Erick and Moose, helmets off, are having angry words and Moose has a handful of Erick’s jersey.
Just when I think things couldn’t get worse, short and squat Deputy Paulsen toddles out onto the ice, in uniform, to break up the fight. With her tendency to draw her gun at a stiff breeze, I sincerely hope she doesn’t shoot Erick.
“I gotta get down there, Twiggy. You don’t need to wait. I’m sure Erick can drive me home. Thanks for introducing me to broomball.” I raise my hands and make little explosion gestures next to my head. “Mind blown.”
She shakes her head and clomps down the bleachers to join the festivities.
My foray into ice-based celebrations begins with a stream of polite “excuse mes,” but quickly devolves into a snowplow and shove strategy. When I finally break through the crowd, the view is less than desirable.
Deputy Paulsen is threatening to arrest everyone, and Moose and Erick are in an intense shoving match. Moose temporarily gets the upper hand, and Erick goes down hard.
“And stay down, Harper.” Moose spits on the ice. “Out here, you’re nothing but a punk. Your badge is useless in the rink.” A trickle of angry spittle clings to Moose’s thick black beard.
Testosterone and adrenaline swirl together to create a dangerous concoction.
The sheriff fires up off the ice, and a left hook lands hard on Moose’s face.
Moose teeters backward and crashes down with a thud of finality.
Erick leans over the mountain of a man and shouts, “I don’t need a badge to take you out. Nobody takes cheap shots at my team. You better remember that on and off the ice—if you know what’s good for ya.”
My eyes widen. I’ve never seen Erick so angry, but his instinct to protect his teammates is no surprise.
Paulsen grabs his arm and drags him toward an exit. “You’re drawing quite a crowd, Sheriff. You better quit while you’re ahead.”
The heat of the moment fades and his shoulders sag. It’s clear that he’s not proud of what happened, but when his young teammate with a broken nose, courtesy of Moose, slides over and pats Erick appreciatively on the back, I can hardly blame him for taking care of his guys.
Outside the tight throng of spectators, the ice is far more slippery than it looks. Apparently, those broomball shoes have some serious mojo. Within seconds of my renewed attempts to reach Erick, my feet are circling like those of a cartoon character, and I land abruptly on my backside. Lucky for me, I’ve built up enough padding back there to avoid any serious injury.
The commotion catches Erick’s attention, and he wrenches his arm free from Paulsen’s grasp. “Moon, are you okay? What are you doing out on the ice? A fragile desert flower like you shouldn’t be mixing it up with these broomball hooligans.” The tenderness in his blue-grey eyes reminds me of the gentleman lurking inside the Abominables’ enforcer.
He carefully scoops me from the ice, and I reach up to push his blond hair back from his sweaty face. “Congratulations. Moose will think twice before he comes after any of your teammates again.”
Erick scrunches up his face and shakes his head. “Moose?”
“Oh, that’s the nickname I gave the big guy you were fighting with.”
“We weren’t fighting. It’s part of the sport.”
“Whatever you say, Sheriff.” I bend to retrieve my dislodged stocking cap, eager to cover my haystack of snow-white hair, and the slipping starts anew.
Erick steadies me. “Let me get that for you.” He grabs the hat and places it on my head like a caring parent.
“Can you also give me a ride home, kind sir?”
He chuckles and pulls me close. “It’ll cost you.” His words are accompanied by a mischievous wink.
My tummy tingles. “I can pay. I’m a rich heiress, remember?”
He leans down and whispers warmly next to my cheek, “Money can’t save you, Moon.”
I struggle to get air in my lungs as my face turns a dangerous shade of crimson.
He points toward the entrance. “You can hang out in the snack bar. I’ll come find you as soon as I get changed.”
“Copy that.”
His broad shoulders shake with laughter as he heads into the locker room.
What can I say? The phrase is one of the few things that “stuck” from my months of on-set experience in the fast-paced world of filmmaking. As a production assistant it was my job to do whatever was needed as quickly as possible, and “copy that” was the way to let the powers that be, on the other end of the walkie talkie, know that I was on top of things. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
Erick is unusually quiet on the drive from the fieldhouse to my bookstore, and my natural snoopiness fails to see the benefit of patience. “What’s up? Aren’t you happy your team won the championship?”
He nods and taps his thumb rhythmically on the steering wheel of his squad car. “Yeah. The guys worked really hard this season, and they deserved the title. But, now that the thrill of the win has faded, I’m feeling a little foolish for letting Klang get the best of me.”
“Who’s Klang?”
A soft grin spreads across Erick’s face. “The guy you called Moose.”
“Oh, that guy.” I want to mention how shocking it was to see him in a fistfight, but clearly his own conscience is already berating him enough. “Is he gonna be all right? I mean, he’ll definitely have a black eye. But other than that, he’s not seriously injured, right?”
Erick shrugs. “He’s a big boy. I’m sure he’ll be fine.” His tone carries less bravado than his words.
He turns down the alley and stops by the heavy metal side door leading into the Bell, Book & Candle. “Breakfast tomorrow morning? At Myrtle’s Diner?”
I twist in my seat and stare. “Always, but don’t you want to come in or something?” There’s honestly not much I can offer him in my mini-fridge and microwave-equipped back room, and I’m not feeling brave enough to directly invite him up to my swanky apartment.
“Nah. Thanks, though.”
My disappointment must be more obvious than I intend.
He reaches over and clasps my hand. “It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy a nightcap, Moon. I’ve got a lot on my mind. I’m gonna head out to the icehouse on the lake and fish a little before I call it a night. I’ll see you at breakfast.” He leans over the center console and gives me a quick peck on the cheek.
“Yeah, sure. It was a big night. I’ll see you in the morning.” I jump out of the cruiser before I can say or do anything to embarrass myself.
He politely waits while I fish my keys out of my coat pocket and fumble with the lock. Once I’m inside and the door has closed behind me, the sound of his engine fades as he backs down the alley and drives away.
Note to self: work on flirt game.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not you, dear.”
“Grams! The rules! If these lips aren’t moving, you don’t get to comment. Stay out of my head, woman!” Maybe I’m overreacting, but my heart is racing and my bladder is quaking.
The late Myrtle Isadora smooths her silk-and-tulle Marchesa gown with one bejeweled hand, while she checks her manicure and ignores my reminder.