Читать книгу Her Man Advantage - Joanne Rock - Страница 10

“IS IT TRUE YOU’RE MAKING a movie about the Phantoms?”

The speaker squatted into Jennifer’s vision as she sat in the practice rink’s viewing seats at 10:00 a.m. the next morning. While the players ran a slapshot drill out on the ice, Jennifer worked at her laptop, making notes to ask Axel. Well, she tried to work on her laptop.

The hopeful young face blinking up at her from the row of seats below prevented her from concentrating. The lithe brunette in a knit beret clutched a paper coffee cup in both hands, hovering over the steam drifting up like a nebulizer while the players lofted puck after puck at their backup goalie.

“Not a movie. A documentary series.” Jennifer tried to smile politely, wishing she’d known that today’s morning skate was open to the public.

She would have given her cameraman the day off. Bryce’s equipment attracted attention and questions.

“I’m Chelsea, groupie extraordinaire.” The young woman thrust out a hand. “Let me know if I can be of any help.”

Taking the woman’s hand, Jennifer shook it briefly, reassessing.

“A fan?” Her gaze went from Chelsea to the guys on the ice—mainly Axel, whose number she found immediately through the glass boards.

He stood on a blue line—she had discerned the significance of that location last night in a mega cram-session on hockey. Apparently the blue lines marked the offensive zones and as a defenseman, he was often called a “blue liner” since he frequently played there.

Jennifer’s interest in and admiration for his role on the ice had increased the more she read until she found herself enthused to return to the rink today. But part of that enthusiasm died at the notion of groupies. Did he have female fans who shadowed his movements? The idea rankled. What if caressing strange women in deserted halls was all in a day’s work for a national league hockey player?

“Yes. There are four of us who follow the team whenever possible.” Chelsea gestured to a threesome of coffee-clutching young women two rows down. They appeared to be twenty to twenty-five years old. Unlike the stereotype of attention-seeking groupies who dressed to get noticed, this crowd wore appropriate clothes for a hockey rink—jackets and scarves with the blue-and-white team logo. They squealed as two of the players skated their way, giving them a grin and a nod.

“Do you attend a lot of these practices?” Jennifer wondered what kinds of jobs the young supporters had if they could afford to tailor their schedules around a hockey team.

“We come to these all the time, sometimes even when they’re not open to the public.” Chelsea flipped a long brown curl from one eye, a hint of a tattoo on her wrist visible under her jacket sleeve. “After this, we’re headed to Montreal for tomorrow’s game. The team flies, but we have to leave earlier since we drive and we want to be there when they touch down.”

To do what, exactly? Warm their beds?

Jennifer bit her tongue on the questions, knowing her role here wasn’t to judge, or even to get involved. It was simply to document. She had to admit that “not getting involved” part had always been tough for her. When she’d documented poverty, she’d helped educate young moms on wise consumer choices at the grocery store. When she’d made a film on the public school system, she’d found herself volunteering for bake sales. But if the woman in front of her wanted to follow a team of athletes around the country, it certainly wasn’t Jen’s job to tell her she could do better than that. Although the temptation lingered.

“How interesting.” She waved over her cameraman. The stands weren’t full for the practice session, so he climbed over the seats to introduce himself to Chelsea before Jennifer explained why she wanted them to meet. “Bryce will be recording a lot of raw footage on this project while we figure out our primary angles for this week’s installment. Would you mind if he tagged along on your road trip? Maybe took some footage of your conversations about the team?”

“Really?” Hopping out of her seat, Chelsea sloshed a little coffee out the top of the cup as she waved over her friends. “Almost like we were in the movie, too?”

A whistle blew on the ice and Jennifer noticed the players congregated around the coach.

“You would be.” Her attention went back to the woman’s wrist where she could have sworn she’d spotted numbers in Phantom blue. An ode to a player? “I’d have to ask you to sign waivers giving us permission to film you and use any footage we obtain, but only a small percentage ever sees the final print.”

There was a brief huddled conversation among the women, but it didn’t take long for Chelsea to pop out of the cluster.

“We’d love to.”

“Great.” Jennifer pulled up the waiver page on her laptop and handed Chelsea the stylus so she could sign it electronically while the players seemed to finish up their practice. “Just make sure Bryce knows where to be and at what time to meet you.”

While the fans thronged the tunnels off the ice for a chance at slapping hands with the exiting players, Chelsea handed the laptop around to her friends so they could each sign the waiver. When she turned back to Jennifer, her expression had clouded, the initial excitement dimmed.

Second thoughts already?

“Is everything okay?” Jennifer asked, not wanting her documentary stars to be second-guessing themselves yet. Any misgivings had to wait until the series was edited and printed.

Although she knew Axel would have reservations every moment of filming until she returned to New York. She respected his privacy, in theory, even if her assignment here proved at odds with his personal preferences. But was there a deeper reason behind how fiercely he protected his privacy? Most athletes saw the benefit of media attention on their careers, and it turned out Axel Rankin was having a banner year on the ice.

Why so camera shy?

“Sure.” Chelsea still held Jennifer’s laptop, her eyes fixed on the ice where Axel and Kyle Murphy—his foster brother, she’d learned in her reading—were laughing with the goalie. “I’m glad the documentary will help the team. Maybe boost ticket sales.”

“It probably will,” Jennifer agreed, trying to see which one of the guys Chelsea had her eye on since all the others had headed to the locker room by now.

She turned back to Jennifer. “But the guys are so great, I almost hate to share them, you know? Kind of like when the newspaper reviews your favorite dive restaurant. Soon everyone’s showing up to try the grub and it’s not the same anymore.”

While Jennifer tried to puzzle through Chelsea’s concerns—lack of access to the players, maybe—she reached for her laptop.

And, as Chelsea extended it, her sleeve lifted higher on her wrist. Revealing #68, Axel Rankin’s jersey number, tattooed on her skin.

THE CAMERAS WERE OUT in full force today.

Axel had noticed as soon as he’d arrived at the practice facility early that morning. Even now, as he waited for Jen to meet him after the team skate, he had to contend with the bright light of a fill flash in his eyes. He’d taken refuge in a practice room to tweak his shot on one of the shooting tarps, but the camera guy had followed him in.

There were three camera operators—all male—who would roam the Phantoms’ facilities over the next month. The team had been introduced to the group at the morning meeting. They would attend games and road trips in addition to occasionally following the players home or around town on errands, nights out or anywhere that might be relevant to the larger story. Besides the film crew with handhelds, there were stationary cameras in the rafters above the ice, in the box where players sat between shifts and in a couple of other common areas.

He’d called his foster parents last night to warn them about the documentary. They didn’t know the extent of his connections to the motorcycle club back in Finland—ties that hadn’t been easily severed. He’d never hidden from the old crew, exactly. He’d known an NHL career gave him a certain amount of visibility, so he’d always been accessible to his enemies. But there’d been a tacit peace these past nine years, with everyone moving on.

Axel wasn’t all that sure the peace would hold if this documentary series found a global audience. What would the old gang think of his high-end lifestyle if they saw pictures up close and personal? Would they be able to forgive what they considered the debt of letting him leave if they could see the evidence of his success from the comfort of their living rooms overseas? He didn’t want to push his luck.

So he’d told the Murphys to be on their toes if anyone called looking for more information on him. The wealthy Murphy family had resources to increase security at their Cape Cod compound and he’d advised them to do so, claiming a rise in public interest could bring out the occasional nut job. Better to be safe.

As Axel found his shooting rhythm on a tarp, he tried to ignore the hum of the Panasonic recording his every move and wondered if Jennifer had stood him up.

With how gung ho she’d been to quiz him about the Phantoms the day before, he’d figured she would bombard him with questions the second he left the ice. But an hour and a half after practice, he still hadn’t seen a sign of her.

Except, of course, in his mind’s eye. She’d set up residence there after yesterday’s close encounter, insinuating herself in his thoughts and making him edgy for more.

“Have you seen Jennifer around?” Axel asked the young guy shouldering the video equipment, breaking protocol by addressing him directly.

But hey, the less usable footage they had of him, the better.

Shutting off the camera, the tall, skinny dude shifted it aside. “She might be in the parking lot, setting things up for one of the crew to ride with some fans to Montreal.”

“Fans?” Surprised and encouraged that she would devote so much film to people who weren’t on the team, Axel decided he’d have to give her a rundown on everyone on the Phantoms support staff.

That alone could occupy a camera for a couple of days.

“Groupies, man.” The kid—twenty at the oldest—grinned. “Four girls that came to the morning skate. You’re living the dream.”

Before he could reply, Jennifer strode into the practice room, her cheeks flushed and her hair windblown.

“Yes, congratulations on that, Mr. Rankin.” She thumbed through a stack of notes on her clipboard, her hands a flurry of shuffling. “You’re a very fortunate man to be so widely admired.”

He’d never been in it for the fame. If anything, that made his life more difficult given the enemies he’d made back home.

“Actually, I think I’m fortunate because I get paid to do a job I love.” He handed his stick to an attendant, eager to shake off old ghosts and talk to Jennifer away from the whir of rolling film. “Are you ready to go?”

“Very.” Pivoting on her heel, she walked out of the practice room.

She wore a blue-and-white Phantoms T-shirt today, a thoughtful endorsement. A floor-length black skirt with big blue flowers billowed around her legs, a skinny silver chain belt dangling from her waist.

She looked great. He liked her colorful, offbeat style. Her energetic walk and enthusiastic hands when she touched him. He liked everything about her a little too well. But sticking close to her throughout the filming might help him avoid being a central figure in any of the footage.

As for the heat between them? He’d have to gamble they’d be able to handle it.

He had to admit Jen seemed to be keeping a professional distance today.

Hell, he wasn’t even keeping up with her, now that he thought about it. Was she pulling the same trick he had yesterday, trying to outpace him?

“Where’s the fire?” he asked, lengthening his stride as she headed toward the administrative offices. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Just trying to be considerate.” She shoved open a door to a small office that should have belonged to the staff travel secretary. Apparently the office had been lent to Jennifer while she was here since an assortment of camera bags crammed the floor and a board with a list of shot sequences had been hung behind the desk. “I know you have to travel tonight for tomorrow’s game.”

He followed her inside, leaving the door open to ensure they wouldn’t have too much privacy. It was being alone with her yesterday that had driven him to touch her. Today would be all business.

“Our flight doesn’t leave until seven and I’m already packed. I’ve got plenty of time.”

“Well, I need to make a lot of arrangements before then.” She turned to face him, her shoulders tense. Still clutching the clipboard like a flotation device for a woman at sea.

“Jen.” He stepped closer in spite of himself, sensing a vibe at work that he didn’t understand. “Is something wrong?”

“Honestly?” She slammed the clipboard on the desk, sending a few loose papers flying. “I’m a little creeped out to think you have your own personal fan base following you around to all your hotels when you travel.”

A strong reaction from a woman he’d only just met. She couldn’t be … jealous?

“I think every big-league sports team develops that kind of following,” he said carefully.

“Well, I don’t see how you can object to a romantic story line for yourself when you’ve got a groupie with your jersey number tattooed on her like a neon sign.”

A prickle of unease started at the base of his neck. As amusing as it might be to think Jennifer would feel any sort of proprietary claim toward him, he couldn’t afford to indulge that kind of thought if it led to him having a feature role in her series.

“The fan you’re thinking of happens to have all the players’ numbers tattooed on her.”

“You’ve seen them?” Jaw dropping, she pitched her voice lower.

“Hell no.” His response was automatic since she made it sound so sordid. “Well, some of them. You need to understand Chelsea and her friends. They hang out around the team a lot, but the guys don’t mind because that whole group has had a rough time of it. Chelsea especially.”

Outside the office, a couple of the team higher-ups walked by and Axel gave them a wave. The documentary series had brought in all the big brass, who were excited at the idea of more ticket sales in their future.

“What do you mean?” Jen frowned, and for the first time since he’d seen her today, she didn’t look quite so tense.

“I mean she has a hell of a story, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me. I, on the other hand, don’t have a story. Something I’ve already made damn clear to you.”

“Right.” She chewed on her lip, an auburn wave snaking forward to land against her cheek as she looked down. “The trouble is, I don’t have a romantic story line. I have a team full of hot athletes, and every one of you is either married, in a committed relationship or too married to the game to think about women.”

Ha. Did she really believe that he wasn’t thinking about her right now? He’d be lucky to have his head in the game by tomorrow with memories of touching her playing over and over in his brain. Even now, he wanted to get closer to see if he could catch that scent of hers that drove him crazy.

“So follow around one of the guys with a girlfriend. Done deal.” Why couldn’t she film Kyle and Marissa, the matchmaker his brother had fallen for who now occupied all his free time?

“And do I chronicle a happy relationship with no conflict that will put viewers to sleep? Or a relationship on the rocks—and there’s no lack of those, according to preliminary research—and really piss off one of your teammates by showcasing his marital problems to the world?”

“Point taken.” More than one guy was going through a messy divorce. Some guys’ marriages broke up because their wives messed around while the team was out of town.

Then there were the guys who did the messing around themselves. Ax tried to stay out of stuff like that, but he’d seen enough in his short time with the Phantoms to know there were a few team Casanovas.

“So you see my dilemma.” Idly, she ran a fingertip up a stack of paperwork piled on one corner of the desk. Behind her, an open laptop flashed her production company’s logo for a screen saver.

“I wonder where you got all your research.” He was surprised at the twinge of jealousy that spiked for whoever had gotten to fill her in on the team dynamics last night. “I thought I was the go-to guy for the inside information.”

“A good journalist never reveals her sources.” She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

“Was he as entertaining as me?”

She studied her nails—filed short but painted with blue and purple stripes.

“Let’s just say the anonymous party didn’t try to scare me off with the scent of sweat and too much testosterone.”

“In other words, you missed me.” His testosterone levels seemed to stir when drawn into conversation. He might have taken a step closer to her, too, because he caught a hint of her perfume.

“I was still stinging from your rejection, so you can hardly hold it against me if I was driven into someone else’s arms.” Glancing up from her nails, she gave him a grin that managed to be wicked and innocent at the same time.

And even knowing that she was messing with him didn’t stop a surge of possessiveness he had no business feeling.

“Then I hope you’re prepared to start naming names before I have to take out my teammates one by one.”

“Hmm. I’d hate for you to sacrifice your season to a jealous streak when I got the inside scoop from the head coach’s wife.”

The ridiculous wave of relief he experienced was a very bad sign. Knowing that she flirted with him only made it tougher to hold back. This time, she was the one sidling closer.

Good thing they’d left the office door open, right? Too bad the hallway outside had been quiet for a while. All the action was down in the players’ area where preparations were being made to transport all the team’s gear for the road trip.

“Nico Cesare’s wife was your source?” He couldn’t resist tracing the cinnamon wave along her cheek, liking the way her eyelashes fluttered a little at his touch. “I’d be curious to know how exactly you ended up in her arms.”

“It wasn’t easy, but after some girl talk and margaritas at a local bar, I gave her a hug as a thank-you for the lowdown on the team.”

Axel cupped her chin. Tilted her face up. He really needed to kiss away that knowing smile. Remind her that he wasn’t the only one whose senses were keyed up and ready to fire into hyperdrive.

Except he couldn’t do that.

“Yesterday wasn’t a rejection,” he said instead, his voice gravelly and harsh, revealing too damn much.

Her nod was the smallest of movements, but he felt it in his hand.

“I know,” she whispered, her fingertips landing softly on the back of his hand, as if to hold him there.

With all the time in the world to back off, Axel stared, transfixed, at her soft pink mouth. She would taste perfect. Feel perfect.

And soon, that was all he could think about. How damn good she’d feel. How impossible it would be to keep away.

When their lips met, he gave in to the inevitable, knowing that fighting this would be an uphill battle. He had to give some ground or he’d lose his mind. He wanted Jen too badly.

The slide of her lips over his, the gentle press of her breasts against his chest, created a roar in his ears. A demand in his blood.

He reached for the door, needing to shut out the world for just a minute. Not finding it with a blind swipe, he cocked open one eye enough to orient himself. But as his hand wrapped around the knob to swing the barrier closed, he found a whole lot more than a frosted glass office door.

A handheld-camera operator stood in the hall, the red Record light blinking while the lens trained on them.