Chapter 3

(These lyrics are from Summer Sun by Texas but I’m borrowing them for Kensey)

Here comes the summers sun
He burns my skin
I ache again
I’m over you

I thought I had a dream to hold
Maybe that has gone
Your hands reach out and touch me still
But this feels so wrong

“Whatcha doin’?” 

I look up, one finger on a piano key, the other poised over sheet music to find Marc leaning in the doorway in nothing but an old pair of faded and well worn blue jeans. It’s one of my favourite sights and one that would usually have me rushing to touch the pale, marble sculpture that is his chest. Tonight I just smile and shrug.

“Scribbling,” I reply, turning the pencil over and erasing the last note I drew. It needs to be lower. 

“You’ve got an album out now. I thought you’d take a break from writing,” he says, crossing the floor to peer at the sheet music spread out across the baby grand he had put in this room for me. It was as good as any engagement ring at the time. Not that I don’t appreciate it now that I actually have a rock on my finger, but I’m beginning to look at a lot of things differently. 

“It comes when it comes,” I explain, watching him make faces as he tries to read my chicken scratch. He gives up after a moment, which I knew he would. Impatience is a trait in the male line of the Staals. 

“Yeah, you’ve always been scribbling on something. I’m just glad it’s finally on something other than a napkin or the back of a label off a bottle of bud,” he teases, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “So, does this mean that you won’t be coming to the game tonight?” 

“And miss you beating up on...oh that’s right, your dumb brother is now rehabbing his hand so you won’t be beating on him,” I smile up at him and watch the grin grow across his features. 

“Jordy rehabs slower than any player I know,” Marc grumbles, and not in a way that sounds indulgent but more in a disapproving older sibling sort of way. As if Jordan broke his hand on purpose right before he was supposed to be finally making his comeback after rehabbing his foot. 

“Jordy’s always been sort of...unlucky,” I offer but Marc shakes his head. 

“Jordan needs to learn when to chill out. He’s always doing stupid shit or running his mouth when he shouldn’t. Talkin’ instead of walkin’, that’s what dad always said about him,” he adds in that big brother knows best sort of way that both he and Eric have when it comes to their two younger, wilder siblings. 

“I think he’s due some good luck for a change,” I sigh and, with one more look at the mess of paper on the baby grand, I unhook my feet from around the stool’s legs and get up. “The rest of the Pens seem to finally be pulling their heads out of their asses, maybe by the time he gets back they’ll be on a real roll.” 

“There you go,” Marc shakes his head before pulling me into a quick hug and pressing another fraternal kiss on my cheek, “defending my little bro again. What would Jordy do without you in his corner?” I’d say it isn’t true but we both know that it is. 

“It’s not my fault that you and Eric were off being heroes already while Jarhead, Jordy and I were still playing hide and seek,” I argue, and not for the first time. Marc smiles and laughs and then makes a face and I know what he’s thinking. He’s picturing me with glasses and a mouth full of hardware. 

“Don’t do it Red,” I warn, knowing that look and what it usually portends.

“Oh c’mon are you saying that you’d be mortified if had them put up that picture of the two of you making mud pies on the Jumbotron?” he asks, grinning like he thinks it’s the funniest damn thing in the world. I, on the other hand, find the prospect of seeing my younger self covered from head to toe in mud on a giant screen at MSG far less amusing. “Oh, are you worried about your big rock and roll rep?” he asks in a sarcastic sing song tone. Taking a deep breath I remind myself that just because I’m in a bad mood doesn’t mean that I should pick a fight, even if he’s asking for it. 

“I know you don’t understand....”

“Oh I understand, I just don’t like it. It’s fake Kens. All that tough rocker girl shit is bullshit and you know it.” We’ve had this argument more than once since the band got signed and the management company they assigned us to started making ‘adjustments’ to our image. It turns out that girls can’t just wear jeans and t-shirts and sell singles on iTunes. 

“I don’t come down on you when you put one of your brothers through the boards,” I point out quietly. I’m walking on thin ice here and I know it. How they play the game is up to them, but then, so should be the way I do my job, because that’s what it is. 

“Are you going to change?” It sounds like he’s changing the subject, but he’s not. 

“I am,” I answer curtly without glancing down at my own tastefully tattered jeans and well worn and faded Sudbury Wolves t-shirt. If it was up to Marc, this is what I’d wear to his game, this or his Ranger’s jersey. But it’s not up to him, just as much as it’s really not up to me. 

“There you go,” he shrugs and turns to go back to the bedroom where he’ll change into a sharp, dark wool suit that will make him look like he’s just walked out of the New York Stock Exchange and not like he’s going out to drill guys into the boards and take slap shots at poor Marc Andre Fleury’s head. I think about going after him, following him into our room where he will have made up the bed after his afternoon nap and turned down the sheets on my side because win or not, he will be going to a bar with his brother later and I won’t be invited. I consider it and then I tell myself that I wouldn’t want to fight before I go out on stage and I should give him the same consideration, even though I think he’s being unfair. 

He’ll apologize later, after he’s finished being a fiery redhead and started earning his reputation as a calm, cool and collected stay at home defenseman. Maybe it will take Jordan saying something, but probably not. It’s just their way, the Staal men, I remind myself as I take my place at my piano bench again and pick up my pencil. They’re all intense in their own way, all passionate, determined, alpha males. 

Here comes the winter’s rain
To cleanse my skin
I wake again
I’m over you

“You know the whole time you’re sitting up there in the press box with her, she’ll be thinking about me,” I grin at Jordan and flex my pectorals at him like he’s going to squeal like a puck bunny at me. Instead, he just shakes his head and sighs.

“If she even remembers, she’ll be so passed that by now. Have you seen my brother? Cuz if not, one word from me and he’ll remind you, right up against the end boards,” he grins menacingly at me but I’ve seen that look before and of all the Staals, Jordy’s all bark and no bite, but Marc...on the other hand....

“You don’t think she told him do you?” I’ve been so looking forward to reacquainting myself with the ebony haired temptress that I hadn’t actually considered that Jordan’s big red headed goon of a brother might actually know about our little tryst and be planning to make mince meat out of my innards.

“No,” our big blonde injured forward sighs and goes back to trying to straighten his tie. Jordan never looks comfortable in a suit. Me, I like suits, I looks good in suits. Jordy always looks like a kid playing dress up to me. “She begged me not to say anything. I think you’re safe but,” he meets my eye in the mirror and bears his chompers at me, “one words and...,” he draws his index finger across his adam’s apple and grins. 

“So you won’t pass on the message that if she’s looking for something not so much in the giraffe family I’m happy to provide a second helping of...,” I shut my mouth when Jordan turns and gives me a really threatening look, a look I think I may have only seen once before. “Whoa...I was just sayin’....”

“Do yourself a favour and say less Max. She’s my sister...it makes me sick just to think about her with...you.” His nostrils flare and he actually shudders when he says it, like the way you do when you think about your parents doing it. 

 “She’s not your sister yet,” Sid interjects like a good captain should when he smells blood in the water, physically putting himself between me and the jolly blonde giant. “And to be fair, she had something to with...well, with what happened.” 

“She was drunk, he took advantage,” Jordan says in this very final sort of way, like he won’t hear any other arguments. Sid turns and gives me that look that says that I had better stop poking the bear or he won’t come to my funeral. I get the message and go back to putting on my gear. It’s bad enough with one Staal pissed at me, but two, and they might be calling for a body bag. 

Of course, another night with Kensey might be worth it. 

“I see the gears working in your head Talbot,” Sid says without looking up from where taping his stick, “and I’m serious. Don’t start world war three or you’ll be back to picking up jail bait in Wilkes-Barre.” 

“Is that supposed to be a threat Cap?” I ask, and it’s all Captain Serious can do not to laugh, but I can tell he thinks it’s funny and he should. I’m fucking hilarious.

“Whoa, what was that for?” Jordan looks down at me where I’m still attached around his middle, my cheek still pressed to his chest. 

“I’m just so happy to be with the not so moody brother for a little while,” I tell him, heaving a happy sigh that makes his chest move up and down while he laughs. 

“Is Marc on the rag again?” he asks, putting his long, strong arms around my shoulders again until I disappear into him. He smells like Silver Shadow by Davidoff, Ivory soap and Bounce, comforting and familiar scents all at once, not to mention how safe and protected I feel in his arms. It’s like being home. 

“Something like that,” I mutter as he tips my chin up and searches my face. 

“Does this have something to do with what happened...the last time we were here?” he asks, his happy go lucky puppy face morphing into something darker and more sinister looking as he dredges up that particular night. I shrug and unravel myself from him, moving to the front of the box and staring down at the ice where both teams are doing their pre-game warm-up skates. 

“All I know is things have been..., well I guess the only way to describe it is that it’s definitely been different since then,” I pick out my own Staal brother easily, his tall lanky frame head and shoulders over most of the other players. Crossing my arms over my chest I start to wish that I had worn his jersey instead of the black leather bustier I am wearing under a simple black motorcycle jacket. 

“Different how? You two fighting?” Jordan asks, his big imposing frame blocking out the light behind me, as if I have my very own eclipse. I should be used to that, but Marc isn’t the defensive type. I’m usually being dragged behind him, running to keep up or fitting into his side like an accessory.

“Not...not really.” I don’t know how to describe it, but I know that I don’t really need to explain it to his brother. Not in that many words. 

“So he knows something is wrong and because you won’t tell him he’s being a grumpy fucker.” Jordan can be so like Jared that way, straight and to the point, no games, no waltzing around the bush. If this had been Eric we’d be talking about this in terms of a third party, as if neither of knows the truth, even if we do. Eric wouldn’t point fingers. It wouldn’t be my fault, or Marc’s. Eric would be a great marriage counsellor. But I am talking to Jordan and all I have to do is glance over my shoulder and smile and we both know we’re on the same page. 

“I know what I did was wrong but,” I shrug again because I don’t have the words to describe what’s been going on in my head, “he’s picking on me about my clothes, about the band...and sometimes I just want to throw it in his face so that he can hurt too, you know?” 

“He did say you seemed a little...fuck, what was the word he used...uh...underwhelmed by the ring and all,” Jordan says quietly, his big hands on my shoulders, one more weighty than it should be with its cast. 

“I know it,” I admit, leaning back into him and reaching up to run my fingers over his knuckles, feeling the tiny scars that criss-cross each one. Most of those scars are from beating on one another and not so much from fights since they’ve gotten to the big leagues. “I want to feel...I want to be happier, I should be but....” My voice trails away and I stare out at the ice, at where Marc is stretching his hamstrings. Just watching him do that used to make me drool and now I feel...nothing. 

“But what Kens?” I feel like he should be pissed off at me for his brother’s sake, but then it’s never been like that with Jordan and I. 

“I don’t know yet. I just know that this is what I thought I wanted and now...now I’m not sure,” I tell him honestly and I wait for him to say something, indicate that he’s disappointed in me in some way, but he doesn’t. Instead he does what any of the Staal brothers do when they don’t know what to say or they don’t want to say something, he goes silent and just puts his arms around me and says nothing at all. 

I hate watching her with them. It’s not just the red headed brother either, it’s Jordan. They’re both all touchy and possessive. I can understand Marc putting his hand on her thigh or holding her hand, because she’s his, but every time Jordan catches me looking in her direction he puts one of his big gorilla paws on her and narrows his eyes at me, like a threat. 

As if I’m going to do something in front of Marc. At least not if she doesn’t show some sign that she wants me to and in all honesty she hasn’t even looked at me since we got here. She’s been sitting on that barstool beside Jordan since we walked in the place and apparently she only has eyes for the Staals. 

“You’re going to break that glass mon ami,” Flower says softly and I look down to see my knuckles turning white as I clutch the rum and coke in my hand. 

“There are other women in this club,” Tanger points out, I suppose, trying to be helpful. There are, I guess. Just none as singularly hot as Kensey Thunder. 

“She could at least acknowledge that I rocked her world,” I mutter, staring at her profile. She’s practically sitting in Marc’s lap but she’s laughing at something Jordan’s said. She keeps touching his hand and giving him playful little slaps, I guess like you’d do with someone you know and are friends with but her fingers linger on the back of his hand and every time she shoves him or punches his arm, he grins like an idiot.

“There’s something going on there,” I point out, downing the last of my rum and Coke and then reaching for Flower’s untouched Crown and Seven. 

“Ce que tu racontes?” Flower gives me that look and then looks at his now half empty glass and shakes his head. “They’re friends. She’s like...un de ses plus vieux amis.” 

“Girls and guys can’t be friends, I should know,” I grumble with a meaningful sidelong glance towards Tanger who rolls his eyes and gets that expression on his face, the one that says ‘I’m going to give you that one, but only that one’. “Her and the big red headed goon aren’t ‘just friends’,” I put the rabbit eared emphasis around those words and raise my eyebrows at Flower but he just shakes his head again. 

“You’re just angry because il est évidemment meilleure au lit que tu es.” The half smile he gives me tells me he knows I’m not going to find it funny but he’s determined to try to make a joke anyway. 

“No, he’s mad because yet another woman recognized that he’s not a long term choice.” I close my eyes and tell myself that my first reaction is the wrong one, but even as I try and take a deep breath and tell myself to let it go, Tanger pours a little salt in the wound. “He’s just pissed because he got used like a sex toy and then tossed aside for the old tried and true, n’est ce pas? Max?”

“Reprendre,” I begin but Kris is already sliding out of the booth, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. “You don’t want a piece of this LeTang,” I snort as I get up and shrug out of my jacket. 

“I’m not afraid of you Talbot,” he laughs and flexes his fingers at me in the universal sign for ‘come get some’. The music doesn’t stop, but a spot clears around us and no one speaks. Kris and I have been friends for years. I should have kicked his ass over Becky. I didn’t, but I probably should have. He’s had it coming, they probably know that. 

“Either of you makes a move and you’ll be on the first bus to Scranton, that’s a promise.” This time it isn’t Sid that’s uttering the ultimate threat to a professional hockey player. Sid caught the first train home, preferring his pregnant wife to being out on the town with the rest of us. No, this time it’s Mario and like kids caught with their hands in the candy jar, Kris and I both hang our heads and grab our coats but not before I shoot him a look and mouth the word ‘later’ at him. He just rolls his eyes in response and slides back into the booth with Flower. 

For myself, I think I’d better find better company for the night, but she’s still at the bar in a Staal sandwich and when I head towards TK, Geno, Brooksy and a few of the other guys, they turn their back on me. I’m about to head out to find some other club when I feel a small hand on my arm. 

“Where’s the girl you two were fighting over? I’ll kick her ass.” 

I look down to find a pair of emerald green cat’s eyes looking up at me and recognize Kensey Thunder’s side kick Daze. I admit to not really looking at her before, because, let’s face it, next to Kensey she’s kind of...homely, but up close, like this and looking down at her artfully ripped top to see most of her bare breasts clearly, I’m willing to have a second look.

“She’s not here,” I admit and she manages to actually look disappointed. Jordan’s told me enough times that the whole hardcore Goth look is an act but on Daze with all her piercings and the dog collar around her neck, it sure as hell doesn’t look like it’s any kind of an act. “She’s back in the ‘Burgh.” 

“Did she break your heart?” she whispers conspiratorially, like we’re friends and she really will kick her ass for me if I say yes. 

“Yeah, I guess, maybe,” I admit, unable not to smile when she scrunches up her cute little pixie nose with its smattering of freckles. She looks like a little kid, except for the pair of knockers peeking up at me through the rips in her shirt. 

“Then she’s a bitch and you should totally forget her,” she says in a no nonsense tone, her pointed little chin held up as she meets my gaze in this challenging kind of way. She’s got kid sister written all over her, down to the pig tails with their brilliantly coloured yarn bows. Despite the peek a boo boobies, she’s definitely not the kind of chick I’d take back to the hotel to make myself feel better. 

“Well I was kinda hoping your friend over there would help me some more but uh,” I glance over to see her doing it again, laying her hand over Jordan’s as she laughs, “...she seems kind of busy.” It’s an asshole move and I realize it the minute I say it and look back down at Daze whose face totally falls before she manages to get control over it and give me a defiant ‘who cares’ look. 

“Yeah well, Kens is totally fucked up. I mean, in the head screwed up when it comes to that family. You’re totally better off out of it, believe me.” I want to ask her what she means but she lays her hand flat on my chest and smiles up at me. “Now, feel better and no more fighting, mmkay?” Before I even have a chance to answer her, she’s disappeared into the crowd. I stare after her, half pissed that she didn’t tell me what’s up with the Staals and Kensey and half pissed that I’ve been a jerk again and that I made her feel bad but instead of going after her, I decide to take myself back to the hotel and jerk off to some porn like all the other lonely idiotic guys in the world do. 

“You should stay with us tonight. C’mon Jordy. You don’t want to go back to that hotel when we’ve got a perfectly good guest room.” I tug on his hand, trying to make him come with us into the cab but he just stands there shaking his head. 

“You’re practically newlyweds. If you think I want to listen to your bedsprings creaking all night you’ve got another thing coming Kens,” Jordy laughs and tries to peel my fingers off of his wrist. 

“Oh c’mon, please, we hardly ever get to see you,” I beg, putting my other hand over his and tugging again.

“Put him down Kens, the poor kid obviously wants to go pick up a last call desperate chick who might just be impressed by his sob story about not being able to play, dontcha little bro?” Marc laughs and put his hand on my wrist and pushes down to break my hold on Jordan’s arm. I look at his bigger hand and then up at the forced smile on his face and want to scream. 

“Yeah that’s totally it,” Jordan’s smile disappears and suddenly it’s on and the two brothers are facing on another over my head and suddenly I’m thirteen again, except this time there’s no Jared to send running to get Eric to play peacemaker. 

“Besides, it won’t just be the bedsprings you’d be listening to,” Marc leers at his brother with that expression I hate to see, the one that says ‘no matter what you do, I win’. “Kens is a real moaner, aren’t you baby?”

“Stop it,” I plead, turning to face Marc and using both hands to push him towards the taxi. “We had such a good time tonight, please don’t ruin it.” 

“Oh I know she is, you forget, I was there first.” 

I freeze, shutting my eyes tight and doing my best Dorothy and her ruby slippers routine, whispering ‘I wish I was home, I wish I was home’ over and over again before tossing up my usual plea, ‘please God don’t let them kill one another.’

 

“Well, you just hold onto that little nugget while you’re in your hotel room, by yourself, while I’m home, making love to my fiancée.” Marc’s hand closes over my wrist and his other hand pushes me into the back of the cab. “Get in Kens.” 

I hear him giving the cabbie our street address as the cab pulls away from the curb, but my eyes are on Jordan, standing on the sidewalk, staring after me, his hands balled into fists as he watches us go.