Читать книгу A Perfect Catch - Anna Sugden - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?” Tracy muttered as she spooned food into two cat bowls.

Moppet, the more sociable of her black cats, replied with a meow.

Poppet licked a white-tipped paw and washed one of her pricked ears.

“It’s crazy,” Tracy continued. “I can handle any other man, except Ike bloody Jelinek. Whenever I’m near him, he winds me up and I do something stupid.”

With impeccable timing, Moppet hacked up a hairball.

Tracy laughed as she cleaned up the mess. “Maybe tossing coffee on him was a tiny overreaction.” She held up her thumb and forefinger to show a small gap. “But it annoys me that there’s one rule for his career and one for mine.”

Despite Tracy’s determination to marry someone completely different from her father, she’d ended up with his twin—only with a more polished veneer. She’d left home at eighteen and headed to Manchester, where she’d waitressed by day and studied business by night. Hank Turner, a visiting academic from New Jersey, had been one of her lecturers. She’d fallen hard for the charming American, marrying him within weeks. It had taken much longer to realize her mistake.

At first, Tracy had overlooked the warning signs, attributing them to the difficulties of adjusting to life in New Jersey. It had taken Hank’s affair to rip the blinkers from her eyes. To Tracy’s chagrin, she realized she’d become exactly the kind of acquiescent wife she despised.

Poppet head-butted Tracy’s ankle, reminding her to hurry up with her food.

Tracy put the bowls down and the two felines dived right in. “Why do I still let Ike get to me? Why can’t I ignore him?”

Because he was a hard man to ignore. His presence, even when he wasn’t speaking to her, sent that delicious hum through her. The problem was he always did something to turn that hum into a jarring buzz.

When they’d first met, his charm had swept her off her feet. His gentlemanly manners and serious nature were rare in a business full of inflated egos. And their physical connection had sizzled. A touch, a look, a smile and they’d been all over each other like sex-starved teenagers. Ike had treated her as if she were special, both in bed and out. It was only later that his courtliness had begun to feel controlling. Caring suggestions had become polite demands. Compliments about her work had sounded more like criticism.

When Ike had asked her to give up her house and move in with him, she’d panicked. First her house, then her business, then her self-respect. Terrified that history would repeat itself, she’d refused. That final argument had been brutal; the bitter words they’d each said were still a thorn in her heart.

Trying to escape the memories, Tracy went upstairs to her office on the middle floor of her Victorian and sought refuge in work. But as she waited for her computer to power up, her mind went back to Ike.

That he still couldn’t understand that her company was more than just an income for her had confirmed that she’d made the right decision. Making Your Move might not keep her warm at night, but it enabled her to sleep soundly—secure in the knowledge that the only person who controlled her life was her. Good or bad, success or failure, she made the decisions. When Making Your Move was number one, she’d have proved to everyone who’d doubted her that she was strong and capable on her own.

Speaking of which, the sooner she got the paperwork to Glen, the quicker he’d sign. Tracy pulled up the Bridgers’ proposal document and began to make the changes she and Glen had discussed.

She’d just emailed him the revised copy when she looked at the clock and saw that it was already after eleven. Surprised it was so late, Tracy suddenly remembered her mother.

Damn it. Tracy had been so wrapped up in work, she’d forgotten to call her. She grabbed the phone.

Doris Hayden answered after a dozen rings. “Do you know what time it is?”

Tracy puffed out a frustrated breath. “I’m sorry, Mum. But...”

“You know I don’t like calls after ten.”

Actually, that had been one of Tracy’s father’s edicts. Despite his death eighteen months ago, her mother still clung resolutely to every blasted one. Ordinarily, Tracy would have challenged this, but she wasn’t in the mood for a row that would only rehash ground they’d covered many times before.

Especially as she’d already had one of those tonight.

“Congratulations,” she said with determined brightness. “You’re a grandma again.”

“Maggie had her baby, then?”

“A gorgeous boy.” She filled her mother in on the details. “Jake took loads of pictures and he said he’ll email them to everyone in the morning.” Before her mother could complain that she didn’t know how to use the computer—Dominic Hayden hadn’t seen the point in his wife learning—Tracy added, “I’ll print them off for you and pop them in the post.”

“I won’t get them for a week.” Her mother sniffed. “I don’t know why you girls have to live so far away.”

No. She never had.

Tracy tried to head off the waterworks she knew were coming next. “Both Jake and I offered to pay for you to come over here. I can still book you a flight.”

“I don’t like to fly by myself. Can’t you come over and get me?”

Tracy gritted her teeth at the pathetic tone. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get away right now. We can organize a car to pick you up at home and someone to help you through the airport. Then we’ll meet you when you land.”

“I couldn’t. It’s too much on my own. And Maggie and Jake won’t be able to fly to England until the summer. I’ll miss out on seeing Emily and Joe for so long.”

That’s when the tears started, her mother’s usual ploy for getting her own way.

Tracy held firm, even when Doris Hayden hit all the guilt-trip hot buttons. Tracy was emotionally wrung out by the time her mother gave up and hung up on her.

Unfortunately, she was also too wired to sleep. Tracy had a glass of wine, hoping that would help her relax, then went to bed. She tossed and turned for several hours. Finally, she admitted defeat and rose. After making a large cup of tea, she went back to her office and focused on the one thing she knew would settle her mind—work.

* * *

IKE WASN’T AS superstitious as most goaltenders, but he knew it was a bad sign to fall flat on his ass in the pre-game warm-up before he’d even made it to his crease.

He jumped up and made a show of poking at a nick in the ice, then called for a water bottle from the bench.

Kenny brought one for him, laughing. “I was expecting a freaking crater the way you wiped out, bro.”

Ike let his brother’s comment slide. He knew Kenny was excited to be back in the lineup after having been a healthy scratch again for the past week’s games. Kenny had only played once—the night after baby Joe’s birth—before Coach had benched him again. The rationale had been that they’d needed one of the tougher fourth-line guys in Kenny’s place for the harder, more physical games, against those opponents. Facing a younger, faster team tonight, Kenny had earned his place back.

“Do you need salt to throw over your shoulder?” Jean-Baptiste Larocque added as he joined them. “We don’t want to start the game with bad mojo.”

Ike flicked the bird at the star forward, then poured water into the divot. “Nah. No bad luck involved. I must have caught it funny.”

Jake skated over and tossed Ike a puck to smooth off the newly frozen patch of ice. His blue eyes were rimmed with red and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Has your son been keeping you from your beauty sleep again, Bad Boy?” he said, to deflect the attention from himself.

Jake’s glare didn’t have its normal cutting edge. “Yeah. I’m thinking of getting a hotel room so I can get my pre-game nap in peace.”

“You can always crash at my place, bro.”

“Thanks.” Jake leaned on his stick. “I may take you up on that. Especially when we play Detroit and Toronto.”

Both teams were riding winning streaks and had strong road records. The way the Cats had been playing lately, they’d need to bring their A-game to have a chance of getting any points off either team.

“Anytime. There’s a bed with your name on it.”

“As long as you don’t take a nap while you’re on the ice, Bad Boy.” JB punched Jake in the arm and skated off.

The captain, Scotty Matthews, frowned at them as he glided past. “Stop flapping your gums and get some action going. The Oilers are going to come out hard tonight.”

The Islanders had handed Edmonton their butts last night in a game the Oilers should have won. Edmonton’s players would be looking to redeem themselves, which wasn’t good news for the Cats, who desperately needed the win.

Ike tossed Kenny the water bottle, then kicked the puck at his net. “Just fixing the ice to make sure no one else falls on their ass.”

“Aye aye, captain.” Kenny saluted Matthews, before dumping the bottle at the bench and joining the rest of the guys skating drills.

Scotty skated back around, then stopped. “So, do you need to sacrifice a chicken or something to ward off the bad luck after your tumble?”

Ike rolled his eyes. “Not this time.”

Scotty slapped him on the back. “You sure? We could razz that new kid on the equipment team.”

They both laughed. For a moment, Scotty looked like the young rookie he’d once been, rather than the grizzled veteran he was now. As Scotty skated off, Ike knew he’d miss him when the captain retired at the end of the season.

Retirement. Even though it loomed on the horizon at some point for Ike—sooner rather than later—it wasn’t something he looked forward to.

Pushing that thought from his mind, Ike warmed up, easing the stiffness from his muscles as he prepared to face shots. He practiced sliding between the pipes, right side, then left side, then right again. He’d need to be on his guard for fast break-outs tonight, especially with the speedy Oilers’ wingers.

He put his fall out of his mind and focused on seeing the puck as it began to fly at him from all angles, courtesy of his teammates. Strangely, after a dozen shots, he still didn’t feel on his game. Biscuits sailed past him when he should have stopped them.

He frowned, holding up his glove to stop the drill, and took a long drink from his water bottle. After squirting water over his face, he got back into position and nodded to start the routine again.

After another round of shots, he adjusted his stance and his grip. But things still didn’t feel right. He forced himself to focus harder, to visualize success. Gradually, he dragged himself into the right mental zone and settled into a comfortable rhythm. He was satisfied he’d be ready for the game, but something still felt off.

Ike left the ice early and headed back to the locker room. Maybe he needed to start over. He stripped down to bare skin and started to dress again, from the jock up. Right sock, then left. Right pads, then left. Pants. Skates. His trusty old chest-and-arm protector, the one he’d worn ever since he’d come up from the minors. He probably should replace it next season—it had been patched so many times—but he hated breaking in new gear.

Finally, he slipped on a clean jersey and got his mask and gloves ready. He downed his pre-game Sprite as he listened to last-minute instructions from Coach Macarty.

Confident he’d done everything so he could go back out onto the ice with a clear head, Ike began to slip into game mode. As the locker-room clock counted down, his mind became sharper, more focused.

At the three-minute mark, Scotty rose and headed to the front of the locker room. As he had every game since becoming captain, he said, “Let’s go out there and show them the Ice Cats play the best damn hockey in the world.”

Ike joined him, ready to lead the team out. When the doors swung open, he tapped the doorframe for luck and strode forward. The roar of the crowd, along with the announcer’s introduction, welcomed him to the ice. This time, he made it to his crease without mishap. Satisfied, he roughed up the blue paint and repeated his post-to-post sliding ritual.

“Good game, bro.” Bad Boy tapped his stick against Ike’s pads.

He nodded. “You, too.”

The horn sounded and Ike removed his mask for the national anthems.

As the singer began “O Canada,” Ike’s gaze slid over to the family seats. His heart warmed to see his mom and Rory, her husband, and Jake’s parents, with Emily between them. It felt weird to see the gaps for the women who weren’t there. Maggie, who couldn’t leave Joe yet, and Tracy, who always joined her sister and was a staunch Cats’ fan. It was unusual for Tracy to miss a game, even for work. Was she okay?

Not your business.

The singer switched to “The Star-Spangled Banner” and Ike forced all thoughts other than those of the players he was about to face from his head.

The first period started quickly, with Ike facing a shot within seconds of the puck dropping. He snatched the biscuit out of the air, stealing a scoring opportunity from the Oilers’ rookie wonder kid. Throwing it back out to the corner, he allowed himself a satisfied grin. Whatever had been bothering him earlier was out of his mind now.

All around him, his d-men and the Edmonton top line chirped at each other as they fought for the puck. The air was filled with grunts as bodies thudded into each other. Ike poke-checked and blocked, shoved and kicked—anything to keep that hunk of rubber out of his net.

Finally, Jake broke free and hit Kenny with an outlet pass, clearing the zone and starting a rush to the other end.

Ike kept his eye on the action while steadying his breathing and rolling his tight shoulders. A whistle stopped play. He grabbed a drink from his bottle and skated around his crease before resetting his position.

The Cats lost the face-off, but regained the puck. The battle at the other end of the ice was fierce. A linesman’s arm shot up, alerting Ike to a delayed penalty against the Oilers. Ike started to head to the bench for an extra attacker, but they touched up almost immediately and play was blown dead.

The Cats’ power-play unit cycled the puck well, but didn’t get any clear-cut chances.

“Get shots on net,” Ike muttered. “Their guy has a rebound problem.”

In the blink of eye, everything changed. One of the Oilers intercepted a sloppy pass and a breakaway was on. Two on one. Kenny and JB raced back to provide cover.

Ike watched the rush unfold, making sure he kept the puck in sight.

The shot stung as it bounced off his chest. He corralled the puck and sent it out to Kenny, but once again it was intercepted by the opposition.

There was a wild goal-mouth scramble.

Bodies went flying. Sticks clashed.

The Oilers’ agitator, “Steeler,” planted himself on the edge of the crease, his huge body screening Ike’s view.

“Get your ass out of my face,” Ike growled.

The crude reply involved an anatomically impossible suggestion, followed by a creative one involving a sheep. Ike jabbed the guy with his stick and tried to find the puck.

All of a sudden, play seemed to unfold in slow motion.

A Cats’ player was tripped and fell into one of the Oilers. They both caromed toward Steeler, who got hit from the other side by Kenny.

Ike, his gaze glued to the puck on the wonder kid’s stick, got sandwiched between the tumbling players. He saw the shot and stretched out with his catching glove to snag the biscuit as the mass of bodies hit the ice in a pile.

The whistle blew.

Steeler fell on top of Ike.

A skate blade flashed.

A sharp pain shot through Ike’s arm.

Shocked, he stared at the cut that had gone through both his jersey and his protector. A thin red line marred the skin beneath.

Around him, players peeled off and got to their feet.

“Crap, man. I’m sorry,” Steeler said as he helped Ike up.

“Are you okay?” a linesman asked.

Ike nodded, but the pain in his arm worsened. “I think I’d better get this looked at.”

He’d barely finished speaking when the cut suddenly widened and blood spurted out.

Ike clamped his other hand on his arm and started to skate to the bench.

He was almost there when his legs went weak. His vision blurred. His legs crumpled.

The arena went silent. Then, there was a collective gasp.

Someone in an Oilers jersey wrapped an arm around his waist. An Ice Cat grabbed him from the other side. Between them, they pulled him to the bench and shoved him through the gate into the care of the trainers.

Stars danced in front of Ike’s eyes as the trainers helped him stumble toward the locker room. Fire burned in his arm. He was vaguely aware of blood, wet and warm, pulsing though his fingers. Bile rose up his throat.

Once in the locker room, he gave up his loose grip on consciousness. As everything faded to black, he wondered just how much bad luck that damn fall had brought him.