Hot Ticket (16 page)

“What road is that?”

“The road where we completely kill the mystery.”

“Maybe it will enhance the mystery.”

“Doubtful. But the answer is no, I don’t have a girlfriend right now.”

“So you’re as lonely as I am,” Tierney blurted.

David’s gaze softened. “You’re lonely?”

“No,” Tierney said quickly, trying to backpedal. “I mean—maybe a little. Sometimes.”

“C’mere.” David took her in his arms. “Enough talking,” he whispered as he softly kissed her mouth. “As long as I’m in town, you won’t be lonely. I promise.”

Saturday, 6:27
P
.
M
.

Nebraska, David mused as he rode the elevator up three floors to see what his teammates were up to. You could have knocked him over with a feather. He’d constructed an elaborate fantasy history for Tierney, one in keeping with the well-heeled, worldly professional whose sparkling smile brought his heart to a halt every January when he stepped into the lobby of the hotel.

According to David’s fantasy, Tierney was the only child of socialite parents. She grew up lonely and isolated in Newport, craving human companionship and interaction. Her father wanted her to take over his shipping business. She refused and was disowned. Forced to fall back on her own resources, she got a job at the Barchester. She rose up through the ranks to head concierge, a job she loved because it put her in touch with people. Her attraction to him was the direct result of all the effete rich boys her parents had once tried to jam down her throat, boys with three names like Justin St. Millionaire or Twee von Bogus. Tierney had rebelled by finding herself drawn to a rugged blue-collar boy from the wilds of
Canada instead. Not that she had any way of
knowing
that’s what he was, but never mind.

That
was the Tierney he dreamed of all year long. This other Tierney—the one who probably grew up feeding the cows—unnerved him a little, because it meant they had things in common, and like it or not, it appealed to him. She was from the country, like he was. Knew all about wide open spaces and the yawning boredom that could come with it, like he did. Escaped to the city, like he did. The thought was disconcerting. The last thing he needed was for them to be a good match
outside
the bedroom. Then his unwavering dedication to the game would
really
be screwed.

Stepping out onto the sixth floor, he was greeted by the sight of two of his teammates, “Hawk” Cusack and “Thatch” Munker, hitting a stale bagel between them with their sticks. Their nicknames were self-evident: Hawk could spot a puck anywhere on the ice, while Thatch had wiry red hair that no hair-care product known to man could tame.

“If it’s not David Hewson, International Man of Mystery,” called Thatch, wristing the bagel directly at David’s head.

David ducked, annoyed. “I get enough of that on the ice. You think maybe you could can it during my free time?”

“Touchy, touchy,” said Hawk. “Seriously: where ya been?”

“Here and there.”

Thatch gave a sly grin. “You nailing some chick? Giving her the big, bad ‘I’m a lonely hockey player alone in a strange city’ spiel?”

“Something like that.”

David hadn’t told any of his teammates about his annual date with Tierney, nor did he intend to. It would cheapen it somehow. Plus, he didn’t want any of the guys giving Tierney a hard time when the Herd blew into town every year.

“Where’s your dream girl now?” Hawk asked.

“Sleeping.”

“She stranded in the hotel like everyone else?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Hawk looked at Thatch. “The mystery deepens.”

“It’s not a mystery. I just don’t feel the need to take out an ad every time I sleep with someone.” He kicked the bagel toward Hawk. “Where is everyone?”

“Split up between Slats in 615 and Gravy in 621. Slats has a poker game going. Gravy’s got the soap channel on. They’re running the
All My Children
episode we missed yesterday.”

“Think I’ll hit Slats.”

“Hey.” Hawk’s voice was casual, but David still caught the concern in those sharp blue eyes that never missed a trick on or off the ice. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” David answered guardedly. “Why?”

“You seem kind of preoccupied.”

“It’s nothing.” David started to walk away but then turned back. “You ever think something is one way, but you find out it’s another way, and the change makes you kind of nervous?”

Thatch got excited. “You mean, like, you think peanuts are a vegetable, but then you find out they’re really a legume, and you’re, like, not sure you can ever eat peanut butter again?!”

David and Hawk exchanged looks of incredulity.

“What’s eatin’ you, bro?” Hawk asked.

David frowned as he started toward room 615. “Peanuts,” he grumbled.

Saturday, 8
P
.
M
.

“Do you know anything about Saskatchewan?”

Aggie’s dead-eyed stare in response to Tierney’s question told Tierney all she needed to know. Following her latest tryst with David, Tierney had showered and taken a small nap before checking in with Willy Nugent to find out if her help was needed anywhere else in the hotel. Commended for “doing an exemplary job
so far”—a compliment that had Tierney puffing up with pride—Willy directed her toward the kitchen. He claimed the “culinary sector” of the hotel needed all the help it could get. Tierney hoped he hadn’t expressed that view directly to Aggie, or he was likely to find himself sipping cyanide-laced soup.

She couldn’t stop thinking about David’s admission that he was from Saskatchewan. She knew he was Canadian, but in her imagination, he was a Toronto boy, born and bred. She found herself wanting to know more, which wasn’t good, because what was the point? She lived in Chicago, he lived in Buffalo, and that was that. Saskatchewan . . . an image appeared in her mind of David wrapped in bear pelts snowshoeing across a vast, snowy plain, followed by another of him standing knee deep in an icy river, catching salmon with his bare hands. She giggled.

“What’s so funny?” Aggie growled.

“Nothing. Look, I’m here to help,” Tierney told Aggie, who looked crazed. Her chef hat was askew, and there was a desperation in her eyes Tierney had never seen before. In fact, the whole kitchen was a cave of despair. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah. Make the snow melt so my deliveries can get through; put a stake through the heart of Mr. Rock Star; stuff Nugent into a utility closet; gag the hysterical bride-to-be, and tell the Herd that short of going down to the stockyard and killing a steer myself, they ain’t gonna get filet mignon for dinner.”

“That good, huh?”

“Oh, please.” Aggie wiped her hands on her food-splattered apron. “You don’t want to know. Long story short? I’m starting to run low on food. Nugent said he might—
might
—be able to get some staples in, but as for anything fresh, forget it. Meantime, our fearless leader won’t let me touch a lot of the stuff I
do
have, just in case the weather lets up and that stupid wedding goes ahead as planned tomorrow.” Aggie’s voice was aggrieved. “Has Nugent even bothered to
look
outside?! Or listen to a weather report?! The
snow’s not supposed to stop until late tomorrow! A team of sled dogs couldn’t get through!” Exhausted, she slumped against the wall.

“There must be something we can do,” said Tierney.

“Yeah, start cannibalizing guests.”

“Seriously. What have you got in mind for dinner?”

Aggie sighed. “Potatoes. Carrots. Onions. Spices. I’m thinking of making a stew. Why?”

“Got any beer? Guinness?”

“I don’t know. I could check with Don in the bar.
Why
?”

“Spice up the stew with the beer, and give it a fake name. Call it ‘Cassoulet de Dublin.’ Put it over pasta so it goes further. That’s what my mom used to do when money got tight.”

Aggie looked dubious. “And what if people won’t eat it?”

“Of course they’ll eat it. You’re a fabulous cook, Aggie. I’m sure anything you whip up will be delicious.”

“You’re right,” Aggie agreed, bypassing modesty completely, which was one of the things Tierney loved about her. “But that still doesn’t take care of dessert.”

“Can’t you bake something? You must have stuff here for the wedding cake.”

Aggie leveled her with another dead-eyed stare. “I already told you: The Führer seems to be suffering under the delusion that the Mykofsky nuptials might still take place.” She drummed her fingers on a nearby countertop. “I do have Bisquick. And some industrial-size drums of fruit cocktail. Maybe if I make some biscuits and throw some fruit salad over it with some meringue, I’ve got . . . Frutta di Barchester!”

Tierney grinned. “There you go. See, it’s not so hard.”

“But what about breakfast tomorrow?” Aggie continued anxiously. “What if we’re all still stuck here and there’s even less to work with?”

“Don’t think about that now. Just try to take it one meal at a time.”

“Nugent wants to start directing people to the bar after dinner. He seems to think that if they get trashed, they might not notice they’re trapped in a high-class igloo.”

“Good idea—unless we run out of booze.” Tierney grabbed a clean apron and put it on. “What can I do? Seriously.”

“Seriously? Tell me why the hell you asked if I knew anything about Saskatchewan.”

“That’s where David’s from.”

“Hockey David?” asked Aggie in surprise as she tossed Tierney a bunch of carrots and instructed her to peel them. “You two have actually
spoken
? Full sentences beyond, ‘Oooh, baby, yeah’?”

“Very funny. We’ve talked before. Kind of.”

Aggie took hold of a gleaming blade and began mincing onions. “I take it you two hooked up again.” Tierney nodded. “Let me guess: the sex was even better than last night.”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s great,” Aggie said blandly. “I’m trapped in here trying to figure out how to get creative with maraschino cherries, and you’re having soul-shattering sex. There’s no justice.”

“Never mind the sex,” Tierney chided loudly. Heads turned, including that of sous chef Isidore, who checked out Aggie before turning back to the potatoes he was chopping. “Isidore’s scoping you out,” Tierney whispered.

“Ain’t happenin’,” Aggie declared. She pushed a pile of minced onion to the left side of her cutting board, then started chopping the next one. “Why are you telling me ‘Never mind the sex’? I thought it was all about the sex. All sex, all the time. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex.”

Tierney glared at her over the mounting pile of carrot peelings. “Are you done?”

“Sorry,” Aggie muttered. “What’s going on?”

“We had sex again,” Tierney said in a low voice, “and afterward we actually talked. About ourselves.”

“Most people prefer to do it the other way around, but continue.”

“Do you know why he gets his own room when the team travels?”

“Snoring? Bedwetter? Hygiene issues?”

“No, because he’s a goalie. He’s got, like, rituals.”

“Beyond having to be awakened at 7:13 exactly?” Tierney nodded, and Aggie looked disturbed. “Like what? We’re not talking about sprinkling gris gris dust over a pile of bleached chicken bones, are we?”

“No, no, no. Rituals like he has to shower at exactly 7:18. And he has to open and close the shower curtain seven times before he gets into the tub. Something to do with playoff games.”

“He told you this?”

Tierney nodded. “He says all goalies are nuts.”

“Well, this one is. He sounds a little off kilter, Tierney.”

“Actually, I think it’s kind of cute,” Tierney admitted reluctantly. “I think we might have more in common than we imagined. It didn’t seem to phase him that I was from Nebraska.”

“You
told
him you were from Nebraska? I thought that was a topic you tried to avoid.”

“I tried, believe me. But he kept pushing. He wouldn’t let it go.”

“And what did Ronnie Ritual do with this info? Offer to dress up as a scarecrow?”

“Worse. He wanted to know how I wound up in Chicago and if I had a
boyfriend
. He seemed interested.”

“Really.” Aggie sounded intrigued. “Did you tell him the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Another bad move. You should have said yes. Then he’d be all tied up in knots wondering if the guy was better in the sack than he was.”

“He’d also wonder if I was a slut.”

Aggie snorted. “This guy’s got a ritual that involves a shower curtain, and you’re worried about what
he
thinks?!”

“I know, I know.”

“Besides, you hardly know him.”

“I know he’s from Saskatchewan. I know
he
doesn’t have a girlfriend. And I know I want to find out more about him, even though it kind of makes me nervous.”

“Why’s that?”

“He lives in another city, Aggie. And I kind of liked playing the city girl role for him, you know? It was safe. And fun.”

“Hey, no pain, no gain, baby.”

“That’s just it. I’m not sure I want gain, and I sure as hell don’t want any pain.”

“So what
do
you want?”

Tierney sighed. “I’m not sure. But when I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

Saturday, 11:53
P
.
M
.

“On a dark desert highvay / Cool vind in my har . . .”

Entering the hotel bar, David cringed as he listened to the boys from Bangalore butcher “Hotel California.” As far as he could tell, everyone else was too soused to care. Either that, or they simply didn’t have the energy to demand the drunken techies surrender control of the baby grand. He wondered where the hotel’s actual piano player was. Hiding, probably. Or stranded at home.

He couldn’t believe it was still snowing. He’d experienced some bad blizzards in his day, both at home in Canada and more recently in Buffalo, but this weekend’s storm bordered on the catastrophic. Another day trapped inside the hotel and he just might lose his mind. Granted, he did have Tierney to help him pass the time, but now that they’d opened up to each other a little bit, he wasn’t sure spending any more time with her was such a good idea. He’d already screwed up one game thinking about her. What would happen if he found out he
really
liked her and they started something? He could picture it already: the phone calls, the
expectations, the visits—all anathema to his renowned single-minded focus.