Free Body Check by Deirdre Martin

They were playing Washington that night. So far the Blades were eight and four, three of those losses taking place on the opponents’ ice. He hoped the guys could keep their equilibrium and focus tonight, because God knows they would need it. Washington played a hard, aggressive game. They were tough and fast. But we’re tougher and faster, Ty thought with no small measure of pride. And if we can maintain our focus, we’ll mop the ice with them .
    His thoughts drifted back to his petite nemesis and her little brother. Why had he done it? Easy: he wanted to make the kid’s day. He got a kick out of the fact that something as simple as shooting the breeze, along with a few pucks, could make someone happy. It wasn’t too much to ask, and he was glad to give it. Plus, the kid—Wills—reminded him of himself at that age. Stocky but shy, afraid to own his own space. He wondered if the kid’s father was on his ass constantly to win, win, win the way his own old man had been. Ty figured that if a private audience with one of his heroes helped boost the kid’s esteem even a little, or helped ease the possible pressure of trying to be good enough to please his parent, then it was worth it.
    But ensuring the kid’s birthday was unforgettable was only half the reason, and he knew it. The other reason was that he wanted to impress Janna. Afterwards, when she looked at him with those big, baby blues glistening with gratitude and something else he didn’t want to dwell on, it dawned on him that he’d been waiting for that look, and had in fact just engineered it. The look that said she knew there was more to him than his all-encompassing need to win and stubborn refusals to cooperate with her. The look that said—
    Desperate to clear his head, he rose from his seat to circulate among his boys, make sure everyone was comfortable, nothing too heavy weighing on their minds. He always did this as part of his job as captain, even though the press teased him about it and called him “Pops,” a nickname that stuck in his craw. A handful of guys on the team were in fact older than he was, and he wasn’t that old himself. As he walked down the aisle, he saw that the Bull was on a cell phone haranguing someone while depleting a bag of Skittles the size of a hot water bottle. A few rows up, Ty could see Janna. The Bull had dragged her along to help keep everyone in line. She was reading the riot act to two of his rookies, Guy LaTemp and Barry Fontaine, both of whom had been stupid enough to let themselves be photographed coming out of one of the best known topless bars on the East Side, drunk.
    â€œThis is what’s going to happen,” Janna was barking. “I’m going to write up a statement for the press telling them you’re both sorry about behaving in a less than professional manner, and that it will never happen again. Because it won’t, do you understand? Kidco won’t tolerate it, and neither will I. You want to be bad boys, do it in disguise. Understand?”
    Both players nodded.
    â€œGood. One more thing: if anyone from the press asks you about this, you say, ‘No comment.’ Period. Not ‘We were just trying to have some fun,’ not ‘It was harmless,’ not ‘The mean lady from PR told us we couldn’t talk about it.’ ‘No comment . ’ I mean it.
    â€œFinally, the two of you are going to take a class in drug and alcohol abuse awareness. It’s called image rehabilitation, and you’re going to pretend to love it even if it’s your worst nightmare. Am I making myself clear?”
    The players nodded again and skulked away. Impressed, Ty watched as she marched back to her seat on the aisle. A second later, Alexei Lubov approached her, bending low to say something. Ty wasn’t one for eavesdropping, but the frustration in Janna’s voice caught his attention.
    â€œAlexei—Lex—I told