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"Yeah?"

She glanced at Russ. "You have to tell us why you call Russ 'Buffy.'"

"Done!" Frank looked at Russ. "Don't worry, I won't make you look too big an idiot. Just moderately big."

"Hey, thanks," Russ said dryly.

"It was during his first year playing here at Aurora," Frank explained. "He wasn't used to this crap rink and got his stick jammed between the boards. The stick stopped and he kept going. Nearly impaled himself on it, like a suicidal vampire. Broke-what?-three ribs, was it, Buffy?"

"One."

"Let's call it two. So some smartass called him Buffy, like that vampire slayer chick."

" You called me it," Russ said.

Frank sighed fondly. "My kids used to love that show."

As people started heading for the exit, Russ grabbed his gear and walked with Emma and Daphne, pushing open the door into the cool night air and holding it for them. They waited while he loaded his stuff into his car; then the three of them walked through the amber-lit parking lot and over toward Harold's. Daphne drifted ahead a few steps.

"If you don't want me to go to Harold's, I won't," Emma said quietly.

"It's too late to change your mind. It would be worse if you left now."

"Do women usually come to Harold's?"

"Rarely. But don't let the guys intimidate you. They're mostly a good bunch, and the invitation is sincere. While they wouldn't want wives and girlfriends to show up all the time, they do enjoy a periodic appearance."

They were quiet for a few steps; then Emma gathered the courage to ask, "Are you angry with me?"

She saw him glance ahead at Daphne, who surely was listening with an eager ear. "Now is hardly the time to discuss it."

"I only meant to-"

"Hey, wait up!" someone called from behind them.

Damn.

She had the feeling this was going to be a very long evening.

Russ stood with his back against the bar and watched Emma and her friend at the table, surrounded by admirers. Daphne didn't seem to be having any problem with an evening at Harold's. She was three seats away from Emma, talking to the only guy as young as Russ. Bob also happened to be single, and Russ dreaded that no matter what happened between him and Emma, Daphne might worm her way into the haven of his hockey family.

Emma had been the one to insist the nature of their relationship be kept strictly confidential. Had she broken that vow with her friend? The possibility sent an angry unease through him. It would be disastrous if Daphne knew and leaked that piece of gossip to Bob, and thus to everyone in the league.

There was solidarity among the hockey players, and a general live-and-let-live philosophy, but the line was drawn at lousy treatment of women. One guy who had cheated on his wife and brought his girlfriend to an out-of-town tournament had never been invited again, and had been frankly told not to bring his piece to Harold's. He didn't get invited to barbecues and picnics; no one wanted him and his mistress at their Christmas party or housewarming.

Russ had never thought that he might set himself up for that same ostracism.

Emma sucked the last of her diet Pepsi from the big plastic cup, the gurgling suction of her straw in the dregs all but lost beneath the noise of the bar. She glanced up, meeting his eyes. She looked childlike in that moment, big-eyed over her empty soda, surrounded by men larger and older than herself. Was she feeling uncomfortable under her facade of ease?