closed in
on Derek's mouth. It paused. Sylvie held her breath, her eyes
widened. She was a glop waiting to drop. The utensil made a U-turn.
And another. Sylvie felt nauseous. Derek's fork was drawing figure
eights in the air with her riding a chunk of gravy-bathed meat
loaf.
Caught in the act, her eyes met his. He
stopped waving the meatloaf and held it in front of him. His
eyebrows asked her if she wanted it. She shook her head and finally
returned to her plate.
Toying with her own club sandwich, she knew
she was playing with fire. They'd been sitting at Chez Sam's for
twenty minutes and hadn't spoken twenty words. Their minds however,
were locked inside the cockpits of race cars entering the
grandstand stretch. It mattered little that he was married. He was
intelligent, charming, handsome ... and unhappy. He was hers. She
took a sip from her Heaven-Up to slake the quake inside her.
... 8 ...
A matronly woman looked matter-of-factly at
the wooden bench outside the offices of May-Ja-Look. The large ad
on its backrest read: "THE SERPENTS CAN BEAT THESE LEAFS."
Derek sat at his desk, warily eyeing his
father who sat before him in one of the fake-lizard leather lounge
chairs. Derek could count the number of times on one hand his
father had visited him at the office. Most had been colander
conversations. Relationships going in ... had come out
strained.
"Seems to me you're going to have a tough
time scouting players in Brockville, let alone B.C."
"Boston College or British Columbia?" Derek
smirked. He knew his dad meant the West Coast. What the hell was
his old man doing in his office? His father's lunch breaks were
usually spent spewing whole wheat crumbs from ham and cheese
sandwiches into carburetors. Derek's engine had been running just
nicely until twenty minutes ago. He was not in the mood for another
dressing down.
"We'll manage," Derek said.
"How?"
Derek shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"We can probably get as far as Saskat--... I
mean, Manitoba." Derek would just as soon lie to his father as he
would play goal without a jockstrap.
"Is that before or after they take your
credit card away from you?"
"Dammit, dad. What the hell do you care?"
Derek bit his tongue. He hadn't spoken to his father like this
since he'd defended opening "May-Ja-Look" in the first place. His
father had wanted him to follow in his footsteps and eventually
take over the garage. If playing in the NHL had been Ray's first
wish for his son, then following in his steel-toed footsteps was a
close second. It would make for a soft landing if the dream didn't
come true.
Derek had been an NHL hopeful and wasn't
about to settle for option number two. He was not mechanically
minded. Ray Marcotte would never believe this. It was the sad truth
however, that when Ray's son raised the hood of his car, the repair
bill automatically jumped $200. When it was time to change the oil,
Derek changed his mind.
So he'd skipped the footsteps, but the shoes
were suddenly on the other feet. Derek was ready to gamble his
business away while his father was trying to save it.
Marcotte had traded in his hockey skates
after eight years. Would doing the same to his business be any
different? Would the sun come up tomorrow?
Beads of sweat rolled off Derek's nose and
were swallowed up by the sizzling sand of a Moroccan courtyard. A
nearby sheik, with a Pedro-Canada logo on his turban, gave the
thumbs down signal to the firing squad. The collection of
trigger-men raised their hockey sticks in full wind-up position. As
the final seconds ... and tenths of seconds ... ticked down on his
life's scoreboard clock, Derek peeked through one eye at the
snipers.
Bobby Hull ... his son, Brett ... and Uncle
Dennis ... all glowered menacingly at the puck before each of them.
Al MacInnis and Al Iafrate completed the fearsome fivesome. Iafrate
wiped a tear from his eye. He was thinking about an
ex-girlfriend.
Ray walked around Derek's desk and stopped
behind the chair.
on Derek's mouth. It paused. Sylvie held her breath, her eyes
widened. She was a glop waiting to drop. The utensil made a U-turn.
And another. Sylvie felt nauseous. Derek's fork was drawing figure
eights in the air with her riding a chunk of gravy-bathed meat
loaf.
Caught in the act, her eyes met his. He
stopped waving the meatloaf and held it in front of him. His
eyebrows asked her if she wanted it. She shook her head and finally
returned to her plate.
Toying with her own club sandwich, she knew
she was playing with fire. They'd been sitting at Chez Sam's for
twenty minutes and hadn't spoken twenty words. Their minds however,
were locked inside the cockpits of race cars entering the
grandstand stretch. It mattered little that he was married. He was
intelligent, charming, handsome ... and unhappy. He was hers. She
took a sip from her Heaven-Up to slake the quake inside her.
... 8 ...
A matronly woman looked matter-of-factly at
the wooden bench outside the offices of May-Ja-Look. The large ad
on its backrest read: "THE SERPENTS CAN BEAT THESE LEAFS."
Derek sat at his desk, warily eyeing his
father who sat before him in one of the fake-lizard leather lounge
chairs. Derek could count the number of times on one hand his
father had visited him at the office. Most had been colander
conversations. Relationships going in ... had come out
strained.
"Seems to me you're going to have a tough
time scouting players in Brockville, let alone B.C."
"Boston College or British Columbia?" Derek
smirked. He knew his dad meant the West Coast. What the hell was
his old man doing in his office? His father's lunch breaks were
usually spent spewing whole wheat crumbs from ham and cheese
sandwiches into carburetors. Derek's engine had been running just
nicely until twenty minutes ago. He was not in the mood for another
dressing down.
"We'll manage," Derek said.
"How?"
Derek shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"We can probably get as far as Saskat--... I
mean, Manitoba." Derek would just as soon lie to his father as he
would play goal without a jockstrap.
"Is that before or after they take your
credit card away from you?"
"Dammit, dad. What the hell do you care?"
Derek bit his tongue. He hadn't spoken to his father like this
since he'd defended opening "May-Ja-Look" in the first place. His
father had wanted him to follow in his footsteps and eventually
take over the garage. If playing in the NHL had been Ray's first
wish for his son, then following in his steel-toed footsteps was a
close second. It would make for a soft landing if the dream didn't
come true.
Derek had been an NHL hopeful and wasn't
about to settle for option number two. He was not mechanically
minded. Ray Marcotte would never believe this. It was the sad truth
however, that when Ray's son raised the hood of his car, the repair
bill automatically jumped $200. When it was time to change the oil,
Derek changed his mind.
So he'd skipped the footsteps, but the shoes
were suddenly on the other feet. Derek was ready to gamble his
business away while his father was trying to save it.
Marcotte had traded in his hockey skates
after eight years. Would doing the same to his business be any
different? Would the sun come up tomorrow?
Beads of sweat rolled off Derek's nose and
were swallowed up by the sizzling sand of a Moroccan courtyard. A
nearby sheik, with a Pedro-Canada logo on his turban, gave the
thumbs down signal to the firing squad. The collection of
trigger-men raised their hockey sticks in full wind-up position. As
the final seconds ... and tenths of seconds ... ticked down on his
life's scoreboard clock, Derek peeked through one eye at the
snipers.
Bobby Hull ... his son, Brett ... and Uncle
Dennis ... all glowered menacingly at the puck before each of them.
Al MacInnis and Al Iafrate completed the fearsome fivesome. Iafrate
wiped a tear from his eye. He was thinking about an
ex-girlfriend.
Ray walked around Derek's desk and stopped
behind the chair.
Similar Books
