Body Check Read online

  “You are coming with me,” he said through gritted teeth. Had the speech that Pickens delivered at training camp every year not been burned into his brain, Thor might have grabbed her arm to pull her along with him as he headed toward the service hall door.

  We are a family, but only up to a point. I have a daughter. You will, no doubt, run into her from time to time. She is off-limits. If she speaks to you, be polite. Otherwise, don’t talk to her. Don’t look at her. If you touch her, you’d better be jerking her out of the path of a speeding car or some other situation that would save her from certain death. Failure to comply will result in a nullified contract regardless of your popularity with the fans or your prowess on the ice. Am I clear?

  He was clear—very clear. As far as Thor knew, none of his teammates were aware of Pickens’s motivation for his staunch stand, but he had told Thor. When Pickens had played college hockey, his younger sister, Legare, had developed a crush on one of Pickens’s teammates. Pickens had encouraged his friend to ask her out. The teammate had slept with Legare, broken her heart, and moved on. Legare had not moved on. She had been so devastated that she’d had to drop out of school for a semester. The whole thing caused dissension among the team, with everyone taking sides. They’d gone from a winning season to dead last in their division—and Pickens blamed himself for it all. Legare had recovered, but the team dynamics had never been the same. Pickens was determined that would not happen to his daughter or his team. Never mind that Tradd was a grown woman and not a seventeen-year-old debutante with stars in her eyes. The rule might as well have been inscribed on stone tablets. And Thor knew that even though he was clearly Pickens’s favorite—so much so that his teammates called him The Fair-Haired Child—he was not exempt from that commandment.

  No problems, Pickens. Right now, I might be that speeding car she needs to be saved from.

  Chapter Two

  Tradd almost didn’t follow Thor.

  It would have been easy not to. He hadn’t touched her. He’d just spun around and stalked off like he never doubted that she would follow him. She could have easily turned, gone the other way, and likely been out the front door before he even realized she wasn’t trotting behind him like a baby lemming hell-bent on pleasing the king of all the lemmings. She would have been lost in the crowd in two seconds.

  The crowd. That was her fault, but the thing was, she had meant well. People hardly ever believed that of her, because there had been a time when she had seldom meant well, especially when there’d been no benefit for her own personal self. She blamed Pickens and Mary Lou for that. They’d had no business treating her like the chief princess of all times and domains. If she hadn’t been such a spoiled brat, there would be no need for performing random acts of kindness in her attempt to reform.

  So it was their fault she had even tried to help Thor out to begin with. Her daddy and mama loved Thor. If they hadn’t had him over for dinner that night, she would have never run into him in the first place.

  Thor had been trying to unload this tacky house forever—the house he never should have bought for that gold-digging, low-rent, has-been model Jonteau. When he’d mentioned in passing that he was having this party, she’d offered to send a few country music people his way—people who really might be interested in the house and had the new money to buy it. Houses like this sold by word of mouth. It might be ugly, but it was going to cost someone some money and plenty of it. Tradd mentioned to her friend Carson Hamilton-Knox that if she knew anyone who might be interested in attending Thor’s party and might spread the word to the right people that the property was for sale, to send them over. As editor of Twang, the magazine that was the bottom-line on the Nashville music scene, Carson had better contacts than Tradd, though Carson had not invited all these people—at least not directly.

  Tradd had never intended to come to this party at all. In fact, she’d been dressed and ready to make the short drive to Beauford, Tennessee, in hopes of getting a chance to sing at open mike night at The Café Down On The Corner. Jackson Beauford lived in Beauford, and he showed up at open mike night regularly. In fact, Jackson had discovered Chase Callahan, the New Hot Thing, there. Her big break probably wouldn’t have happened to her tonight anyway, but it for sure wouldn’t now, because Carson had called before she could get in her car.

  “I was hoping to get a tidbit for Twang’s blog, so I dropped by that hockey player’s party,” she had said. “It’s a madhouse. I thought you said there were only going to be about a hundred people. There are at least five times that. I am not kidding. You can’t even get in the house.”

  Tradd’s gut had turned to ice. She’d known even then that things had gone very, very wrong and somehow, she was going to get the blame.

  “How many people did you invite, Carson?”

  “Not many. Little Big Town. Jackson Beauford and his family. Blake. Faith and Tim—they are big Sound fans, you know. Aubrey Jamison. That’s all.”

  That was all. For a smart, successful woman Carson could at times be as naive as she’d been when she and Tradd were at Harpeth Academy together. Either that, or she’d known exactly what she was doing.

  “I thought you should know,” Carson said. “Oh! I have to go. There’s a limo pulling up! It Keith and Nicole! I guess word got around.”

  Yes. Word would get around, and star chasers always had their ears to the ground. When Tradd had gotten in her car, she’d still intended to drive straight to Beauford, but she never had been able to resist a spectacle. So she’d ended up at Thor’s house, parked on the grass because there was nowhere else, and muscled her way through the crowd.

  So far tonight, she’d caught sight of Tammy McCoy, John David Parsons, Britt Mason, Rainey Simpson, Chase Callahan. They were all new kids in town who were making it—making it better than she was. But that was another story.

  Tradd kept her eyes on Thor’s pure white flaxen head and continued to follow. (Pure white flaxen head. Could that be a song title? Probably not. She hadn’t written a decent song in fourteen months, and that wasn’t likely to change tonight.)

  “Hey, baby.” A drunk guy who’d apparently only had a nodding acquaintance with soap lately stepped in front of her. “Want to dance?”

  “Step out of my way or I will cut you.” Unless she dumped her wine and broke the crystal glass, she had nothing to cut him with. There was a time when that might not have been out of the question, but she had made a vow to stop breaking stuff when things didn’t go her way. That was all part of her plan to reform, but it did leave her with a threat on her lips and no weapon to back it up. Of course, Mr. Bad Hygiene didn’t know that, nor did he know that for all her past spoiled brat behavior, she had never bodily harmed anyone. She didn’t wait for him to step out of her way, but pushed around him. A hand—probably his—landed on her ass, but she was in no mood to take it up. Where had he and his grabby hand come from anyway?

  Thor looked over his shoulder, and his eyes—that were exactly the color of the blue part of a flame—burned into her. (Was there a song there? Probably not.) She sipped her wine for fortification and soldiered on.

  Thor marched through the banquet room and paused beside a door in the corner that you’d have to look for to notice. He opened it and grimaced as Tradd made her way toward him. A gaggle of overdressed, possibly underage, girls tried to go through the door, but Thor stepped in front of it and shook his head.

  He waited for Tradd to precede him through the door into what was probably the only space that was devoid of gold leaf, marble babies spitting water, and bas-relief angels riding dolphins. In fact, they had landed in a stark white, bare hallway that probably connected the banquet room and the kitchen.

  “Alone at last.” Tradd spoke because she didn’t believe in letting the enemy speak first. “Do you think my daddy would consider this fraternizing?”

  Thor did not respond to that. She suspected he obeyed Pickens because he respected him, not because he was afraid of him—though he should be
. On certain subjects, Pickens was ruthless. Five years ago, a promising young forward had dared to ask Tradd to dance at a team charity fundraiser. Last she’d heard, he was playing semi-pro in Italy. Maybe she could have saved him if she’d declined, but amusing herself had seemed more important at the time. Though she knew what had happened with Aunt Legare, she considered her father’s rule overkill—when she thought about it at all. Legare had always been high-strung. Even at seventeen, Tradd would have no more taken to her bed over a boy than she would have walked naked down Broadway on a Saturday night. Thor scowled. “Where did all these people come from, Tradd? And what are you going to do to get them to leave?”

  She sipped her wine. “Honey, if you think I’ve got the power to clear this mob out of here, you think more of me than I think of myself.”

  “I doubt if that is possible.” His English was near perfect, but he maintained enough of an accent to advertise that he was a Swede. It sent a shiver up her spine. And down again. “I know you are the cause of this.” She couldn’t really argue with that. She had given the information to Carson. “And I know you did it to supply your nest with plumes.”

  “Do you mean feather my nest?” His English might be good, but he could murder an idiom.

  He shook his hair out of his eyes. She wished he would do it again.

  “What do you think I could possibly gain by creating bedlam?”

  He seemed to think it over. “I don’t know. Something to get you a singing engagement or a record deal.”

  “If you’ve got any ideas how this party could make that happen, sing out. I’m all ears. I’m not doing so great on my own.” And that was the God’s truth.

  He squinted. “Where did you get that wine glass?”

  “Out of the china cabinet in the dining room.”

  “Might have known you’d think you were too good to drink out of the glasses the caterer brought.”

  “You know how my mama loves good crystal.” It was true. Mary Lou hoarded crystal like a squirrel collecting nuts for a hard winter. Tradd had wondered if her mother needed professional help, though Mary Lou seemed to be sane enough about the other facets of her life. “She taught me to never drink from a cheap glass if there was a good one to be had.” That was a lie. Mary Lou would never advocate making demands. She was too much of a lady—something that Tradd had failed to acquire through DNA or training, though God knows Mama had tried. (“Mama Tried.” Now, there was a song title. Too bad Merle Haggard had thought of it first.)

  The truth of why she was drinking from fine crystal was that the bartender had still had wine but had run out of glasses. Tradd had needed fortification and had been resourceful. A Dixie Cup would have been fine, but she’d run across the china cabinet first.

  “This is Harcourt Empire by Baccarat. I know because I went with Mary Lou to France for the express purpose of hauling a bunch of it back.” She held up the gold etched glass.

  “Why did you do this to me?” Thor demanded.

  “Help myself to your crystal?”

  He shook his head and the hair fell in his eyes again. God, he was adorable.

  “I give not a damn about the crystal. Why did you fill my house with all these people? You knew I would not want them here.”

  A little grain of anger took root in her stomach. “You think I did this to you? I did this for you. I was trying to help. Though why I thought you deserved help escapes me.”

  “Maybe you tried too hard. If you tried as hard to make this career that you claim to want so much as you tried to fill my home with chaos, you would be successful.”

  That hurt. It wasn’t true and it wasn’t fair. “I meant well. You can believe it or not.”

  “You wouldn’t know meaning well if it struck you on the cheek.”

  The seed of anger grew. Her hands twitched, like they always did when she wanted to throw something. Put the glass down, Tradd. Walk away. Be a grown-up. He’s an ass, but remember your resolve. Don’t let him get to you. Breaking things never helps. That last sentence wasn’t altogether true. It felt good to throw things, especially when they broke, and she hadn’t felt that feeling in almost a year. All the more reason to not throw something now. You’ve done so well. Put it down.

  Right. She looked around for a place to set the wine glass. Nothing. Not a chair, a table, or a stepladder. Not even a garbage can that she could have turned upside down. Plenty of floor, but what the hell? It was New Year’s Eve. No need to waste good wine or even mediocre wine. She turned the glass up, drained it, closed her eyes, and then … sent nearly six hundred dollars’ worth of French artisan crystal crashing against the wall.

  She closed her eyes tighter and savored the feeling—a surge of release and satisfaction. She’d heard orgasms described that way—not that she’d know anything about that.

  At the precise moment that Tradd threw her glass against the wall, the door at the opposite end of the hall opened, but Thor didn’t look right away. He was distracted by flying glass, his anger over Tradd’s outburst, and—if he were to be honest—the tiny drop of red wine that landed on her left nipple.

  Then she opened her eyes and lifted her chin. She looked pleased, defiant. The anger boiled over.

  “I cannot believe you did this!” he shouted.

  “I don’t know why not. I throw things. I’m known for it in all the best circles. People put their good stuff up when they see me coming, especially if they think they’re going to piss me off.”

  “You are not to throw another thing! Do you hear me?”

  Tradd smiled and looked at the other end of the hall where two people had their heads together talking. Thor followed her gaze. It took a moment for it to sink in that it was Thor’s teammate, Jarrett MacPherson, and his date.

  “Oh. Jarrett,” Thor said. “Hello.”

  “Happy New Year.” Jarrett took his date’s hand and moved toward him. What was her name? The one he’d been talking about lately?

  “Happy. Yes,” Thor said. “You must be Merry.” She smiled and nodded, so he must have gotten it right. “Hello and welcome. My apologies. I’m sure this was not what you expected. It wasn’t what I expected either.”

  “What happened?” Jarrett asked.

  “Tradd happened.”

  Tradd ran a hand through her hair and lifted the toe of one of those silver cowboy boots. “You’ve been complaining about wanting to sell this oversized mobile home ever since Jonteau left. I’m just helping you get some notice for it. Surely someone else with more money than taste will come along.”

  “You—” Thor began.

  “Quiet,” Tradd said. “I got a text.”

  “Because clearly you can only read a text in the quiet.”

  “Hell in a hand basket! Someone fell in the pool!” Tradd yelled. “I told you to have it drained and covered! It’s January!”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck! He bolted out the door and broke into a run toward the back of the house. “Call 911,” he yelled over his shoulder when he realized Tradd was behind him. He jerked open the door to the back terrace and the cold hit him in the face, but he shucked his shirt and kicked off his shoes. The fewer clothes he was wearing, the faster he would be, and fast might be important. Tradd was right. He should have had the pool drained and covered before having a party—a party of any size.

  “Hold up there, Viking hit man, before you end up completely naked.” Tradd’s voice was lazy. “There’s no one in the pool.”

  He stilled his hands on his belt buckle.

  “What? Why … How do you know?”

  “I never got a text.” She picked up his shirt and handed it to him. When she did, the little strap fell off her shoulder. “I probably shouldn’t have done that. Probably shouldn’t have broken your wine glass either. I hadn’t broken anything for almost a year. I was trying to reform.”

  Maybe it was the relief that no one was going to drown. Maybe it was the sheepish look on her face. Either way, his anger abated. “Why?”

  She shr
ugged. “You were nasty to me and it made me mad. I really did mean well. I didn’t even intend to come to this party. I only came after Carson called and told me it had gotten out of hand.”

  She might be telling the truth. “So you really aren’t responsible for all this?” He gestured to the line of cars circling the house.

  “No. I am. I only invited a few people, but I passed the word on to Carson Hamilton-Knox.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. She’s well connected. I asked her to tell a few people. She did, but they were really big names. Word got out; people crashed, hoping to hear Jackson Beauford sing or get a glimpse of Tim and Faith. It all went wrong.”

  Tim and Faith? Who were they and why would anyone want a glimpse? He didn’t understand people in general or Americans—especially Southerners—in particular.

  Tradd took a step toward the door and brought a halt to Thor pondering human nature, because the light caught that tiny splash of red wine.

  “I ought to go. I know my daddy’s rules, and I can promise you if he finds out I’ve been here, it’s going to be everybody’s fault except mine.”

  The wine spot was shaped like a lopsided heart.

  “I’ve caused enough trouble.” She turned to go, but Thor put a hand on her arm.

  “Don’t.”

  Fire shot through him. It had been a while. At thirty-six, he was the senior statesman of the team—at least that’s what the equipment manager, Packi, said. Thor didn’t quite understand what that meant, but he did know that puck bunnies bored him, and he didn’t have the stomach for a relationship anymore. He’d dated some since Jonteau, but he’d only had sex once since the season started. It had been with a woman—Gina—Sparks had introduced him to when they were on the road in Philadelphia, but he hadn’t called her when he’d been in Philadelphia again last month. Seeking satisfaction with the boss’s daughter was a bad plan in any profession by any man, but it could be a disaster in this profession with Pickens Davenport’s daughter.