Page 31 of Playing for Keeps

He smiles. “It’s early still.”

“Mmm. It’s nice having you here. Thank you for staying with me.”

Gunnar’s eyes widen. “Are you kidding? I feel fantastic. You’re like a soft, silky bathrobe. And you smell incredible.”

I huff out a laugh. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.” He inhales a long sniff of the top of my head. “Some sort of magic potion. What is that smell, anyway?”

I purse my lips, trying to think. “Well, I use a lavender chamomile shampoo …”

“I want to bathe in it. You have to wear a hat all day, and then let me put the hat in my locker. Oh my god, that’s it.” He sits up. “That’s going to be my ‘thing’ this season. Salty Hats.”

“Your thing?” I sit up, stretching my spine, fingering the sleeve of the jersey.

Gunnar grins as he stoops to pick up his crumpled tux. His back is long, lined, and muscular, and his backside is thick, round, and at eye level…“You know hockey guys are superstitious, right? You have to know that.”

I shake my head, drunk on thoughts of his butt. “You know I’ve spent my whole life in an orchestra pit, right?”

He laughs. “Well. Salty. I need a ritual and now that I’m getting some ice time, Ireallyneed a ritual. It’ll keep me focused.”

“Do your brothers do these things? Locker hats?” I stand and stretch, walking to my dresser for a pair of pants I can tug on.

Gunnar walks down the hall toward the bathroom, yelling over his shoulder, “You’ll have to ask them. They’re pretty gross. You might not want to hear the answer.”

I smile, appreciating how lighthearted and fun he can be while also taking his sport and career seriously. Gunnar has shared that he feels he didn’t earn his spot on this team…that he got there based on his father’s reputation. Those sorts of thoughts sometimes flitted through my mind, especially during my time at Juilliard, but I also know that I’m an excellent musician. In some ways, I think we excel in our fields because of our parents—these sorts of proclivities tend to be inherited. However, Gunnar and I have both worked extremely hard to refine our craft.

I’m vaguely aware of him getting ready for practice as I comb my hair, wash my face, and attempt to carry on with the normal parts of my day, even though I can tell I’m too upset to make music today. My phone rings, and I answer it out of habit, stumbling when I hear my brother’s voice.

“Emerson, we need to talk.”

Edwin is stern and cold like always. An attorney, he’s used to people doing as he asks.

Frustrated, I snap, “Nice to hear from you, too, Ed. Thank you for the lovely card you sent after I got married.”

“I most certainly did not send a card acknowledging that farce.”

I roll my eyes at his inability to comprehend sarcasm. “What do you want?”

“You know that I’m calling about the news article. Mom is apoplectic.”

I walk into the kitchen and yank open the fridge, unsure of what I’m searching for. “Mom is always apoplectic. Why is this different?” I realize I feel bold today, that I’m standing up for myself with my brother. My time with Gunnar has already changed me, and I let the lightness of that realization lift me up a bit more.

His voice is a hiss. “There’s going to be aninquiry.From theboard.”

Locating a bottle of cranberry juice, I grab it and pour myself a glass, not bothering to mop up the red splash on the counter. “Well, I imagine they will discover some things, Ed.”

He growls. “Emerson, do you really want our family dragged through the press over some angry outbursts? Conductors are perfectionists. It’s pretty universal.”

As I listen to him defend my father and talk about all the ways men will be boys, I realize quite clearly how immersed I’ve been in that mindset, too. Running away on that train feels less and less like a mistake with every day that I spend with the Stag family. I truly escaped something awful.

“Edwin.” I interrupt my brother, possibly for the first time in his life. His sharp intake of breath indicates his surprise at my doing so. “That behavior is universal among mean men who can’t accept that the world is changing. If women feeluncomfortable in the symphony, we should listen to them and act differently.”

He starts to sputter something about orchestras sounding just fine without women, and I see red. “Do you really think you’re helping to convince me to defend Dad? Are you seriously dismissing women’s contributions to professional symphonies?” My brother is just like my parents, viewing me as a pawn or something put on this earth to uplift my father and his precious reputation. I can’t listen to him another second. I snap, “Find someone else to listen to your crap.”

I hang up on my brother, slam my phone down on the counter, and chug the rest of the juice, wiping my mouth with the back of my wrist. I turn to see Gunnar leaning against the hallway wall, watching me with a smile on his face.

“Nice take down, Salty.” He winks. “Grab your coat. I’m buying you breakfast.”

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