Читать книгу Crossing The Goal Line - Kim Findlay - Страница 11
ОглавлениеNOT EVERYONE WHO had red hair was short-tempered. That was just a cliché. Bridget knew she was pretty even tempered, despite having bright red hair. Of course, she wasn’t perfect. There were a couple of things that could set her off. One of those things was Wally the Weasel, and he’d done it again.
Bridget shoved open the door out of the pool area and stalked down the hallway with all the authority one could muster in a swimsuit and flip-flops. She reached the Weasel’s office at the far end and, of course, he wasn’t there. Bridget shoved her glasses back up her nose with her finger, and huffed a breath. She had no doubt he’d carefully timed his morning activities to miss her. She’d have loved to stay and wait him out, but she had her own timetable.
She glared at his desk, and then turned and stomped out. Fortunately, this was the quiet time of day at the exclusive athletic club, so she didn’t meet anyone. Making nice to the members was never her strongest suit, and was close to impossible when she was angry.
Once she returned to the pool, she began to relax. She was back in her world. It might feel claustrophobic to some, but she was perfectly comfortable here. The chlorine-infused air was moist and the place echoed with the slightest sounds of the water’s movement in the pool. But in this world, she was confident, and one of the best at what she did.
Tad, the pool assistant, had finished setting up the lane swim markers that had sparked Bridget’s fit of temper, and was sitting on a bench, looking at his phone. She’d swear that kid would expire without that gadget. He was living dangerously: water would destroy it. She never had her phone in the pool area for that very reason. One had only to lose a couple, or five, and the lesson sank in.
“Tad, get the boys,” she called across the pool. Tad looked up guiltily, nodded and scurried into the men’s changing room. Bridget went into the women’s room, and found her four female charges. They were small, and very nervous. Bridget squatted down to look at them at their level.
“Hey, there, I’m glad to see you all got into your swimsuits. We can come out to the pool now, but you can be near the water only when there’s an adult around, okay?”
They nodded, but no one started moving. They were a little hesitant, which wasn’t surprising. She smiled reassuringly, grabbed two little hands, and led the way.
Tad had brought out four little boys. Three were looking at her apprehensively, while one was staring around like he owned the place. It had been years since Bridget taught beginners, but she recognized the signs. He was going to be one of those.
Bridget noticed someone swimming in the lane Tad had set up, but that was not her focus now. These eight kids were. The pool was supposed to be used only by her for the next forty-five minutes, so the Weasel, snob that he was, was up to something. He’d been opposed to the idea of this class from the beginning.
She had the kids sit on one of the benches, and again squatted in front of them so she could look at them eye to eye.
“I’m Bridget, and I’m going to be teaching you to swim. Has anyone here taken swimming lessons before?”
Bridget knew they hadn’t. She’d helped with the selection process and these eight had been chosen for the pilot project because they had no exposure to swimming instruction. But it was a good way to get started. Seven little heads shook, while one kid shrugged, like it was no big thing.
“I think it’s important that everyone knows how to swim. We live in a country with a lot of lakes and rivers, and lots of swimming pools. Also, swimming is fun. It’s really good exercise. It’s a sport, too. Have you seen it in the Olympics? I used to compete for Canada, and I’m now coaching the swim team at the club here to race in swim meets. Maybe someday one of you can represent Canada as a swimmer.”
Bridget wanted to inspire them if she could. She’d loved competing, and she thought it taught a lot of life lessons.
“Were you any good?” It was that boy. Bridget mentally reviewed the attendance sheet in her mind. Ah, yes. His name was Tony. He’d apparently decided to challenge her from the start.
Bridget looked him in the eyes. “Did you have a specific lap time in mind?” There was a pause. Tony wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I won a lot of races,” Bridget continued, “but I was never good enough to make the Olympic team. However, I’m pretty sure I can still swim faster than anyone you know.” Bridget wasn’t boasting. She knew what she could do.
Tony crossed his arms. “You can’t beat a guy. My dad says girls can’t beat guys.”
And just like that, Tony had pushed Bridget’s biggest button. She had spent her entire life trying to prove that girls could do everything guys could do. It was a never-ending task. “I think your dad is mistaken, Tony.” Bridget indicated the man swimming in the lane. “He’s swimming pretty well. You think I can take him?”
Tony hesitated. He hadn’t expected that. He wanted to save face, but wasn’t sure what to do.
The other kids were impressed. “Can you really swim faster than him?”
Bridget assessed the swimmer. Adult male, tall, good physical shape, but yeah, she could take him.
Bridget called to Tad to look after the class. She pulled off her heavy glasses, bane of her life, pulled on her swimming goggles, and strode over to the end of the pool. The goggles didn’t help much with her vision, but she knew this place like the back of her hand, and she could navigate blindfolded.
The man in the lane may have been swimming pretty well, but he wasn’t a racer. There was wasted movement: technique issues she could see even without her glasses.
He was about halfway up the lane, swimming away from her, and she paused, caught her breath and pushed off in her starting dive.
The pool was Bridget’s element. When she was a kid, she had wanted to be a professional hockey player just like her brothers had, but her poor vision messed with her depth perception and limited her ability to play a fast-moving game on the ice. Instead, she’d channeled that drive into swimming, and she’d excelled.
She surfaced, having picked up half the distance the other swimmer had on her. She started her smooth, sure stroke, slicing through the water with precision and power. She was within a couple of body lengths by the time he hit the wall, and she knew she had him.
Recreational swimmers don’t train on turns, and she had.
She came out of her turn another length ahead of him. She could sense he’d become aware that this was a race, and increased the tempo of his strokes, but she made it to the end of the pool with lengths to spare.
She hoped her temper hadn’t led her astray. In her experience, men could get upset if a woman beat them. Her focus was supposed to be on her class, but maybe she’d earned some respect from her students, especially Tony. That should make him willing to listen to her. She wanted to continue with that momentum, so she lifted herself out of the pool, no longer aware of the other swimmer, until he spoke.
“That was impressive. Do you take private students?”
Bridget had pulled off her goggles, and when she turned, the man was a blur. She looked at him fuzzily.
“Sorry, no. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was making a point for my class.” She nodded her head toward the blurs that were her students. Perhaps the hardest part of this job, other than the Weasel, was being nice to members who were not always nice themselves. She added a perfunctory smile. At least he hadn’t pitched a fit about losing to her.
And the rest of the class did go smoothly. Tony was silenced, and the other students were suitably impressed. It wasn’t until all the kids had been returned to the changing rooms that she became aware that the lane swimmer had finished and left. She shrugged. She wasn’t sure if she’d see him again. Her plans for the Weasel included terminating the lane swimming during her class, so she hoped she wouldn’t.
Bridget’s position as swim coach involved being at the club early for morning practice, and again after the kids were done school for fitness training and more practice. Weekends would often involve traveling to swim meets. Since they were in Toronto, the traveling was often just across town, but at times she was gone for entire weekends.
Her hours were irregular, but she loved her job and didn’t mind that her time off was out of sync with most people’s. She was determined to get to the Olympics, this time as a coach. She had a couple of swimmers who had tons of talent, and she found helping them was becoming as fulfilling as racing herself.
She was teaching this swim class in what should have been her free time. She got her charges safely off to the teacher’s aide who was returning them to school, and changed into shorts and a T-shirt to do her own training. One of the perks of the job was using the facilities, and midmorning there was no one using the machines in the weight room. She liked to keep almost as fit as she required her swimmers to be.
After she’d had a shower she would make another attempt to track down Wally.
* * *
SHE DIDN’T FIND him until just before her afternoon practice. When she appeared in his doorway, he flinched.
“Hello, Wall-ter,” Bridget corrected herself. He insisted on being called by his full name, and Bridget was sure it wouldn’t be wise to let him know her nickname for him. He’d freak out over Wally, let alone Weasel.
“I don’t know why you have so much trouble with my name,” he responded peevishly.
Bridget ignored his comment. “I’ve got a question for you.”
“I’m very busy.”
“Oh, this will take only a moment. You see, the pool is booked at nine for a class I’m teaching, but somehow there was a lane swimmer there this morning.”
Wally shuffled some stuff around his desk. “Yes, well, it’s like this...the management committee asked if I could make that arrangement for this new, ah, associate member.”
Associate member? Bridget thought. That was a new one. But if the request came from the management committee...
“Perhaps you could have notified me?” she asked.
“Ah, sorry, I thought I had.” They both knew better.
“Are you expecting any more ‘associate members’ to be wanting the pool at nine a.m.? Maybe enough to take up the entire pool?” Nine had been chosen specifically because it was after the morning swim training and lap swims for those going to work or school, and before the water aerobics classes began. It was the quietest time in the pool, except after closing.
Nobody was being put out by her beginner class, except Wally, who didn’t like having these “freeloader” kids in his precious club. He was more concerned about maintaining the club’s reputation than any of the members were.
Bridget and Wally were at cross-purposes in respect to this class.
Wally seemed to be enjoying a little joke. “No, I don’t think we’ll have any other members like him.”
“If any others should come up, please let me know and make sure I actually respond. Otherwise...” Bridget left the threat hanging, partly because she wasn’t sure just what she’d do, and partly so that Wally could imagine the worst.
Bridget headed out to change for her afternoon coaching. There was something funny about this, but she had places to be, and couldn’t take the time to shake Wally down any further.
* * *
SOMETHING WASN’T QUITE RIGHT. Mike was sure of it. He’d done his second morning lane swim, and the instructor who’d raced him the first day was there with her class. She hadn’t raced him this morning. Instead, she had ignored him. He was getting the feeling that she wasn’t happy with him being there.
He’d been getting that feeling a lot in Toronto.
Hockey fans weren’t happy with him, and he couldn’t blame them. He was one of the best-paid goalies in the league, and when he arrived last spring he was supposed to make the team better. Instead, he’d played badly; as badly as he’d ever played as a professional.
Although Mike hadn’t been thrilled at the trade to Toronto, he had pride, and he was not happy with his performance. He hoped that he could bring the fans around by playing up to his level this year, but training camp had just begun. His time to prove himself hadn’t arrived, so he was still living with last year’s reputation.
The hockey team wasn’t happy with him, either. After a “prank” had damaged his watch while he was swimming laps at the team facility, he’d come up with this alternative. Swim here first, then practice with the team.
The athletic club management committee had been welcoming, and the club manager almost too welcoming, but now that he was here, he realized something was going on. So after he’d showered and dressed, he stopped by the office of the club manager, “Call me Walter,” to check.
Mike knocked on the door frame.
He thought he saw a wary look on the manager that was replaced by a worried one once Walter recognized him.
“Come in, come in!”
Mike stayed in the doorway. The office wasn’t that big, and he didn’t plan to be there long. “Are you sure there’s no problem with my using the pool for laps in the morning?” he asked.
Walter paused for just a moment. “Of course not! We’re so pleased to have you here. And, of course, normally there’s nothing going on in the pool at that time.”
“There seems to be a class.”
“Oh, that’s just Bridget’s special project.” With a sudden suspicious glance, Walter asked, “Has she said something to you? Has she done anything?”
Mike wondered if Walter was afraid of the redhead, Bridget.
“No. Is she likely to?” he asked in amusement. Did Walter think she could hurt him somehow?
The other man sighed. “She has a temper, and she’s a little obsessive over that class.”
So it was this class, not all of her classes, Mike thought.
“What’s so special about that class?” he asked aloud.
Walter shook his head sadly. “Those kids aren’t members, and their parents certainly aren’t. They’re from the local school. As you can tell, the neighborhood around the club went downhill sometime after the club was established, and, well, the locals aren’t the kinds of people we’d accept as members. Bridget thought this class bringing in neighborhood kids would help with community relations. Not that we have problems, I assure you. Just a little graffiti, and honestly, these days, who doesn’t?” Walter smiled ingratiatingly. “If you have any problems with Bridget, any at all, just let me know.”
Mike had the strong impression that Walter was hoping he’d find some.
“Bridget is a swimming instructor?” he asked. She was obviously good. Maybe he could hire her for a couple of lessons. It was frustrating to have someone beat him that easily. He hated losing.
“No, not exactly. She’s the coach for our swim team.” Walter sighed, obviously not happy to have to sing her praises. “She was a competitive swimmer, and yes, there has been improvement with the team so far,”
Walter didn’t seem to hope or want that to continue, but he cleared his throat, adding, “She’s not really one of us. She came up with this crazy idea about building community relations by teaching local kids to swim and got some of the members all excited about it, but I’m just waiting for those kids to cause a problem. They don’t know how to behave in a place like this, and they’re not likely to become members in the future. They’re going to start thinking they’re entitled to use our resources, and it’s going to cause trouble down the line.”
Mike kept his expression neutral. “Not really one of us” meant not rich. Mike had grown up close to the poverty line, so he didn’t feel quite like “one of us,” even though he now had enough money to make him welcome almost anywhere. When he was young, he would have been one of “those kids.”
He felt warmer about this Bridget. If she’d swum competitively, well, that would explain how she was able to beat him. And he liked her motive for starting this class, whether or not it would work out.
He also understood a little better why she might not appreciate his swimming during her class time. The pool was plenty big, so they could coexist, but Walter was obviously opposed to the idea of the class and would be pleased to squeeze it out. This must look like a first step.
“Thank you, Walter. I just wanted to understand. Since I’m new here, I don’t know the protocol. Didn’t want to ruffle any feathers.”
Walter assured him that no feathers worth worrying about were being ruffled.
He smiled and tried not to dwell on the fact that Walter had a very punchable face.
Mike thought he’d like to make a gesture to indicate that he would support the class, and decided to think that over.
He had no idea that the gesture would result in his being kidnapped.
* * *
BRIDGET FOUND THE gesture in an envelope addressed to her a couple of days later. In the envelope were ten tickets to a preseason Blaze game. There was a printed note, apologizing for the intrusion into her class space, and indicating that these tickets were in appreciation. There was a scrawl at the bottom that was presumably a signature, but it was illegible.
Bridget understood it was from the lap swimmer, and even for a preseason game, these hockey tickets were hard to come by. She cynically thought that money could solve a lot of problems. The lap swimmer must have a lot of cash. He was probably some business type, of which the club had many.
She’d never been to the new arena built for the expansion team ten years ago, and had never seen a professional game live in her life, even though her whole family had been hockey fans from birth.
Canadians loved hockey, so the new team, the Toronto Blaze, had quickly gained fans and sold out the same as the sister team. Her brothers would be very envious. That was the good part.
Taking eight kids along would certainly limit how intently she could watch the game. Or maybe prevent her from watching it at all. Bridget had nephews and nieces so she knew what she was in for.
The club had a van to take the swim team to meets, and Bridget was able to book it for Saturday. Tad was happy to come along when there was an opportunity to see a hockey game.
As expected, the outing wasn’t a walk in the park. The kids weren’t really bad. Tony of course had to question everything Bridget told him, but eight kids were a handful. She and Tad finally corralled them in their seats. Then Bridget had to prevent Tony from finding a better view by climbing over the seats in front of him. Seats that were occupied.
Bridget would have gladly watched the play on the ice, even if it was mostly prospects playing, but the kids started to get bored. Popcorn and drinks helped distract them for a bit, and then the trips to the bathroom began.
During the break between the first and second periods, Bridget and Tad split the children up and took them around the arena. Bridget started to wonder if this had been worthwhile. It would be nice to have the chance to explore the arena but these kids didn’t want to look at hockey memorabilia; they wanted to run.
Then, at the end of the second period, someone appeared at the end of their row.
Bridget had taken the aisle seat so that no one—Tony—could get out without her knowledge. Because of that she was the first to realize he was there, and she recognized him at once. The man was tall, six-four according to the newspapers, and Bridget thought that looked right. He was wearing a suit, minus the jacket, and wasn’t bad looking, especially for a hockey player. He had all his own teeth and hair, for starters. His nose had a distinctive bend from a previous break, but he wore it well. His hair was dark, his eyes a light gray.
This was Mike Reimer, the expensive goalie Toronto had acquired in a trade last year from Quebec City. The goalie who’d won three Cups in Quebec and then bombed out in Toronto.
He was standing at the end of the row, holding a handful of team hats. For a moment Bridget stared, wondering why he was there. Had their benefactor set up a meeting with a member of the team? Or...but no...
Then Tony said, “It’s that rotten swimmer from the pool!” And Bridget closed her eyes, wanting to strangle Tony.
Now she understood the preferential treatment her lane swimmer had been given by the management committee at the club, and the tickets for her class. She felt stupid. Anyone but a blind swimmer would have realized...but she had to open her eyes and deal with this. As briefly as possible.
* * *
MIKE HAD NOT been enjoying the hockey game.
He was in the luxury box with the rest of the players who weren’t playing that afternoon, but no one from the team had been talking to him. He got it. He really did. He knew he’d let them down during the last playoffs, and he hadn’t been forgiven. He was naturally a reserved guy, and had spent his entire career with one team. Learning to make nice with new guys wasn’t his forte.
It didn’t help that Mike’s backup was a popular guy. When the team’s starting goalie had retired after an injury last year, many thought that Turchenko would get his chance. Turchenko thought so, too. He was a gregarious guy who spoke in fractured English, and his mangled phrases were often quoted. He was blond and blue-eyed and looked good in photos. He was also undisciplined and lazy, not making the most of his natural talent. Mike found him immature.
But Turchenko was playing today, and doing well. So Mike “overheard” a lot of comments about how good the kid was doing, and he had to bite his tongue. Nothing was going to change unless he, Mike, went out and played like a top goalie, and there were still a couple of games before he’d be back in net. So, he grabbed the hats he’d picked up for the kids and took them over to see how things were going.
The redheaded instructor was there, this time in jeans and a jersey (not his of course) looking a little frazzled. He felt some satisfaction from that. It still smarted that she’d beat him in swimming.
“Everyone having fun?” he asked.
Bridget turned to the row of kids and asked, “Having fun?”
The response was positive. Mike passed down the red-yellow-and-black hats, which each kid immediately put on. Good, Mike thought. He was making progress with someone.
Bridget turned to her charges. “What would you like to say to Mr. Reimer?” she asked.
A chorus of thank-yous came back, with something that sounded like “bad swimmer.” Mike thought that was a little unfair. He reserved his talents for frozen water.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Reimer,” Bridget added.
He blinked. Bridget turned back to the kids, dismissing him. This was a new low.
Before he could ask what her problem was, he heard a cough behind him.
“Mike Reimer? Could I take a picture?”
Mike turned. Part of being on the team was public relations, and he’d always honored that. So he signed what was put in front of him, smiled for pictures, ignored the comments made behind his back and left as the third period started without speaking further to the swimming class.
* * *
BRIDGET HADN’T PLANNED on kidnapping anyone. She’d dropped off the eight kids, with sticky faces, stories and hats, in front of their local school. Parents and caregivers were waiting, and Bridget thought, after reviewing the outing, that there wasn’t much in the stories that would worry any responsible adult.
Of course, with Tony, all bets were off.
She drove back to the club and dropped Tad at the front door. After parking the van, she’d taken the keys in and filled out the form that Wally the Weasel required. She made sure to note that there was no damage, since Wally seemed to expect these kids to act like wild animals. She’d stopped by her desk (a cubby off the pool room) to catch up her notes on the swim team, and then, finally, had been ready to head home.
She was still a little irritable, but she was free, and was looking forward to a relaxing evening. Now that the hockey preseason had begun, there were sure to be some of her brothers and friends at the house to watch a hockey game, and her mother would have prepared an incredible amount of food. Bridget rented the apartment in the basement of her parents’ place, so she decided she might as well join them. She sent a text to see who was around.
She slipped out the back door to get her car from the parking lot, and beside her fifteen-year-old Mazda was a man leaning on a car.
Not just any man, and not just any car.
* * *
MIKE SAW THE back door open, and then the red hair. He crossed his arms and waited. He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d come back to the athletic facility. He didn’t have friends here to make plans with on a Saturday night. He could have gone to a bar or club. He knew he’d have heard some insults, but a well-known athlete whose salary was published in the media could find companionship.
He’d grown tired of that scenario long ago, though. Puck-bunnies and sycophants weren’t what he wanted. He just wanted to hang with someone.
The redhead—Bridget—had been a little testy at the game, but he wasn’t sure if that was the kids, or him, or maybe she just didn’t like hockey. He decided he was going to find out.
He’d heard of love at first sight, but this was the first time he’d seen it happen, right in front of him. Bridget had come out, checking her phone, not even noticing him. Then when she’d looked up, she seemed annoyed. But as he’d waited, her expression softened, a small smile turned up the corners of her mouth and she moved forward as if drawn by an irresistible force.
Mike watched as she closed in on him...and then passed him...staring at his car. She brought one hand up, as if to touch it, then dropped it again.
She shook her head, and looked back at him. “A P1?”
Mike raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Yes.”
He watched as she completed her circuit of his car. Not everyone would recognize a McLaren, or know which one he had. He’d impressed people with this car, mostly when they realized what it cost, but he’d never been ignored for it. He didn’t like that. It was a nice car, even a beautiful one, but still it was just a car. Maybe he’d been spoiled. People noticed him. They might think he was slime crawling out from under a rock, or they might think he was a hockey god, but they didn’t ignore him.
With a sigh, she finally tore her gaze away, and saw him standing there, waiting.
“If I won a lottery...” she said dreamily. “Brian wants an Aston Martin, and Patrick a Ferrari, but this—she’s exactly what I’d choose.”
Mike didn’t know who Brian and Patrick were, and he didn’t much care. He’d decided this had been a mistake, so he’d ask about the kids and the game and get out of there. If he wanted his ego stepped on further, he could just walk down Yonge Street.
“So, the kids all got home safely?” he asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she answered tersely.
What was her problem?
“I hope everyone enjoyed it,” he persisted.
“I think the kids enjoyed the hats and the popcorn more than the game. There weren’t that many players they knew.” She paused for just a moment. “Turchenko seemed to be doing well.”
Mike was tired of hearing how well Turchenko was doing. The guy had played well for the half of the game he’d been in. He also hadn’t been challenged that much. Mike knew, though, that a lot of people, including most of his teammates and the fans in Toronto, hoped he’d win the starting job and leave Mike to warm the bench.
He was determined that wasn’t going to happen. So his response was not very diplomatic.
“Of course, everyone likes Turchenko. He’s blond and blue-eyed and flirts with—”
“Right, because I care only about the way he looks. I couldn’t possibly understand hockey with my poor female brain,” Bridget spit out.
Mike hadn’t meant that. He’d been raised by a strong woman who’d used her brains and hard work to deal with being pregnant and stranded at sixteen. He’d been going to say that Turchenko flirted with the press, not women, but Bridget had reacted like an angry cat. Her eyes were flashing, her freckles almost obscured by her heated cheeks, and he could swear her very hair was vibrating with anger. It was fascinating.
Walter had said she had a temper, and Mike was obviously getting a look at it. He was tired and irritated, and glad he wasn’t the only one out of sorts. Instead of answering diplomatically, he decided to poke the bear.
“A lot of people think they understand hockey, but it’s different when you’re actually playing it.”
Yep, Mike thought. Her hair is vibrating.
“Okay, come with me,” she snarled. She stomped over to the Mazda. She unlocked the door and looked back. “Get in, hot shot.”
“In that?” Mike responded, looking from his pride and joy to the car Bridget was halfway into.
“Afraid of a girl?”
The bear was well and fully poked. Those eyes were almost lasering through him. With a shrug, he swung himself around the car and opened the passenger door. He’d barely folded himself in when a blast of rap music assailed his ears and Bridget tore out of the parking lot.
Mike propped his hand against the roof of the little car to keep from falling on Bridget as she down shifted for the turn. He should have known that anyone who fell for his car the way she had would drive a stick. And skillfully, too, though she was going a little too fast for safety.
“Okay, now that you’ve got me, where are we going?” he yelled over the music.
“To play hockey!”
Mike wedged himself against the door. He didn’t know what she had in mind, but this was more fun than he’d had in a while.
