Thin Ice (4 page)

Within seconds, she'd vanished into the frigid February night.

"Got another one for you, Dr. Jordan."

Emily looked up from the safer sex lecture for the Women's Health Connection she was rehearsing in her office, and felt her stomach clench. The hospital florist stood in her doorway, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He carried an exquisite sea-green porcelain vase holding a dozen white roses.

Stil grinning, he set them on her desk. He fussed with the blossoms and adjusted the forest green bow, then stepped back and eyed them criticaly. “Perfect."

Emily swalowed her rising nausea and forced a gracious smile.

“Yes. They are. Thank you."

"Anytime, Doctor. Here's the card."

She waited until he left before she read it, then ripped it in half and threw the pieces in the trash. Then she cursed Eric Cameron again.

Red. Yelow. Pink. White. Four colors in four days. What would he do when he ran out of colors? Start over again? Move on to a different variety of flora?

It was what Ryan had done. During the course of their marriage, he must have given her every type of flower known to man. But then Ryan had always been one for grand apologetic gestures after losing his temper. The more violent the episode, the more lavish the bouquet. It had become such a travesty between them that she never wanted to receive flowers again.

Especialy not roses. They reminded her too much of the bruises and broken bones she'd suffered before their arrival. She'd always paid extra for the roses.

Closing her eyes, she saw Eric's message in her mind. It, too, was the same every day. I'm sorry. Eric. Underneath he'd written his telephone number.

She reached for the phone and dialed the nurse's station. When the aide arrived minutes later, Emily asked her to take the roses to the children's ward and distribute them.

She wanted no part of Eric Cameron's apologies. She wanted no part of him at al.

* * * *

Hands stuffed in his pockets, Eric leaned against he concrete planter under the portico in front of St. Stephen's Elementary School and grinned at the animated third grader whose opinion of him was in direct opposition to Emily Jordan's.

"Yes sir, Mr. Cameron, I'm a real Saints fan. So's Nanna."

Eric smiled. “Why don't you cal me Eric?"

The boy looked as if he'd just been handed the Stanley Cup.

“Realy? It's okay?"

"Realy. It's okay. Now, who's Nanna?"

"Nanna? Oh she takes care of me while Mom's at work. Lets me watch the games on TV sometimes, until I have to go to bed. I been askin’ Mom to let me sign up for the Mites League since my birthday last year. I'm eight, you know,” he informed Eric importantly. “But she won't let me. She says it's too vi-lent.

‘Specialy hockey. She says nobody but dee ... de ... gen...” He trailed off, his earnest face twisted in concentration.

"Degenerates?” Eric supplied helpfuly.

"Degenerates?” Eric supplied helpfuly.

"Yeah! That's it!” The boy looked up, idolization shining in his hazel eyes. “Degenrits. Mom says nobody but degenrits plays hockey, and she won't have her son turning into one."

Eric had to laugh. Never had he been idolized and insulted at the same time. And with such enthusiasm. “I see. When did she say that?"

The boy offered a shy, sheepish smile. “She didn't say it to me. She told Nanna. I heard them talking when they thought I was asleep."

Eric decided he liked the little guy. He reminded him of himself—

before he'd taken up hockey and become a degenerate, that was.

He smiled again, but his new friend had gone back to admiring his Saints pennant, one of several hundred Eric had passed out after his anti-drug lecture that afternoon.

The boy traced a reverent finger across the purple and gold Saints insignia, then looked up at Eric, grinning from ear to ear. “This rocks. Soon as I get home I'm gonna hang this up over my bed, right next to my Saints team poster."

Eric appreciated his devotion to the team. He wished his teammates shared that devotion. Last night's win against Calgary had revived his hopes somewhat, but he knew he stil had a long way to go. His teammates stil didn't trust him, thanks to Stump.

"I'm glad you like it. I thought you and your friends might."

"I'm glad you like it. I thought you and your friends might."

As usualy happened after he gave one of his talks, he'd been swarmed by kids wanting souvenirs. He'd obliged cheerfuly, feeling like Santa Claus, hoping the pennants would help to remind the kids of his visit and message.

The boy had waited on the fringes of the group with watchful eyes, until the rest of the miniature Saints fans had run off, shouting and pushing, honest-to-goodness team memorabilia clutched in their happy little fists. He had then accepted his own pennant, but instead of darting away like the others, had shyly lingered to talk. His shyness had evaporated once he knew his company was welcome, and for the past five minutes, the two of them had been discussing the boy's dream of one day playing pro hockey.

"Robbie? I didn't realize you were out here. You need to come inside and wait for your mom in the office."

Eric looked over to see the principal holding open the front door to the school.

"It's okay, Miranda. I don't mind."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure.” He smiled at Robbie. “We're just enjoying some of this surprising February sunshine.” In one of those odd bursts of weather, the temperature had spiked to almost sixty that day.

"Al right, but let me know if his mom's not here by the time you need to leave."

"Wil do."

Apparently the boy was waiting for his mother to pick him up and take him to dinner and an early movie. Since it was late Thursday afternoon and he hadn't heard from Emily—not that he expected to, but he'd hoped the roses would have at least softened her up some

—Eric was happy to keep the kid company while he waited. It beat sitting in his apartment alone.

"...So, ya see, ya gotta talk to her, Eric. Tel her she's got it al wrong."

Eric puled himself back to the present with an effort. “I'm sorry, Robert, I mean—"

"It's Robbie. Wel, realy it's Robin, but Mom only cals me that when she's mad."

"I see. Al right, Robbie. Sorry, but my mind wandered while you were talking. Who do I have to talk to?"

"My mom. I bet if she met a real hockey player like you, she'd change her mind in a minute."

Eric chuckled. The optimism of youth. “Somehow I doubt that.” Robbie looked disheartened. “I didn't mean it wouldn't happen,” Robbie looked disheartened. “I didn't mean it wouldn't happen,” Eric gently amended. “I just don't think you should get your hopes up that my meeting your mother would change her mind about something she obviously feels strongly about."

Robbie scuffed the toes of his sneakers. “You mean things don't always work out the way you want them to."

Exactly. Take his four-day-old obsession with Dr. Emily Jordan, for instance. Eric hadn't been able to get her off his mind since the police had escorted him out the emergency room doors right behind her. He'd thought about her at the police station while he waited for his lawyer, in the training room while he waited for the team doctor to examine him to make sure none of his ribs had been broken, at home as he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling pretending he wasn't in pain...

"...always says."

Eric realized Robbie was speaking again. He had to get a grip. This Emily Jordan business was distracting him way too much. Maybe he'd stop by the hospital tonight and take his chances.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't listening again. What did you say?"

"I said that's what Mom always says. You know, things don't always work out like you want them to."

Eric smiled. “She sounds like a wise woman.” Except for her opinion of hockey, but he couldn't take offense at that. Maybe she'd opinion of hockey, but he couldn't take offense at that. Maybe she'd met some of his teammates. No doubt their behavior could be brutal at times. Then again, he hadn't been a boy scout lately, either.

Take Sunday night. The game, the brawl, the terrified woman.

"She's a doctor."

"She sure is,” Eric murmured. And light-years out of your league, Cameron. Forget about the emergency room.

"That's why she's always late."

"Who's always late?"

"Mom. She's always late."

The boy's words held no resentment. Eric grinned, then recaled his own waiting. The only reason he'd waited so patiently in the emergency room the other night was to avoid media attention. He'd known he had this and several other school talks scheduled and the brawl would have been a perfect catalyst for the media to dredge up a past he considered nothing short of a nightmare.

He supposed he had the police to thank for keeping the incident quiet, but little else. Four hours he'd spent in that airless closet of a lounge, only to discover the city's finest had indeed chosen to let everyone else go home without formal questioning.

Since Harry hadn't pressed charges, they hadn't booked Eric, either, but he knew that could change at any time. Harry McNaly either, but he knew that could change at any time. Harry McNaly and his brother wanted to see how much they could squeeze out of him, first. Their lawyer had contacted him the next day.

So now his lawyer was dragging out negotiations with the McNaly brothers’ lawyer, while discretely chasing down the brawlers treated at the hospital, hoping at least one in fifteen had a conscience. Otherwise, this episode was going to cost him a bundle.

Eric couldn't afford any negative press right now and the McNaly brothers knew it. Question was, how much did they know?

Eric realized he'd drifted off again, leaving the boy staring at him hopefuly. “So ... what does your dad think about al this?” he asked in an attempt to find his way back into their conversation.

Sadness entered the boy's eyes before he looked away. “Don't have a dad."

Eric could have kicked himself. He should've known. Should've sensed the kid's interest in him stemmed from more than a love of hockey. The signs had been there al along, but he'd been too preoccupied to notice. Six years of public appearances had introduced him to countless kids like Robbie, youngsters in search of a role model to look up to.

"I'm sorry.” He meant it. He knew what it was like to grow up without a father.

Robbie sent him another shy smile. “S'okay. I got Mom."

Eric knew it wasn't the same, but wasn't about to go there. “So, where are you and your mom going out to dinner?"

"Paisan's Pizza. At the mal. She hates to go there ‘cause driving in traffic makes her al nervous and stuff, but it's my favorite place and

—” Robbie brightened. “Wanna come with us?"

"To Paisan's?"

"Yeah! They make the best pizzas in the whole world. You can get anything you want on ‘em and Mom always lets me pick what kind I want. But you could pick this time, if you come."

An iron fist squeezed Eric's heart at the naked hope in the boy's eyes. He should have disappeared right after his talk. He had no business using a fatherless kid to stave off his own case of the lonelies.

"Wel, I'd like to, but..."

"Here she comes!” Robbie practicaly went airborne as an old white Chevy Suburban puled into the circular drive. The redhead behind the wheel wore dark glasses, but Eric had the strangest feeling he'd seen her somewhere before. Recently. Suddenly she braked hard, whipped off her sunglasses, and stared at him in open disbelief.

Eric stared back, unable to believe what he was seeing, either.

Robbie grabbed his arm. “C'mon. I'l interduce you."

"Er, Robbie, it might be better if we didn't..."

The boy tugged harder. “Don't worry. She's real nice. She'l like you, I promise. She likes al my friends."

But friendship wasn't on Emily Jordan's mind as she rounded the hood of her car. Finding out what Eric Cameron was doing at St.

Stephen's Elementary School—talking alone with her son—was.

And unless he had a very good, very legal reason for being there—

"Mom! Mom! Guess who this is?"

Emily faltered. She hadn't seen Robbie so fired up outside of Christmas morning. “It's Eric Cameron. You know, the Saints’ new captain. Number sixteen."

Number sixteen? The Saints? She looked at Eric, who looked decidedly uncomfortable in his black leather jacket, and the puzzle pieces fel into place. “A hockey player,” she said. “I should have guessed."

"Isn't it great? He came to school today to talk to us about drugs and alc'hol and how bad they are for you. Then he gave us these neat pennants.” Robbie waved his pennant, almost poking Emily in the eye in his excitement. As she leaned back, Eric dropped a restraining hand on Robbie's shoulder.

"Careful, son. You don't want to hurt your mother."

"What? Oh, sorry, Mom."

Emily's protective instincts flared. She moved forward and speared Eric with a get-your-hands-off-my-son look before speaking to Robbie. “It's al right, sweetheart. Now why don't you thank Mr.

Cameron for the pennant and say goodbye? We have to get going if we're going to make the early show."

"But he's coming with us. I invited him."

"You what?"

"I invited him. You said I could bring a friend."

Emily looked back at Eric in open dismay. “Honey, I don't think Mr. Cameron—"

"I would love to join you and your son for dinner, Doctor,” Eric interrupted smoothly, “As long as you don't mind giving me a ride to the mal. My car's in the shop and I'm waiting for a ride, but my friend can meet me there. In fact, I think it might be more convenient for him."