Icebreaker Read online

  When dinner finished, Maggie went off to nurse Charlie, and the men went into the living room to watch the Jets game. Typical. Sinead and her sister-in-law Natalie helped her mother clean up.

  “How’s it going at the restaurant?” Sinead asked.

  Natalie’s face lit up. “I love it.”

  “Good. I keep meaning to stop by and have a meal. I promise I will when I get the chance.”

  “That would be the twelfth of never,” her mother muttered under her breath.

  Eventually it was just Sinead and her mother alone in the kitchen as Natalie went off to annoy Quinn with questions about football.

  “You know, I noticed something at dinner,” her mother continued.

  “What’s that?”

  “You didn’t hold Charlie. Not once.”

  “I’m not good with babies, Ma, okay?”

  “I think you’re afraid to hold him.”

  Sinead swallowed painfully. “Could we not talk about this?”

  “Maggie misses you.”

  “Stop meddling, Mom. Please.”

  “I just worry about my girl. You seem so unhappy.”

  “I’m fine, Ma. Honestly.”

  “But you must be getting a bit lonely, no?”

  “Don’t start,” Sinead begged. “Please.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time to find a good man?”

  “I’m not sure there are any,” Sinead lamented. “And I’m certainly not going out looking for one.”

  “Stubborn thing. You’ve always been a headstrong, stubborn thing. You and your sister.”

  “Gee, I wonder where we get that from.”

  “Is it because you’re afraid of getting hurt again?” her mother pressed on. “So you made a mistake. Big deal. Live and learn, I say. Onward and upward and all that. Every pot has its lid, my mam used to say. I want you to find yours.”

  “If it’s meant to happen, it will, Mom,” said Sinead, hugging her mother tight. “Now stop fretting and hand me that dish.”

  “Guys, I’d like you to welcome our new captain, Adam Perry.”

  Adam stepped forward from where he stood between the New York Blades’ GM, Ty Gallagher, and head coach, Michael Dante. Nodding curtly, he glanced around the locker room.

  To say Gallagher and Dante were disappointed with the team’s play in the prior season was an understatement. In Ty’s estimation, they’d gotten soft. Michael believed their previous successes had led to the loss of the burning hunger needed to propel a hockey team forward. Ty and Michael both felt the Blades needed a strong physical presence on the ice; someone whose will to win would carry the team through the moments when skill wasn’t enough. Someone who would inspire effort in his teammates and fear in his opponents.

  “Adam? Anything you want to say?” Michael asked.

  Perry had a league-wide reputation of being a man of few words who only spoke when necessary. He didn’t disappoint. Once again he glanced around the locker room, as if searching for something inside each of his new teammates. The tension was thick. Finally he spoke. “I’m here to win a Stanley Cup,” he declared firmly. “I hope that’s why you’re all here. Nothing else is good enough.”

  The looks on the faces of the other Blades ranged from awe to fear. Perry was known for more than just being taciturn. A powerfully built back liner, he’d won the rookie of the year award for his offensive production as well as his defense. But over the years, he’d evolved into a primarily defensive defenseman known for being the hardest hitter in the league. His specialty was a dying art: the open-ice body check. It was a hit he delivered with such force and ferocity that more than a dozen players had suffered concussions when their heads met Perry’s shoulder at the blue line. Adam’s hits were perfectly legal but always ferocious. No one had retaliated against him in years, thanks to his reputation for being just as brutal and effective when he dropped his gloves. In a sport in which players prided themselves on their fearlessness, the one person players readily admitted to each other that they feared was Adam Perry.

  A brief moment of awkward silence followed Perry’s pronouncement as everyone waited to see if he would say anything else. When it was clear he was done, Michael Dante spoke up, breaking the tension. “Right, let’s get dressed for practice.”

  Ty Gallagher left, and Adam sat down and began unlacing his shoes. While the team talked and got ready, there was a definite psychic, if not physical, distance between Adam and the other players. They were giving him as much space in the locker room as they usually afforded him on the ice. It was something he was used to: the mixture of fear and respect that often made him a man apart, at least until they got to know him. He was not an easy person to get close to; he didn’t like to be emotionally vulnerable, which was often a roadblock when it came to friendship. Aloof was safer. Aloof allowed him to focus fully on the task at hand.

  Adam hated to admit weakness, even to himself, but deep down, he was afraid of never winning the Cup. The truth was, he needed the Blades as much as they needed him. Despite being an all-star for most of his career, Tampa Bay had only made the playoffs once in the ten years he’d played there. The Blades were probably his last shot at Stanley Cup glory.

  Adam looked around as he pulled on his practice sweater. He’d faced most of these guys on the ice for years. Jason Mitchell knew what it was like to butt heads with him; Adam couldn’t count the number of times they’d hit each other. He’d had his run-ins with Jason’s brother Eric as well. Ulf Torkelson downright hated him. That was okay. All he cared about was that they produced on the ice.

  The one wild card in the bunch was Esa Saari, a Finnish-born defenseman who it was rumored the Blades intended to pair with Adam. Saari was Adam’s opposite on the ice: an offensively minded, fast skating defenseman whose lapses in his own zone sometimes hurt the teams he’d played on.

  As if on cue, Saari spoke up. “Hey, Coach Dante, I hear your brother makes killer meatballs.”

  Everyone laughed. Adam knew from chatting with Michael that his brother, Anthony, owned an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn called Dante’s. Players ate there all the time. In fact, Michael and Ty were making plans to take Adam there one night soon. Apparently it was a tradition: take the new guy out for a meal.

  “Best in New York,” Michael boasted.

  Esa grinned. “I’m going to have to check them out.”

  With a model hanging off each arm, Adam thought scornfully. Saari was one of those athletes known as much for his lifestyle as his style of play; you couldn’t open the paper or watch celeb TV without there being some piece about Esa and who he was seen with, or what hot new restaurant he was at, or what club he was hanging out at. Unfortunately, the guy was a hockey rock star, and he knew it, too.

  “All right, you putzes,” said Michael. “Let’s get out on the ice.”

  Adam got up to leave with everyone else, but Ty popped his head in the door. “Hold on a minute, you two.” He waited until the team had cleared out. “Michael: work your usual magic, kicking their asses till they break down and cry like little girls. Adam: make it clear to these pussies that you’re not going to take any shit from them both on and off the ice.”

  Adam grinned wickedly. “Will do.”

  2

  “Oh my God, did you sleep here?”

  Unlocking the front door to the law firm’s offices, Sinead found her coworker, Oliver Casey, lying on his back on one of the posh leather couches in the lobby, blinking at the ceiling. It was clear that he’d just woken up. It was also clear that he’d slept in his clothing.

  Oliver sat up with a yawn. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour? Let me guess: working.”

  “What the hell are you doing sleeping on the couch?” Despite their different temperaments, Sinead adored Oliver, and the feeling was mutual. He was manic, guzzling diet colas all day like they were water, while she was even-tempered. He flew by the seat of his pants, while she planned everything carefully. He was a womanizer who slept with half h
is clients, something Sinead found inconceivable. But he was a brilliant litigator, which was the reason the managing partners in the firm were willing to turn a blind eye to his “shortcomings,” as one of them put it. It was different for her: all it would take was one Oliver type lapse of judgment on her part, and she’d be fired. She hated that there was a double standard, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  “Had a little bit too much to drink last night, and when I got in the cab to take me home, this was the only address I could remember.”

  Oliver yawned again, running a chunky hand through the thick tangle of his black hair. He wasn’t what you’d call traditionally attractive: he was slightly overweight, and his nose was a little too big for his face. Yet he bagged any woman he wanted to, mainly because he was one of those effortlessly charming men who could flatter the clothes off even the most resistant female. He was smart as hell, and funny, too.

  Sinead sat down next to him. “How’s the hangover?”

  Oliver’s eyes rolled up in his head dramatically. “Ever wonder what it’s like to have an ice pick driven into your skull repeatedly?”

  “I don’t have to wonder: I get migraines, remember?” She patted his shoulder. “C’mon, I’ve got some aspirin in my desk drawer.”

  “Sinead O’Brien: always prepared. I bet you were a Girl Scout.”

  “Shut up.”

  With Oliver wincing every step of the way, they walked down the long, carpeted hall to her office.

  “Do you have to be in court this morning?” Sinead asked.

  “Stop yelling.”

  “I’m not yelling. Do you have to be in court this morning?” Sinead stage-whispered.

  “Yep.”

  Oliver peered at her with disdain. “What are you so chipper about this morning?”

  “I got a call from Kidco Corporation, the company that owns the New York Blades. They asked me if I’d be interested in defending one of the team’s star players, Adam Perry, in an assault case.”

  “What’s the dude being charged with?”

  “Assault causing bodily harm of another player. A suburban Philadelphia DA who’s up for reelection brought the charges. Kidco wants to meet with me ASAP to discuss the case further.”

  “Sounds like it could be primo.” Oliver looked her up and down. “You look devastatingly beautiful today. Have I mentioned that?”

  “Shut up.”

  “You do. How come you and I have never gone out?”

  “I don’t date coworkers.”

  “For now.” Oliver sighed dreamily. “Ever hear of Tina Andreas?”

  “No.”

  “Some socialite gazillionairess. She’s divorcing a real schmuck. Unfortunately, they didn’t sign a prenup, so this putz is going after half her money. She’s retaining me, of course. Anyway, she’s gorgeous.”

  “You’ve slept with her already, haven’t you?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “How did you lure her into your bed?”

  “Drugged her.”

  “Oliver!”

  Oliver grinned. “How do you think, babe? I turned on the charm. Explained to her how we were going to demolish this guy in court. Told her if she needed anything—anything—I was there for her. Apparently she needed a good shtupping.”

  “Charming.”

  “Well, I am known for going above and beyond for my clients,” Oliver wisecracked.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Even though Oliver’s “relationships” were purely sexual, they still reminded Sinead of how she awoke in an empty bed day after day. “What if I never find anyone else, Oliver?”

  Oliver looked dumbstruck. “You kiddin’ me? With your killer bod and great big brain? You will. Trust me.”

  “If you say so.” Sinead kissed his cheek. “You always make me feel better. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome, Sinead. And screw the aspirin. Can I have one of your migraine pills?”

  Sinead strode confidently into the offices of Kidco Corporation. Unlike the rest of her family, she’d never been a sports fan. Her father had fallen hard and fast for baseball the minute he’d set foot on American soil from Ireland. Sinead remembered him bringing the whole family to a Mets game when she was about six, and being bored senseless. Both her brothers liked football as well as hockey. In fact, the Wild Hart had actually become the New York Blades’ new hangout. Every time Sinead visited her parents’ pub, a group of players could be found occupying a bunch of the tables in the back, downing pitchers of beer and looking like they were having a good time. Sinead never paid them much attention, though she sometimes heard the occasional appraising murmur when she passed to get to the kitchen. It made her uncomfortable. Auburn-haired Maggie was the beauty of the family, not her.

  After presenting her ID at the desk in the lobby, she was ushered up to the fifty-third floor into a windowless conference room, where she found six men seated around an oblong teak table. They all rose as she entered. Sinead proffered a hand to the man nearest her for a handshake. He was squat and overweight, a splat of dry ketchup on his tie.

  “Hello. I’m Sinead O’Brien from Callahan, Epps, and Kaplan.”

  “Lou Capesi, head of PR for the team,” the man said, his fingers as plump as the Irish bangers her mother cooked. Lou gestured to the thin, gray-haired, distinguished-looking man in an expensive black suit sitting across from him.

  A small man with a pinched face seated next to Lou cut in, reaching past him to shake Sinead’s hand. “Larry Welsh, NHL commissioner.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “This is Justin Barry, our in-house counsel,” Lou announced, referring to the man in the black suit.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Sinead. Barry echoed the sentiment.

  “Ty Gallagher, the team’s GM,” Lou said next, pointing to a well-built man with dirty blond hair and an extremely serious expression on his face.

  Ty nodded curtly. “Pleasure.”

  “Michael Dante, our team coach,” said Lou, his gaze falling on a handsome Italian man with a friendly face sitting next to Ty.

  “Thanks for coming,” said Michael.

  “My pleasure.”

  “And this is Adam Perry,” said Lou, gesturing at a ruggedly handsome man with light brown hair and hazel eyes at the end of the table.

  Adam was unsmiling. “I’m the one being charged.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Perry,” said Sinead.

  Lou Capesi pulled out a chair for her and offered her coffee, which she declined. She sat down, pulling out a yellow legal pad and pen from her briefcase. “So, gentlemen, how can I help you?”

  “Three nights ago, the Blades played Philly on their home ice,” Justin Barry began. “Adam here, one of the best defensemen in the NHL, made a hit on one of Philly’s defensemen, Nick Clarey. Guy was knocked out cold and taken off the ice. The next day, Philly released a statement saying Clarey had suffered a fractured cheekbone and had a concussion. Serious injuries for sure, but nothing unusual.”

  “We suspended Adam for two games,” said Commissioner Welsh, glancing at Adam with an unmistakable look of displeasure.

  “Despite his not being penalized during the game,” Ty interrupted with a glare.

  “The next day,” Barry continued, trying to regain control of the conversation, “we were informed that Adam was being brought up on charges of assault causing bodily harm by Patrick Dobbins, Philadelphia’s DA—”

  “Who just happens to be running for reelection,” Michael interrupted disgustedly.

  “According to Dobbins,” Barry continued with a touch of annoyance, “Adam’s hit was outside the accepted norms of the game, constituting assault.”

  Sinead jotted all this down, all the while aware of Adam Perry watching her intently. “Why did you contact me?” she asked Justin Barry.

  “We were told you were one of the city’s top litigators.”

  “Well, I’m certainly one of the city’s top female litigator
s,” Sinead noted. “And I’m assuming you believe having a woman defense attorney could be beneficial.” Before Barry could respond, Sinead deftly continued, “That’s neither uncommon nor a problem for me. However, I’ve never defended a hockey player before.”

  “Why are you telling us this?” Ty asked.

  “Full disclosure, for one thing. It also means I’ll have a slight learning curve when it comes to the intricacies of the game.” She tapped her pen lightly against her pad. “For example, I assume it’s uncommon for hockey players to be brought up on assault charges?”

  “Fuck yes,” Lou Capesi blurted, immediately looking sheepish. “I mean—yeah. Sorry for cursing.”

  “That’s okay,” Sinead assured him. “I’ve heard every curse in the book, most of them coming from the mouths of Wall Street executives.”

  There was something about Capesi’s rumpled look and bluntness that reminded her of Oliver; it was actually somewhat charming. The fact that the team had someone in-house who could spin the story would be a big boon.

  “You play in the NHL, you know there’s this kind of risk of on-ice contact,” Ty Gallagher explained. “Guys have been charged a few times in the past, but it was always for hits outside the norms of the game: either cheap-shot punches or hits in the head with a stick. This kind of check is just part of the game. The charges are just bullshit politicking. As we’ve said, Dobbins just wants to be reelected.”

  Sinead nodded thoughtfully. Six pairs of eyes were assessing her reaction to the information, especially Adam Perry’s. She looked at him. His expression betrayed nothing, which was curious. Usually defendants exhibited some level of anxiety. But there he sat, as unreadable as the sphinx. Sinead found it slightly unnerving.

  “There’s footage of the hit?” she asked.

  Welsh nodded. “Of course.”

  Sinead put her pen down and looked around the table. “I would be happy to defend Adam,” she said, her eyes again drawn to him. No reaction to her statement, just that intense, inscrutable gaze. What was he feeling? Was he upset about the charges? In shock? Pissed? Brainless? She couldn’t tell.