Clowe is their highest scorer, but he’s not setting any records with his goals or his points.”
“Defense is good.” Frankie “Sniper” Kawczynski took a bite of his sirloin. “If Nabokov is in his zone, he might be hard to score against.”
Sam grinned. “I like a challenge.”
Ty took one last bite and shoved his plate away. “If Marty plays like he did the other night,” he said, referring to their own goalie, “there’s no reason why we shouldn’t beat ’em with our offense and defense.”
Alexander Devereaux stood and tossed money on the table. “I’m meeting up with some of the guys at a bar across town. I heard they have good music and hot waitresses in little outfits.” He reached for his leather jacket hanging on the back of his chair. “Anyone want to catch a cab with me?”
Ty shook his head. Even if his ankle hadn’t been aching like a son of a bitch, he wouldn’t have gone. He’d done his time in hundreds of bars in hundreds of cities, and he’d figured out a while ago that he wasn’t missing a thing.
Daniel and Logan stood and reached for their wallets. “I’m in.”
“Me too.” Vlad tossed two twenties on the table. “Cali-forn-ya girlz need zome Vlad.”
Ty laughed. “Don’t drop your pants on the dance floor and scare the ‘Cali-forn-ya’ girls.” More than one American woman had run screaming from Vlad’s uncircumcised impaler.
“I don’t do zhat no more.” Vlad’s deep Russian laughter mixed with the ending strains of U2. Vladimir Fetisov had been playing in the NHL for ten years and had seen more than his share of action on and off the ice. A few years back, he’d been involved with a little figure skater. She must not have minded the impaler.
She had been Yugoslavian, though.
“You guys be careful,” Ty felt compelled to say. As the captain, he had to look out for his guys. “You don’t want to get busted with an underage rink rat. And don’t come to practice with your ass dragging because you drank too much and hooked up with someone you met in a bar. In fact, those late-night hookups can really take it out of you. Maybe it’s best to save your energy for the game.”
They all just laughed as they walked away. Two waitresses cleared the table and wiped it down for Ty and the five remaining guys. He ordered another Guinness and kicked back as Sam and Blake got into the age-old argument over the best game ever played in NHL history.
“1971,” Sam insisted. “Game Two of the first-round playoffs between Boston and Montreal.”
“U.S. kicking some Soviet ass in the 1980 Olym pics,” argued Blake, the all-American boy from Wisconsin.
“Actually,” Jules said as he approached the table, “it was 1994. New York and New Jersey. Last game in the Eastern Cup finals. Messier’s shorthanded goal with less than two minutes on the clock was the best moment in NHL history.”
Ty looked up. “1996,” he said. “Game Four of the conference quarter finals between Pittsburgh and Washington. That game went into four overtimes, with the Pens finally winning after a hundred and forty minutes of brutal hockey.” He slid his gaze to the woman walking up behind Jules. A pair of black wool pants hugged her butt and fell loosely down her long legs to her red pumps. Tiny pearl buttons closed the black fuzzy sweater covering her large breasts, and her gold hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore huge diamonds in her ears and her lips were painted a deep red. She looked gorgeous and classy. Nothing like a stripper. So, why did he have a vision of her ripping the front of her sweater apart and tossing it to him? It was those damn pictures of her naked.
Ty stood. “Hello, Mrs. Duffy.”
“Hello, Mr. Savage,” she said above the noise and music in the pub. Her gaze rested on him for several moments before she turned her attention to the other men rising to their feet. “Hello, gentlemen. Do you mind if we join you?”
Ty simply shrugged as he took his seat once more. The other five guys tripped all over themselves to assure her they’d love to have her take a seat, which Ty knew for a fact was complete bullshit.
“What did you do with yourself all day, Mrs. Duffy?” Blake asked in an effort to engage the owner.
“Well, I hit downtown San Jose and ran up my credit cards.” She took a seat next to Ty and reached for the menu. “I shopped till I dropped. I found the most wonderful sweater at BCBG. It’s fuchsia.” Two slim fingers, with those shiny red nails, slid down the menu. “And the coolest leather coat at Gucci. It’s scarlet. Normally I would never wear such bright colors. They’re just too bold and scream ‘look at me.’ Like waving and jumping up and down in a crowd to get attention.” Her fingers stopped near the bottom of the menu. “And I haven’t bought leather…well, except shoes and bags, in years. But…” She shrugged. “I’ve decided to live dangerously. Which would explain the sheer madness of the thigh-high boots and the matching lambskin hobo. The last thing I need is another hobo.” She looked up at the men staring back at her with varying degrees of stunned faces.
“I’ll have the grilled salmon and a Guinness,” she told the waitress who’d approached during her babbling onslaught. Ty didn’t know if she was nervous or drunk or both.
Jules ordered a steak and a Harp’s from his seat across the table
. “The poor bellman had to cart all that stuff up to your room.”
“I tipped him well.” She handed the menu to the waitress. “But it wasn’t until I spread everything out in the room that I realized that there might not be enough space in the jet’s cargo hold for all my bags.”
“Oh. Ah,” Johan Karlsson managed to utter.
She looked at them all, green eyes shining, and flashed a beautiful smile with her straight white teeth and full red lips. Ty could almost hear their collective gulps. “You-all don’t mind if we leave some of your equipment behind. Do you?”
“Like what?” Sam asked as he raised his beer. “We don’t travel with unnecessary baggage.” He took a drink, then added, “Unless you count Jules over there. Pound for pound, he takes up a lot of wasted space.”
“Pound for pound,” Jules jumped in, “your ego takes up a lot of wasted space.”