Читать книгу A Perfect Strategy - Anna Sugden - Страница 11
ОглавлениеPresent day
“THE HOCKEY NETWORK, New York, isn’t renewing my contract?”
Scott paused, steak-laden fork halfway to his mouth, to look at his agent.
“They want to go in a different direction. They want a more ‘three-sixty’ coverage.” Andy added air quotes.
“You mean they’re changing me because I suck at color commentary.” Scott had never been good at running his mouth off and THNNY seemed to want to fill every second of the game with talk. He didn’t mind commenting on plays and stats, strategy and tactics, even guys’ college or juniors careers. But the network wanted him to gossip about the players, as well.
Sharing in-depth information about the men he’d been teammates with less than a year ago was something he had no interest in. He’d been on the butt end of that kind of intrusion enough this past season, between his retirement and divorce, to be real uncomfortable with sharing details about guys’ personal lives. He didn’t even like repeating locker-room tales.
Besides, who cared? Scott sure as hell didn’t. The only thing that mattered was what happened on the ice.
“I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue next season, so I guess that makes my decision for me.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to coach?” Andy patted his mouth with his napkin. “I’ve had feelers from several GMs about you. A future Hall of Famer is always of interest.”
Scott ate the piece of steak, using the time to mull that over. He’d done some work with the Cats this past season, helping the younger players tighten up their defensive tactics. He liked to think he’d played his part in helping the team win the Cup, even if he hadn’t been out there on the ice with them.
Getting his name etched on the silver chalice one last time had been cool, though it hadn’t made up for losing it the previous season. For sure, it hadn’t been the same as winning it as a player.
“I enjoy stopping by practice to work on drills with the guys,” he said finally. “But I don’t want to do it full-time. Or have the responsibility for running the team, day in and day out. I don’t have the patience. It drives me nuts to work on plays and then see it all fall apart come game time because they forget how to execute in the heat of the moment.”
Andy gave an exaggerated shudder. “You and me both. That’s the problem when you’re naturally talented. You can’t teach what’s in your gut.”
“I hope your gut is enjoying my food.” Ryan Grey clapped a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Good to see you, bro.”
“You, too, man.” Scott stood and greeted his friend and former teammate.
Ryan’s career had been cut short by repeated concussion issues. After a troubled few years, he’d decided to turn his love of cooking into his next career and now ran one of the most successful high-end steak houses in the tristate area, if not the whole East Coast.
“It’s been a while.” Ryan topped up Andy’s red wine. “How’s retirement treating you?”
“Still finding my feet,” Scott admitted. “If I was a better cook, I’d give you a run for your money.”
“You could try.” His friend grinned. “But I won’t be losing sleep over it. You’re a better D-man than chef.”
“True.” Scott didn’t take offense. He had enough culinary skills to survive without starving and had a sharp dialing finger for takeout and delivery. “Still, I can grill a mean burger.”
“Maybe you should open a sports bar.” Grey relit the candle on the table and straightened the centerpiece. “Don’t you have a business degree, too?”
Scott nodded. It was a bit clichéd—retired pro athlete putting his name to an eatery—but it could be fun. “That’s a good idea. I may look into it.”
“Anything I can do to help, give me a shout. I’m happy to share what I’ve learned.” Grey’s head lifted. “I have to go—my maître d’ is signaling. Don’t be a stranger.”
“I have a guy in my organization who specializes in second-career investment opportunities. He’s helped some football players with bars and nightclubs. I’ll put you in touch with him.” Andy pointed his wineglass toward Scott. “No pressure, but he’ll give you the facts and figures of what’s involved.”
“I’d appreciate his insights. But I’d still like to keep my hand in hockey somehow.”
Even though he knew his body couldn’t take playing at the highest level anymore, he didn’t feel old enough to be retired. He kept in shape and skated regularly. After so many years playing, he couldn’t give up hockey completely.
He wasn’t really part of the Ice Cats any longer. He was like an honorary uncle: included and indulged, but not a true family member. And he hadn’t felt like part of the commentating group—they’d been together a few years and it had been hard to slot into their tight-knit circle. Since his divorce one year ago, he sure as hell hadn’t felt like part of his family.
Andy signaled for the check. “You could join me and become an agent. Some of my best guys are former players. You definitely have what it takes.”
That was a major compliment. His agent didn’t bullshit or give praise lightly.
Driving home, Scott kept Andy’s advice front of mind. A couple of the opportunities they’d discussed made more sense than the commentating. In truth, the network had done him a favor by not renewing his contract.
Scott pulled into his garage and parked. As the door rumbled closed behind him, he took his time getting out of the car. Putting off the moment when he’d have to walk into the dark, empty house. Something he’d dreaded for the past year.
The divorce had come out of left field. Hell, it had been a freaking fastball from another freaking ballpark.
He’d assumed when he retired, he and Celine would spend more time together, especially now that both Angela and Wayne were in college. Since Scott and Celine wouldn’t be driven by the brutal schedule that had dictated their lives from September to June every year since they’d met, they would finally be able to do the things they’d always talked about. Instead, she’d left him.
His bitter laugh echoed around the garage. That was one play he hadn’t read at all.
Scott walked through the house, turning on lights. He kicked off his shoes in the front hall, then went into the living room and flicked on the flat-screen. Relieved to have noise—he didn’t care what channel was on—he padded to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. Then headed for his den.
The silence was the worst. For the past couple months, his kids had hung out here a lot, particularly while their mom was traveling. But this week, they’d both headed back to college early—Angela had wanted to get a head start on her third-year projects and Wayne had football practice.
Leaving Scott alone in a house he’d never really felt was home. He’d bought it for Celine when he became captain. A thank-you for all the sacrifices she’d made and the fantastic job she’d done with their kids. While his responsibilities at the rink and with the team had taken up more time, she’d decorated, extended and remodeled, until it was perfect.
And it was. Perfectly color coordinated. Perfectly furnished. Probably perfectly freaking feng shuied, too. All he knew was that other than in his den—where she’d given him free rein—he felt like he was in a show house.
He’d have been happy to give it to her when they split up, but she’d wanted a sleek apartment in the city. Less bother while she was traveling. Not wanting to get rid of the family home while his kids still technically lived there, he’d agreed to hold on to it until Wayne graduated. But he couldn’t bring himself to use more than a few rooms.
In his den, he dropped onto the sofa and turned on the Yankees game. Top of the fifth, and they were beating the Red Sox by four runs. Good news, but not enough to distract him. Maybe he’d sit in bed and read. The latest Robert Crais was next up on his nightstand; Elvis Cole was always good for taking his mind off things.
Scott walked back through the house, turning off lights and the TV in the living room. The thick vellum invitation on the mantel caught his attention.
Crap. He’d forgotten all about J.B. and Issy’s reception. The pair had been married during the play-offs in a quickie civil ceremony but were having a full-blown celebration now that the successful Cup run was over and players were heading to New Jersey for their preseason preparations.
Scott was glad for J.B., but he wasn’t looking forward to attending yet another function stag. At least there would be plenty of Cats and their families there, so he wouldn’t be stuck making small talk with people he didn’t know.
That brought to mind the earlier conversation over dinner. He was out of a job.
He’d never not known where he was headed. He hated feeling rudderless.
Damn it. Why hadn’t he seen this coming?
As he walked upstairs, he stopped to look at the family pictures that lined the wall. One for each year he and Celine had been married. For the first time he noticed that the writing had been on this wall, literally, if he’d bothered to notice. The happy smiles had become stilted over the years. The body language more brittle. He and Celine had been wrapped in each other’s arms on their first anniversary, but by the final picture, taken last summer, they were as far apart as physically possible, with their kids almost like a buffer between them.
The truth was that he missed his kids and hockey more than he missed his wife.
Scott sank onto the top step and rested his elbows on his knees, staring into the glass of red wine like it held all the answers.
Unfortunately, it didn’t.
* * *
SAPPHIRE HOULIHAN’S LIFE WAS, to quote Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way. She had a fabulous career, running her own successful management consultancy. She was healthy and fit and had finally lost the extra ten pounds she’d been carrying since college. Though after the one or two...okay...several to-die-for desserts she’d eaten at this wedding reception, she’d probably put half of those pounds back on. She had a busy social life and an active sex life, with absolutely no strings attached to either.
Everything was just how she liked it. Simple, straightforward, easy to manage.
So why did she feel so...restless? Unsettled?
Sapphie sipped her champagne and looked around the glittering ballroom. Her Louboutined foot tapped to the rock beat of an oldie but goody. The party was in full swing.
Her heart warmed to see her childhood friend Isabelle Brandine—no, Isabelle Larocque now—dancing with her husband, Jean Baptiste. Issy looked so happy. Who’d have thought a playboy hockey player, and a vacation fling at that, would turn out to be The One for conservative Issy.
Of course, there was the little matter of baby Sophia—currently being cooed over by J.B.’s mom—the result of that fling and an unfortunately timed bout of food poisoning. Sapphie believed her goddaughter was the catalyst for bringing Issy and J.B. together. So, despite a troubled path, their story had a happy ending.
If anyone deserved that happiness, it was Issy. Inseparable from the time they could crawl, Issy and Sapphie had grown up in a poor town in North Carolina. Because their parents had preferred partying over responsibility, the two friends had had to be the “grown-ups” in their respective households: looking after their siblings, making sure what little money their folks brought in kept a roof over their heads and food on the table.
When they’d escaped at eighteen, headed for college and better things, Issy had done everything she could to build a stable, financially secure life for herself, with the hope of settling down with a nice, responsible man to raise a family. Everything she hadn’t had as a child.
Sapphie deposited her empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and snagged a fresh drink. She sighed.
That definitely wasn’t the life Sapphie wanted. Marriage, kids, a mortgage—no way. She’d had enough of responsibility and commitment growing up and was determined never to be tied to any person or any place. She depended on no one but herself. She controlled her life and cherished her freedom.
Sapphie didn’t own an apartment but kept three serviced condos—one on each coast and another in Chicago—convenient pieds-à-terre for when she flew back and forth across the country to see her clients. No cleaning, no maintenance, no worries.
As for dating, Issy teased her about having “a guy in every port.” Not quite true, but Sapphie didn’t go out with any man for long. That way she didn’t encourage expectations that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, fulfill. Like the apartments, it suited her perfectly.
Sapphie pushed away from the pillar she’d been leaning against and sat at an empty table. The late nights she’d put in recently for her biggest client, Marty Antonelli—not to mention the red-eye she’d taken from LA to get here to help Issy with the party—were catching up with her. She had a room at the hotel until Monday and planned to take advantage of the spa to pamper herself.
Perhaps she’d sneak away and get an early night. Eight hours’ sleep sounded heavenly.
Taylor “Mad Dog” Madden sat beside her. “How soon can I cut out of here without offending the happy couple?”
The Ice Cats’ defenseman was a close friend and also one of J.B.’s groomsmen.
“I was wondering the same thing. Do you think we’re getting ol—” Sapphie broke off when she saw his face, tight with anger. “What’s put a bug up your butt?”
“Nothing.” He slammed his beer bottle on the table, then stared out at the dance floor, arms crossed.
She followed his gaze and spotted a familiar, pretty blonde talking to a slight man with thinning dark hair. “Oh. Lizzie came with someone.”
“Apparently, she’s been dating him for a few weeks.” Taylor’s lip curled. “Pompous jerk. He keeps touching her ass.”
“And that’s your business, how?”
He tossed her an irritated look. “It isn’t. I just think he should have better manners.”
“Uh-huh. Not jealous, then.”
Taylor had a thing for Lizzie Martin, though he was loath to admit it. The pair had dated briefly, a few years ago. That had been before Sapphie had met Taylor last summer when she and Issy had taken a trip to Antigua to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. He and J.B. had been getting some R & R at the same resort. Sapphie and Taylor had hit it off straightaway.
Their time in the Caribbean had been fun, and once back home, they’d become friends with occasional benefits. There was never any thought of a serious relationship, on either side. More recently, they’d dropped the benefits and simply enjoyed each other’s company.
Sapphie wasn’t upset about his feelings for Lizzie. He was a good person and he deserved a good woman. Especially if she kept him on his toes.
“You don’t freaking slow-dance to Bon Jovi, idiot.” Drumming his fingers on the table, Taylor looked ready to storm the dance floor and yank Lizzie’s date away from her by the scruff of his neck.
“I think Lizzie made that point,” Sapphie said as the blonde moved out of her partner’s arms. “So relax.”
Taylor drained his beer. “I’m fine. As long as he stops pawing her in public.”
“Because you want to be the one who paws her.”
“No.” He sighed. “Yes. But that won’t happen. She’s mad at me for embarrassing her at the Cup celebration a few weeks ago. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Every time I open my mouth around her, I’m eating shoe leather. I don’t have that problem with you.”
“Because our relationship is simple.”
“Maybe we should date instead.”
“Right.” Sapphie rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to spoil what we have.”
“You’re right.” He sighed again.
“Go sort things out with Lizzie. Apologize, then ask her to dance.”
“Even if she accepts I’m sorry, I’m the last person she’ll want to dance with.”
“It’s not like you to give up because it’s tough.”
His lips twisted. “Me and Lizzie isn’t tough—it’s impossible.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” She’d seen Lizzie surreptitiously watching Taylor. “Anyway, you’ve got nothing to lose by giving it a shot.”
“I guess. Anyone ever told you you’re bossy?” he grumbled good-naturedly.
“All the time. It’s how I earn my money. You’re lucky I don’t charge for my advice.”
“You’d be worth every penny.” He kissed her cheek, then stood. “Wish me luck.”
She held up crossed fingers. “You can do it.”
Taylor strode off purposefully, but his body language changed as he approached Lizzie. He was nervous.
Lizzie straightened the moment she saw Taylor heading toward her. Though Sapphie couldn’t hear what was said, the pair’s reactions were enough to get the gist of their conversation. As it grew more heated, Sapphie hoped Taylor would back off, but he didn’t. Soon Lizzie stalked out, with Taylor hot on her heels. It would end either in tears or with them tearing up the sheets. There was too much passion for anything else.
As Sapphie made her way across the room, she spotted Scotty Matthews at the bar, nursing a drink. Sapphie had always had a fan-girl crush on the former Ice Cats captain. Her favorite player since she’d started following the team, he’d been a powerhouse on the ice and, from what she’d heard, a great leader and a mentor in the locker room. He was a nice guy but hard to get to know. She’d seen him at several Ice Cats parties and he’d seemed pretty self-contained. Watching everything, saying little.
She’d found it hard to be her usual chatty self with him. He’d look at her with those serious blue eyes and she’d become tongue-tied. Because she’d never been fazed by a gorgeous man before, she’d assumed it was because he was older than her—in his early forties. Though he’d never said anything overtly disapproving, she’d felt she never quite measured up to his standards.
Tonight he looked lonely.
He’d obviously come to the reception on his own. She’d heard about his divorce last year; hard not to when it had been splashed across the media.
As if he felt her studying him, Scotty looked up and their gazes met.
There was something about the recently retired captain that drew her to him. His dark hair, flecked with gray, was still short, like it had been when he was playing. His tanned face bore the scars of his career. The one that had always fascinated her was the white line that marred his otherwise perfect lips. Left side, near the corner. The result of a high stick—one that hadn’t been penalized—it had taken twenty-five stitches to close the cut.
He gave a half smile, raised his glass to her, then returned his attention to his drink.
Suddenly, she wanted to make that half smile full-blown.
Sapphie sauntered to the bar and settled on the stool next to him. She was pleased to notice him checking out her legs as she crossed them.
“I suppose a dance is out of the question, Captain?” Her question came out slightly husky, giving it an unintentionally sultry note.
He didn’t answer immediately but looked at the crowd on the dance floor doing their best impression of John Travolta to “Stayin’ Alive.” “Not really my thing.”
Yet his toe tapped on the rung of the stool.
“I always find it amazing that you guys have perfect rhythm and timing on the ice, yet you claim not to like dancing. Me, I love it.” She wiggled in her seat.
He frowned. “That’s completely different. One is a sport. That—” he pointed to the dance floor with his glass “—isn’t.”
“True. And some people should probably stick to hockey. Bless his heart, Monty has two left feet.”
A step behind the music all the time, Chaz “Monty” Montgomery made up for his lack of skill with enthusiasm.
“He’s a goaltender,” Scotty said. As if that explained everything.
The music slowed. Couples drifted together.
Sapphie wrinkled her nose. “I never did like this song.”
“That was my ex-wife’s favorite.”
Way to go, Sapphie. “I’m sorry.”
Scotty shrugged. “Everyone has different tastes.”
They sat silently, watching the light from the disco ball send sparkles over the dancing couples.
“Honestly, I never liked this song much either.”
At his dry words, she whipped her head around to look at him. A hint of a smile played around his lips.
She was tempted to lean over and kiss them. To taste that scar. But this wasn’t the time or place for that behavior—especially from the maid of honor.
That didn’t stop her wanting to.
Willing herself to sound casual, she said, “I’d offer to give you new memories for the song, but we should pick something that won’t make us wince every time we hear it.”
“Good thinking. Plus the singer has the same name as my ex.”
“We’ll definitely choose another song, then.”
With impeccable timing, the DJ segued into the next track. Unfortunately, it wasn’t any better. She looked questioningly at Scotty, hoping this wasn’t one of his favorites.
For several seconds he appeared to be enjoying the music. Then he said solemnly, “Sorry, but we can’t have our song being about a dying woman. Too morbid.”
She grinned, relieved. “I love Bette Midler, but this song always grates on me. Perhaps because I hate movies with sad endings. Life’s hard enough.”
“For sure.” His smile faded.
Way to bring the evening down, dodo. Determined to cheer things up, she said brightly, “Next song, whatever it is, love it or hate it, we dance. Deal?”
For a moment, she thought he’d refuse. But he nodded. “Okay. Deal.”
They waited as the current song reached its climax. Then the DJ’s deliberately deep voice washed over the crowd. “Last slow song before we take up the tempo again. So grab your favorite girl or guy and smooch.”
The moment of truth. Sapphie and Scotty looked at each other.
She was surprised by how much she wanted this dance. Even a little nervous.
He held out his hand, palm up. “A deal’s a deal.”
“It certainly is.” She laid her hand in his. “Luckily, I like this song,” she said as they joined the other couples. “I’ve always liked Christopher Cross. This one’s a little corny, I know, but there’s something romantic about the lyrics. Especially given where we live.” Jeez, she was babbling like a teenager on her first date.
“I like the idea of being caught between the moon and New York City.” Scotty pulled her gently into his arms.
Without saying anything, they slipped into the old-fashioned way of slow dancing. Her right hand clasped in his left. Her left on his shoulder, while his other hand rested against the small of her back. They started with a respectable gap between them, but the number of people made them draw closer together.
At least, that was her excuse.
Her thighs were pressed against his. Solid, hard muscle. Her breasts crushed against the broad wall of his chest. The heat of his body seared her, despite the barrier of their clothing.
He brought their joined hands in and rested them against his chest. She could feel his strong, steady heartbeat beneath his tuxedo jacket.
Her left hand slipped across his shoulder to his neck, delighting in the smooth skin and corded strength. The hand at her back began to caress her, slowly moving up and down her silk dress before edging toward her hip.
Their feet barely moved as they swayed to the music.
His cheek rested against her temple. His breath stirred her hair and whispered against the sensitive skin beneath her ear. If she turned her head slightly, her lips would be pressed against his jaw. If he turned his head slightly, his lips would be pressed against hers.
She wanted his kiss very much.
Slowly, tentatively, she started to move her head. At the same moment, he began to move his. Their mouths were so close. So tantalizingly close. One slight movement and they’d meet. She lifted her gaze to his.
Oh, those serious blue eyes. She could lose herself in them. They would be her downfall tonight. How could she resist him?
