eric's stomach dropped. His gaze searched the room in disbelief. “But I saw her. After that mess with Murder..."

"That's when she left.” Miranda scanned the clusters of people miling about and colecting their coats. She lowered her voice. “I don't know how to tel you this, but it did something to her, seeing you in that fight. She bundled Robbie up and took off like a shot."

"What?” Eric frowned. Maybe she'd thought he was hurt. But no, he'd done what he could to let her know he was al right. It was the only time during the game he'd alowed thoughts of Emily to take his only time during the game he'd alowed thoughts of Emily to take his mind off the game.

"She said something about having made a big mistake and...” With a helpless shrug, she reached for her own coat, draped across a nearby chair.

Eric's heart lurched. Emily thought she'd made a mistake? With him?

Miranda looked up at him, apology in her eyes. “Listen, I've got to go."

"Aren't you going to Hooligans?"

"Yes, but I have something special planned, and I need to get there before Bil does. He got waylaid by Stump, so I've got a window."

"I'l come with you.” Eric helped her into her coat. “Tel me what she said,” he insisted as they headed for the elevators to the parking garage.

"I don't know, Eric. I've probably said too much already. She was upset when she left and wasn't making much sense. Come to think of it,” Miranda mused as they waited for an elevator, “she was more than upset. There was something in her eyes. I can't explain it, but she seemed ... afraid.” She looked at Eric in genuine confusion.

“It was as if she pictured herself in Murder's shoes."

"Oh, for the love of—I'd never hurt Emily! She knows that."

"Oh, for the love of—I'd never hurt Emily! She knows that."

Miranda peered past him at a group of players who'd glanced their way at their captain's uncharacteristic outburst. She took his arm and puled him into the elevator, then punched the number for the players parking level. “Does she? It was hard enough for me to watch you tear into him, and I'm used to seeing you play. Jesus, Eric, you broke the damn glass."

"It was an accident. Hel, I've shattered a few panels, myself. You know how it is."

"But Emily doesn't. Can you imagine what she must have felt, seeing the violence you're capable of?"

"She's a doctor, Miranda. She's seen blood before."

"Exactly. She probably sees more than enough at work. I doubt she wants to see it after hours, too."

"He railroaded me! I didn't stop to think, I just reacted."

"So did Emily. I've never seen anyone leave an arena so fast in my life."

"Murder had it coming. He'd been riding my ass al night."

"No argument there. But Emily doesn't know enough about the game to understand—"

"Then I'l explain it to her. I'l make her understand."

"Then I'l explain it to her. I'l make her understand."

The elevator doors opened. He started forward, but Miranda puled him back. Hard. He looked at her in surprise.

"I don't think so, Eric,” she said. “Not tonight, anyway. You'l end up alienating her instead."

His surprise became a scowl. “Say what?"

"Look at you. You look like you're ready to tear apart anyone who dares to tel you you're wrong.” She searched his eyes, her own softening in compassion. “I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but give it some time, okay? Give her some time. Wait a day or two for her to put what she's seen, what she's feeling, into perspective. Maybe she'l come around on her own."

"I can't even cal her?"

Miranda touched his arm. “She cares for you, Eric. Deeply. She didn't take her eyes off of you from the minute you stepped onto the ice. Whatever happened to her when you mixed it up with Murder is something my gut tels me she'l have to sort out in her own mind before she can discuss it with anyone else. It won't do either of you any good if you go charging after her to demand answers she doesn't have. And I know she won't appreciate you trying to force feed her your version of what she saw."

"I wouldn't—"

"You just said you would. Trust me on this one. Please?"

Eric faltered, torn between the need to see Emily and a bone-deep fear of losing her. Swearing sharply, he ran a hand through his stil-damp hair. “Al right.” He jabbed the button to re-open the elevator door. “Let's get the hel out of here."

A tal beer and a Hooligan's steak dinner later, Eric left Bil and Miranda at a table in the restaurant section of the Irish pub that had become a second home to the Saints and their folowers after the games. For dessert Miranda had ordered Bil's favorite cake to celebrate his impending fatherhood. Fortunately, Bil already knew the happy news, or Eric would've felt like a complete dolt for intruding on their evening. But as soon as dinner was over, Eric knew he was on his own for the rest of the night.

Pushing aside the emptiness that came on the heels of his heartfelt congratulations to the glowing couple, he wandered downstairs to the bar where the rest of the team celebrated. He joined his teammates at a group of tables in the back of the bar and accepted the foaming mug of beer pressed into his hand. Soon the hearty camaraderie of a group of men who'd done a hel of a good job that night and knew it surrounded him. Even the women—the wives, girlfriends and wannabes—who were out in ful force tonight—

didn't seem to mind as the men launched into a play-by-play didn't seem to mind as the men launched into a play-by-play recounting of the game.

The guys were entitled to crow a bit. Against incredible odds, they'd made good Ronald Stump's promise to deliver a championship caliber team in a town everyone had said couldn't support another NHL team. Now, with their hometown arch-rivals knocked out of the running, for the first time Eric thought they might have a solid chance to take the Cup. From the sounds of it, his teammates agreed.

"What'l it be, everyone? Ready for another round?"

Feeling generous, Eric looked up with smile to tel the waitress yes, and to put it on his tab.

Instead he knocked over his beer. The curvy brunette in the red leather miniskirt who'd maneuvered her way into the seat beside him squealed in surprise as ice-cold beer flooded her barely covered lap. Eric ignored the brunette's squeal and stared at the waitress as she righted his mug and mopped up the mess.

It was she. The woman from Harry's Place. The sassy little waitress who'd high-tailed it out of there and left him with a hefty bil to pay if he didn't want his name dragged through the mud al over again by a trumped-up lawsuit.

Her eyes met his, widened in recognition. She straightened and backed up a step, but Eric caught her by the wrist. “Oh, no you don't. You're not running out on me again."

don't. You're not running out on me again."

The hush that fel over the table warned him he was dangerously close to making a fool out of himself. Rather than let his teammates know he'd been suckered big time by this woman, he released her slowly. His eyes locked on hers, he said, “I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else."

The woman was quick. She smiled dismissively. “No problem.

Happens al the time. I usualy tend bar, but your waitress went on break. Would you care for another beer?"

"Make it a round. Put it on my tab and I'l catch up with you later."

His teammates chorused their approval. The woman nodded, her eyes stil locked with his. “I'l be right back."

Strangely enough, Eric believed her.

The curvy brunette sidled off to the ladies room. Eric curbed his impatience as the bartender-turned-waitress in black satin hot pants returned with more beer and fresh napkins. He waited until the conversation had returned to a dul roar then excused himself to the leggy blonde in black stretch lace who'd commandeered the curvy brunette's seat. He found his target at the bar, filing another drink order.

"About time you showed up,” she said, her eyes on the blender as she mixed some frothy green concoction.

"Excuse me?"

"I've been looking for you for weeks. We need to talk."

"When?"

"I get off at two."

"I'l be waiting."

She puled a napkin out of her pocket and stuffed it into his hand.

“Just in case you get sidetracked between now and then."

He frowned and glanced at the napkin. On it, she'd written her name and address. When he looked up again, Cassandra Miler was at the other end of the bar, taking drink orders.

* * * *

Eric looked at the icy drizzle that had begun to fal, eyed the dark, silent arena across the street, and considered his options. “Is there an al-night coffee shop nearby?"

"No, but my apartment's just a few blocks over."

Great. He'd heard variations on that tired theme for the past few hours and it was wearing thin. But unlike the string of women who'd offered to keep him company tonight, Cassandra Miler had offered to keep him company tonight, Cassandra Miler had something he wanted. He mustered a bland smile. The least he could do was walk her home. “Let's go."

She led him to a fifth-floor walk-up in a building that seemed as old as the city. “Nice place,” he managed when she turned on the light to reveal a three-room efficiency even more barren than his own.

"Nice try.” She shrugged out of her coat, hung it in the closet, and held out a hand for his. Reluctantly he handed it over. He didn't want to stay any longer than he had to.

"Coffee?” As she walked to the kitchenette, her black satin hot pants rustled in the silence. Eric stayed put and scoped out his surroundings. The room was impeccably clean, but reeked of loneliness. The wals were bare except for several holes and faded squares where pictures had once hung. Cheap polyester curtains sagged from the apartment's only window. Dolars to donuts the only view she had was of the bricks of the building next door.

Against the far wal was a queen-size sleeper sofa, puled out to reveal a neatly made bed. Beside the bed stood a battered nightstand with a radio alarm clock and a stack of fat library books.

Biographies. Iacocca, Churchil, Gandhi. Between the window and bed, a television set even older than Emily's sat on a metal cart that looked as if it had gone a few rounds with the Merdham brothers.

On top of the TV, two photographs in flimsy frames faced the bed.

Beyond that, the room held no personal touches. It also had no other furniture.

other furniture.

"Have a seat. I'l be right out."

She disappeared behind a door that had to lead to the bathroom.

Eric looked at the bed, back at the bathroom door. He hoped she wasn't changing into something slinky. Sex wasn't what he'd had in mind when he'd agreed to come here, information was. If she planned to trade one for the other they'd both be SOL.

He checked the coffee, filed the mismatched mugs she'd set out.

She came out of the bathroom in a pair of faded jeans and a man's Iowa State University sweatshirt. He relaxed a shade. Seduction apparently wasn't on the agenda.

What then? Blackmail? She had to know the brawl had never made the papers. Or maybe her game plan was simpler than that. Maybe she hoped to sel him the information he needed to prove his innocence. It was obvious she was hurting for money.

"There's milk in the refrigerator,” she said, joining him.

"Black's fine."

She accepted her cup and studied him over the rim. “You must have a hundred questions. Where do you want to start?"

"How about with you? What's the story here?” His gaze encompassed the al-but-empty apartment.

She smiled, surprising him. “As in do I often invite strange men into my even stranger apartment? The answer is no. I watched you tonight with those women. You're a man with a lot on his mind, but getting lucky isn't on the list. At least not with some fly-by-night floozy who sees you as her ticket to the big time."

"Is that how you see me? As a ticket to the big time?"

"No.” She sipped her coffee.

He waited, but she didn't elaborate. “You said you'd been looking for me for weeks. Why?"

"Mind if we sit down? I've been on my feet for ten hours."