Beatriceisa master, a fact she proves by following the debut playing of the track with one hell of an acoustic performance.
It’s just her, in a dark green flowing dress, on a stool on the small wooden stage with her guitar, but that’s all she needs. Thatand her voice, talent, and the kind of soul that leaves a room in stunned silence as her final note fades away.
The room is dead quiet for a long time. Not the polite silence of an audience waiting to be sure the song is over. No, it’s the stunned silence of people who just witnessed some seriously awesome, game-changing shit.
Then, the guy from the local radio station stands up and starts clapping.
A beat later, the room erupts in applause, shouts, and a long, sharp finger-whistle from the producer, who obviously couldn’t be prouder.
Or more eager to work with Bea on the rest of her solo album…
Soon, she’s surrounded by people courting favor and making plans, leaving Charlotte, Blue, and me to smugly sip our cocktails in our booth against the wall. I’m about to offer to grab us all another round before the music folks remember they’re thirsty, when the guy in charge of the “phone vault” waves at me from the door.
“Hey, man,” he calls across the room. “Hate to interrupt, but your phone’s been buzzing nonstop. Missed calls from someone named Merwood. Think you might have something urgent going on.”
My stomach lurches reflexively.
Urgent news from Coach is rarely good news, especially lately, but I nod and scoot out of the booth. Charlotte grabs my hand, squeezing tight. “Want me to come with you?”
I shake my head and return the squeeze. “No, but I’d appreciate another Mint Julep. I have a feeling I might need it.”
She nods. “Will do. You’ve got this.”
The faith in the words steadies me as I fetch my cell from the box where all our phones were locked away to ensure nothingabout this event leaked before Beatrice and her team were ready, and head for the door.
Four missed calls, but no voice messages and no clue what this could be about.
I step outside, making a conscious effort to talk my pulse back down to a more reasonable bpm before I return the call. The noise level on Frenchmen Street is milder than usual at this time of day, but there’s still a group of drunk men down the block, loudly discussing where they should grab burgers, and a woman comforting a wailing toddler by the ice cream parlor across the street.
I move in the other direction, waiting until I’ve found a quieter side street before pressing Merwood’s contact number.
I barely have time to realize I’ve never talked to Coach on the phone before when he answers with a curt, “Nix. Glad you called.”
“Of course,” I say, voice only slightly shaky. “What’s up, Coach?”
“Consider your suspension over. Immediately. I know you have cleared travel plans, so there’s no need to come in right away, but you’re welcome at the gym and the facility. We’d like you back on the ice officially for Thursday’s practice at eleven a.m. sharp. I want you locked and focused before the L.A. game on Sunday.”
I blink at a pigeon pecking at a discarded beignet on the pavement, too stunned to know what to say. “Wow. That’s… That’s amazing. I’m so glad to hear it. Thank you so much, Coach, really, I?—”
“Don’t thank me,” he cuts in gruffly. “I’m just sorry I wasn’t able to keep the suspension from happening at all. I know you’re not the kind of man who’s a danger to the people he loves, but…my hands were tied. I hope you know that.”
“I do,” I assure him, forehead furrowing. “But I… What changed? Did management get the results back from the investigative firm they hired? I hired someone, but they said?—”
“No, that hasn’t come back yet. Not to my knowledge anyway. But in light of recent developments, I insisted that continuing your suspension would be egregious. Management agreed.”
My frown deepens. “And what recent developments are those?”
He grunts. “You haven’t seen? I just… I assumed you had. The post is everywhere. All over social media, and it hit news outlets about an hour ago.”
“No, I haven’t seen anything,” I say, my pulse picking up again. “I’ve been at a closed industry event with my sister. They made us check our phones at the door.”
He grunts again, a softer one this time. “Oh, well… I’ll send you a link when we’re done. Best if you see it yourself. See you on Thursday. We’ll be glad to have you back on the ice.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks again, Coach. See you next week.”
He ends the call without another word.
I pull my phone from my ear, scowling down at my screen. What the hell happened? I honestly can’t imagine what kind of social media post could have led to this kind of about-face from Voodoo management.
