Читать книгу Crossing The Goal Line - Kim Findlay - Страница 11
ОглавлениеSHE OBVIOUSLY KNEW the way well, and as she took another side street, he realized he was lost. But they finally pulled up in front of a brick two-story on a dead-end street. Bridget pulled out the keys, and Mike welcomed the sudden silence as the “music” stopped in mid-phrase. She slammed out of the car and stalked up the driveway before unlocking the garage door and sliding it open.
Inside was hockey gear. A moment passed. Then he realized that when she said they were going to play hockey, she hadn’t meant on a screen or table. She wanted to play road hockey. He almost laughed. Sure, she was a good swimmer, but did she really think she could take on a professional hockey player?
Apparently, she did. She was dragging a net down the driveway. Mike opened the door and got out of the car. As she set up the net on the street, he noticed that the block was perfect for playing road ball. Originally, the plan must have been for the street to extend further; the pavement stretched out another fifty feet then dead-ended at a chain-link fence and an abandoned parking lot. There were pink and blue lines marked in chalk. This was a well-used space for road hockey. He’d have loved access to something like this when he was growing up.
“Go get some gear on,” she ordered.
“Seriously?”
“Chicken?” she asked.
Mike laughed. He felt like a seven-year-old being dared.
“So what position am I supposed to play?”
“I thought you were a goalie,” she taunted.
Challenge accepted, Mike thought. He wasn’t sure what she thought she was trying to prove, but he could handle a girl in road ball, even if his game had been off lately. He’d better be able to...
He followed her back to the garage where there was an impressive amount of gear for both road and ice hockey. She pointed to a pile of goalie equipment, and he picked through for the largest pads he could find, then tested a couple of sticks before settling on one. She tossed him a helmet, and he put it on. It wasn’t anything like his own, but if she managed to fire a ball at his face, he was sure there’d be a lot of force behind it.
Bridget was holding a couple of tennis balls and what was obviously her own helmet and stick. Both showed signs of wear. Mike wasn’t surprised. While he was confident he was better than she was, she was obviously athletic, practiced at road hockey and highly motivated. So was he.
“So what are the rules?” he asked once they were back on the road. He knocked the sidebars of the net with the stick to check its size and stability. Then he tapped the stick on the road a couple of times and turned to see what she was planning. He could see her focus through the thick glasses.
“I’m going to score. You’re going to try to stop me. Play to five?”
“We’ll need to stop before that. You’re not going to score.”
Eyes blazing, she started.
* * *
SHE WAS GOOD. He had to give her that. Much better than he’d expected. She occasionally whiffed completely, but she was fast, smart and very determined. She could place the ball exactly where she wanted, and with a lot of force.
Mike, however, was better than good. He was one of the best. He’d grown up playing road hockey and it wasn’t a difficult transition from the ice back to the pavement. He had lightning-fast reflexes and could read a player’s intentions from their body language and expression. He was soon in his zone, watching her every move and glance. She didn’t score. She did come close, tested him pretty well, but he was just as determined as she was, and this time, it was his element, not hers.
After fifteen furious minutes, Bridget called time. Pulling up her face guard, she looked at Mike. He stood up to his full height, shoving up his face guard as well.
“I guess I owe you an apology,” Bridget said after a pause, her previous anger clearly dissipated.
Mike looked down at her. “It’s okay. I admit to provoking you. And this was actually a lot of fun. You’re not bad—for a girl.” He grinned at her.
“You’re not bad, either—for a...for a guy from Quebec,” she countered. “But I should probably get you back now—”
A car had pulled up on the street behind hers. She turned, and stiffened. A man got out of the car. He was older than Mike and had flaming red hair that matched Bridget’s. Not old enough to be her father—a brother? Uncle? Another car followed, and two more guys got out, neither with the red hair.
“Hold on, Bridge! We’ll join you in a minute,” said the red-haired man.
He jogged up to the house and went in the front door. The two non-redheads were pulling gear out of their trunk. Bridget sighed and turned to Mike.
“Sorry, that’s my brother Patrick.”
“I’d guessed that.”
“And two of Cormack’s friends.” She gestured toward the other men who had now opened the garage and were grabbing another net.
“Cormack must have told them we were playing. They think they’re joining us. If you want to get in the car, I’ll throw this stuff in the garage and we can get you out of here.”
The sound of the front door closing interrupted her. “Three on three?” Patrick hollered. “Who’s your guy, anyway?”
“Put your mask back down. I’ll tell them we’re done and get rid of them.”
Mike thought for a moment. He had no place to go except his hotel, and he’d seen more than enough of that. Maybe it would be fun.
“Or we could play. Think we can take them?” he offered.
Bridget whipped back to face him, eyes sparkling. “Really? You have no idea how much I would like to take them down a notch, or ten.”
Mike had to smile at the way her face lit up. “Sure. I’m having fun. Are you going to tell them who I am?”
“Are you nuts?” she asked and waved at his mask.
Mike put the face guard back down. He had no idea where this was going, but it was certainly more interesting than watching hockey on TV alone at the hotel. Playing on the road, no stakes beyond pride: this was what it was like growing up, when he always played goalie because he was the smallest. He wasn’t the smallest anymore. He thought he had at least four inches on any of the others, but that flash of joy he’d felt back then was here.
* * *
CORMACK, ANOTHER REDHEAD, came out the front door dressed up in goalie pads while his two buddies set up the second net. Mike wondered what the family was like when all the redheads’ tempers flared.
Bridget crossed her arms as the four men came down the driveway. “You know, we were just having a bit of fun here. I don’t think Mike wants to play anymore.”
Mike stood, arms resting on his goalie stick, waiting to see what was coming next. Had she changed her mind?
“Ah, come on, Bridgie. I’m sure Mike won’t mind a few more minutes. Just a bit of fun,” said the older redhead, Patrick.
Patrick smiled at Mike. It was a charming smile, meant to sell: either Patrick himself or whatever goods he had on hand. Mike had seen smiles like that, and it put him on his guard. Behind the smile, the eyes were assessing. Assessing him as a player, or as someone spending time with his sister?
Mike shrugged, leaving Bridget to take the initiative.
“I’m kind of tired,” she said.
“I thought you were at the game today?” Cormack asked, a note of resentment in his voice.
“I was at the game with eight kids,” Bridget corrected him. “That’s not exactly a day at the spa. And no, before you ask, I didn’t get much chance to watch the new guys.”
“Well, Bridgie—” Patrick began.
“Don’t call me Bridgie,” she interrupted.
“We could make it interesting.”
“Interesting how?” she asked, head tilted oh, so, casually. Mike thought he’d be wary if he were Patrick. Surely he knew his sister by now.
“A little wager. I’ve got some leaves that need raking.”
Bridget considered. “My car could use a cleaning.”
“First to five?”
“Or whoever is ahead after half an hour. Are you okay with that, Mike?” she asked, turning to look at him.
Mike nodded.
“So who’s playing with Mike and me?”
One of Cormack’s friends, Bernie, was chosen.
Patrick stopped near Mike and asked casually, “So where did you two meet?”
Mike looked at Cormack and saw that he was waiting for that answer as well. Bernie also seemed pretty interested. So, the assessment was from a brother, not a player.
“He’s the guy who got the tickets for the game today,” Bridget answered.
She was either unaware of the proprietary attitude of her brothers or so used to it that she didn’t react. Mike was a little surprised. He’d expected her to get upset about that, and he wanted to see her hair vibrate again.
“Oh, you’re the lane swimmer. Bridget yell at you about that yet?”
Apparently Bridget hadn’t known who he was then, so neither did these men. That would explain the odd expression on her face when he’d shown up at the game. He filed that away for future consideration.
“It turns out it isn’t Mike’s fault. It’s Wally the Weasel,” Bridget answered.
Mike bit his lip. The name was perfect. Maybe that was Wally’s problem with Bridget: he’d heard that nickname.
“Are we playing or talking?” Cormack asked.
Mike wasn’t sure how this would go. He didn’t doubt that he was going to be better than Cormack, but Patrick was a big guy, and Bridget was a woman, and his sister. Then there was Bernie on their team, and his improbably named friend Bert: two unknowns. Mike was competitive, and he assessed the men’s potential as players. Would the guys be chivalrous with Bridget, or did the redheads all have that same need to win?
Patrick, it turned out, was competitive but fair. He had size and speed, and he didn’t have the whiffing issue his sister did. But he didn’t have that same drive Mike had, and again, Mike was better. Bert and Bernie were competent at most. Cormack was willing to cut corners, but gave his sister no slack. Bridget didn’t back down from anything, which was what he’d come to expect from her. She took and gave hits, and talked as much smack as the guys.
And Mike was finding the sheer enjoyment of playing this game, whether on ice with his team or on a street with a woman he barely knew, was still the best feeling he’d known.
The game was called when another car arrived and pulled into the driveway. Bridget and Mike (and Bernie) were up three to zip. An older man stepped out of the car, red hair threaded with gray. Obviously the father. He paused for a minute, then headed to the street. Mike wondered how many redheads were going to end up playing. Then an older woman, red hair making it obvious she was the matriarch of the clan, leaned out the door.
“Dinner’s ready! And no, we’re not waiting on the end of your game.”
“Okay, Mom! We’ll just clean up,” Patrick answered.
Mom apparently had clout. The others started gathering balls and the nets. Mike stood up from his defensive stance, not sure what to do now. It was time for him to leave, but he had no vehicle. He’d been kidnapped, so was Bridget planning to take him back? Should he call a cab?
The others were talking about the game. Bridget was stressing how very clean she needed her car to be, since she’d won the bet, thanks to Mike. Mike moved slowly to remove his pads, waiting for Bridget to remember him...
“Nice game, Mike. You’ve got some good moves there. Do you play much?” asked Patrick.
“Stop it, Patrick,” said Bridget.
Mike looked from Patrick to Bridget.
“I just said...” Patrick had that selling smile going again.
“I know, but you’re not going to recruit Mike for your beer league team.”
“Bridgie, it’s not up to you. If he wants to play, he could. He’s pretty good.”
Mike was glad someone was finally happy with his performance. But he guessed from Cormack’s frown that the other man didn’t like being shown up. He wasn’t sure if knowing who had outplayed him would make it better or worse.
Cormack grumbled. “Maybe the Blaze should recruit him. He’s as good as that overpriced—”
“Shut up, Cormack,” Bridget interrupted.
“Oh, I know, you don’t like Turchenko—”
Mike decided it was time to show himself. He pulled off his helmet and grabbed the net with one hand, ready to do his share and return it to the garage.
“—but you’re just prejudiced. Turchenko played really well today...” Cormack trailed off. He’d seen the others staring, and turned, recognizing Mike at last.
Bridget looked from her brothers to Mike. She grinned at Patrick. “I don’t think he’s going to play on your team, Patty, he’s already booked.”
Mike braced himself. Cormack was obviously a Turchenko fan, and Mike had heard from a lot of them. The whole family, apart from Bridget, might feel the same. They were obviously hockey mad, and Mike hadn’t been hearing anything good from Toronto fans.
There was a pause, and then Cormack muttered, “Sorry.” Throwing a stink eye at Bridget, he continued, “Didn’t know who you were.”
Mike tossed the net onto his shoulder. “Don’t sweat it. I’ve heard a lot worse. And not always to my face.”
* * *
PATRICK RECOVERED WELL. He grinned and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mike Reimer. I’m Patrick O’Reilly. But what happened in those playoffs last year? You cost me my hockey pool! And now I’ve got to clean Bridge’s car.”
Mike shook his hand, and the awkward moment passed. As the rest of the guys dragged the hockey gear up the driveway, Mike turned to Bridget. “Why don’t I just call a cab?” he said.
She shook her head. “No, the least I can do is take you back.”
“But if your family is having dinner now...”
“Hey, Mike,” Patrick interrupted. “Come meet my dad. He won’t believe who Bridget had playing road hockey with her.”
Mike looked at Bridget, who shrugged. Patrick grabbed Mike’s shoulder and swept him toward the senior redhead.
After that it was an impossibility for Mike to avoid dinner. Bridget tried to give him an opt out, but once he admitted that he had no plans, Bridget’s mom starting setting him a place at the table. Mike had to admit that he didn’t fight very hard. It had been a while since he’d had a home-cooked meal, and Bridget’s family reminded him of the neighbors he’d grown up with. He hadn’t seen them lately. And again, there was that empty hotel room.
He found one big difference from the childhood dinners he’d known with his old neighbors, the Sawatzkys. Mrs. O’Reilly was devoted to her family, and having a large one made that a time-consuming job. She was a calm and placid center to this lively group. However, she had certain rules, and one of those rules was to not talk hockey at the table.
The boys tried, but a look from their mother (honorary mother, in Bernie and Bert’s case) stopped them in their tracks.
Bridget, who was beside Mike, explained, “Only topics of general interest at the table.”
Mike looked at the people gathered around in the large dining room. Since Bridget’s dad had grilled him on the last playoffs as soon as they were introduced, he had to assume Bridget’s mother was the only non-hockey fan sitting there. He decided he liked this family rule. He was sick of talking about his poor performance in the last playoffs anyway.
“So, Mr. Reimer,” said Mrs. O’Reilly, passing around the first bowl.
“Mike, please,” he said, with a smile.
She nodded her head. “Mike, then. Where did you meet Bridget?”
“In the pool at the athletic club. I unwittingly took up some of the pool when she has her morning class.”
Mrs. O’Reilly smiled. “So you’re the one who provided the hockey tickets for the class. That was very nice of you. I’m sure the kids had a lovely time.”
“I hope so,” Mike said, noticing that Bridget was biting her lip.
“Are you new to Toronto?” Mrs. O’Reilly continued.
Mike could see Cormack across the table rolling his eyes. Mrs. O’Reilly was definitely not a hockey fan.
“Relatively new. I arrived here late last winter, but was away most of the summer. I’ve been back here only a couple of weeks.” Mike knew this wasn’t news to the rest of the people around the table.
Mrs. Reilly looked at him with concern. “That must be hard on your family.”
“No family here, ma’am.” Mike wondered if Mrs. O’Reilly was also assessing him as someone who wanted to spend time with her daughter. Bridget seemed to be well protected.
Meanwhile, her mother looked at him with concern. “Your parents?”
“My mother’s in Arizona. No siblings. My father isn’t in the picture.” Mike braced himself. This was a part of his past he didn’t like to delve into.
“Mom,” Bridget interrupted. “Mike plays for the Toronto Blaze. He’s a professional hockey player. He’s taken care of.”
“Well, I know as a hockey player they’re probably taking good care of you, but a friend of Bridget’s is always welcome. Or Cormack’s,” she added, smiling at Bernie and Bert.
* * *
BRIDGET DECIDED IT was time to divert the conversation before Mike thought the family was grilling him as a potential date.
“I saw Mike’s car at the club. Guess what he drives?” she threw out.
That immediately caught the attention of everyone but her mother.
“Ferrari!”
“Lambo!”
“Hummer!”
Bridget turned to Mike, letting him give the news.
He shrugged. “It’s a McLaren.”
He wasn’t surprised to find that the family knew what this meant. Bridget hadn’t picked up her car knowledge in a void, and he soon learned that her father was a mechanic, Cormack worked for him, Patrick sold cars and Bernie and Bert shared in this family passion, too.
“What year?” Patrick asked.
“What’s the top speed?” Cormack wanted to know.
Bernie asked the color. Mike enjoyed talking about his car, and was happy to answer questions.
“Did you drive it?” Bernie asked Bridget.
There was a pause. Mike shuddered at the thought of his dream car being driven by the woman who’d whipped him over here as if driving for NASCAR.
“I’m the only one who drives it.” Mike explained, noticing Bridget eying him speculatively. He was relieved when the conversation moved on.
After an excellent meal of shepherd’s pie and homemade chocolate cake, everyone gathered their plates and took them into the kitchen. Mike went to follow, but Bridget grabbed his plate.
“I’ve got it. I have to help Mom clean up, then I can give you a lift back. You okay for a few minutes?”
“No problem. Are you sure I can’t help?”
“No, Mom would never allow it. I’ll be as quick as I can.” So Mike followed the other men into the family room.
* * *
IT DROVE BRIDGET nuts that her mother wouldn’t let the guys clean up, but she knew from years of arguing that her mother wasn’t going to change. Her mother had conventional ideas about the household division of labor. Bridget wasn’t home for meals that often anymore, but when she was, she always wound up in the kitchen. Bridget had to defer to her mother, but let Cormack try to make her do his housework and he’d be walking funny for a while. Her mother looked around the spotless kitchen. “Well, that should do it,” she said. “Why don’t you see if they need anything?”
Bridget sighed.
“’Cause they’re already full of food, and if they want anything else, they can get it, Mom. They’re more than capable of taking care of themselves.”
“Mike might be too polite to ask for something. He did seem a nice young man.”
“Okay, I’ll ask him, but I was about to drive him back. And we’re not dating, Mom. I don’t think he’ll be around again.” She couldn’t imagine this becoming a regular thing. Mike moved in much different circles: probably lots of dinners and benefits and gorgeous women to take to fancy events when he wasn’t playing hockey and traveling. She’d lived in Toronto her whole life and had spotted a hockey player only once or twice. They would merely be crossing paths in the pool from here on out.
* * *
IN THE FAMILY ROOM, she found the men watching a hockey game on TV. The Winnipeg Whiteouts were playing Minnesota. At least it wasn’t Quebec. That was Mike’s former team, the one he’d played so poorly against in the playoffs after being traded here to Toronto, and she was sure he didn’t really want to discuss it. She could see that they’d passed around some beers. Mike’s looked mostly untouched. He was also more absorbed in the game than the others, responding only to direct questions—which sometimes had to be repeated.
She perched on the arm of her father’s recliner.
“I don’t think he’s really with us, do you?” she whispered, indicating Mike.
Her dad nodded. “I can understand why he’s one of the ones who made it. He’s focused. Your brothers were never that serious about it.”
“Yeah, he was like that playing road ball, even. I thought I’d be able to get at least one past him, but...”
“He takes it seriously. So, where’d you find him again?” her father asked.
“He was the lane swimmer I told you about.”
Her dad looked at her. “That doesn’t explain how he ended up playing road ball with you.”
Bridget looked a little sheepish. “Well, he stopped by the club after the game and, uh—”
“And...what?”
“All right, I lost my temper. He said something about me not knowing how to play hockey, and I was already irritated by the kids, and...” Bridget trailed off.
Her dad smiled. “I get it. Someday you’re going to get in trouble with that temper. It’s your mother’s fault—her red hair, you know.” He winked.
Bridget leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I know, ’cause you never get mad,” she teased.
* * *
BRIDGET FOUND HERSELF a seat and waited to get Mike’s attention. She thought he’d be eager to leave, but he ended up staying for the entire game. Her brothers, Bert, and Bernie, all wanted to talk hockey with him during the first intermission. She’d caught his gaze, raised her brows and nodded to the door, but Cormack had asked a question, then Bert, then her dad. Mike had shrugged, so...she’d planned to watch the game anyway, so she sat back and enjoyed the evening.
It wasn’t easy to drag Mike away from the postgame family room analysis. Cormack wanted to continue discussing the move the Whiteouts’ goalie had made that almost led to a goal.
“You gotta be aggressive. Get out there and challenge the skater,” Cormack said, for about the fifth time. Bridget knew from playing with the boys that Cormack liked that move a lot.
Mike shrugged. It was obvious he didn’t agree, and that Cormack was hoping to grind him down.
Her dad interjected. “Son, you’ve got a man here who’s won three Cups. I think you should listen to him.”
Bridget could see Cormack badly wanted to bring up how Mike had played last spring, but a look from their father kept his mouth closed...for now. He’d probably grumble about it for the next week.
Bridget led the way to the door. Patrick shook Mike’s hand for a second time.
“If you ever get the urge to play road ball again, stop by. We have a game going most weekends.”
Mike thanked him, and followed Bridget out to the street without making any further commitments to the O’Reillys. She had to admire his public relations game. That was something she was lacking herself, and needed to work on.
Once in the car, she’d been quick to turn the volume down on the music. She drove more calmly through the darkness, temper gone.
Bridget broke the silence. “I just wanted to apologize again for, let’s see, kidnapping you, making you play road ball, inflicting my family on you and taking over your evening.”
Mike laughed, a warm sound in the dark. “I had fun, believe it or not. I had no plans for the evening, and you have a nice family.”
Bridget shifted gears. “That’s right, you said no siblings.”
“True,” he answered sounding puzzled.
“Only children always love my family. My best friend was an only child. She loved to hang at our place. She ended up marrying my brother.”
“Patrick?” Mike hazarded.
“Seriously? No, he’s way too old for her. He’s my oldest brother. He’s married to Nancy and already has three kids.”
“Cormack, then?” he asked, surprised.
“No, Brian. He is the best of my brothers, so—”
“Brian? You have three brothers? All older?”
Bridget laughed. “No, I have five brothers, all older.”
Mike was silent.
“Yes, tonight could have been so much worse,” Bridget continued. “When we’re all together, we’re our own hockey team.”
Mike leaned back. “I was an only child, but I hung out with the Sawatzkys upstairs from us. They had four boys. As an only kid of a single mom, it used to be nice to feel like part of that big family.”
Bridget didn’t respond. As the youngest of six, she’d loved visiting her only-child friends in their nice, quiet houses, where they had their own things and didn’t have to fight for them. The grass is always greener, she thought.
They pulled in to the club. She rolled down her window and waved her pass to open the gate.
* * *
BRIDGET PULLED THE car to a stop beside Mike’s McLaren. He noticed her eyes linger on it for a moment. He hoped she wouldn’t ask to drive it since he didn’t want to upset her, now that they were getting along. And he was curious about something.
She turned, ready to say polite farewells, when he spoke. “May I ask you a serious question?”
She cocked an eyebrow as she turned off the ignition.
The car was immediately thrown into darkness. Mike could barely make out her pale skin, but he could tell she was still looking at him.
“You were...not a professional swimmer, but as close as that gets, right?”
He could tell she nodded in the darkness before she said, “You could put it that way, yes.”
“What made you decide to move to coaching?”
“I wasn’t fast enough.” Her answer came immediately, either a familiar response or so obvious she didn’t need to think.
He paused, considering the sentence, then asked, “That was it?”
“There’s so much that training and conditioning and sheer will can do. But I wasn’t getting PRs anymore.”
“PRs?” Mike echoed.
“Personal records. When you go faster than you’ve gone before. Even when I stretched myself, it wasn’t making that fractional difference that would separate between first and fourth place. I competed to win. When that wasn’t happening, I was frustrated and couldn’t enjoy myself anymore. New swimmers were coming up, and they were starting to pass me. I wasn’t helping the swim team, and I wasn’t winning, so I retired.”
The R word, Mike thought.
“So, why coaching? You didn’t want to leave the sport?”
She considered before saying, “It wasn’t so much that I realized I wasn’t fast enough and therefore decided coaching was the next best thing. I’d been a swimming instructor when I was in high school, and took all the jock courses at college. As I became one of the older team members, I found myself helping the coach out. When I announced that I was retiring, he asked if I’d stay on as his assistant. Then, when this opening came up at the club, it seemed like a good opportunity to become a head coach. It was less of a career plan than a natural evolution.”
“You like it? You don’t miss competing?”
Bridget laughed. “Oh, I still compete. With you the other day in the pool, and then this afternoon. With my brothers, over almost anything. With a guy at the stoplight who thinks his little souped-up toy with a spoiler can beat me from the line. I compete.” More seriously, she continued, “I do still miss racing, but less than I used to. I’m starting to feel that when my kids win, I win. And that’s pretty good.”
The dark encouraged confidences. There was a moment of silence, then Bridget blurted, “Are you thinking of retiring?”
Mike was. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone but his college coach. After the disastrous playoffs, he had vanished as soon as possible and gone to see his former coach. They’d had a relationship that was closer to father and son, and Mike trusted him more than anyone else, outside of his mother. That was the only time he’d mentioned the R word.
Mike wasn’t ready to retire. Hockey was his life. He had no plans for what would happen after hockey. He’d just turned thirty and he should have years yet to play. But something had changed with the way he’d played, and he didn’t know if that meant the end of his career. He wasn’t ready to share that, though, especially with an almost complete stranger.
“I’m sorry,” Bridget said, breaking the silence. “That’s none of my business. I tend to speak first and think later.”
Mike smiled to himself. He’d learned that already. But he had been asking her some personal questions, and after playing hockey with her, and spending time with her and her family, he thought he knew a bit about her. She wasn’t a braggart; he’d learned about her swimming only from Wally the Weasel (that name was very catchy) and her father. And she understood competing.
So instead of freezing her out, he said, “No, don’t apologize. I may not have a choice about retiring, depending on how I play this year. I wondered how I’d know when it’s time.”
“What worked for me isn’t necessarily what will happen for you,” Bridget responded. “I was never a top-level swimmer. At international meets, I’d sometimes have a PR, but I could never beat the Americans and Aussies. But you, you’re a top goalie. Even if you slow down a bit, you’re going to be better than most of the others out there. And you have a tough job with a limited time span. You have only a few years to make your big money.”
Yes, that was true, but he had enough money now. More would be good: growing up poor meant he wanted as much financial security as he could get, but he wasn’t hurting anymore. At least, not for money.
“I think those are the kindest words I’ve heard from a Toronto fan since I’ve been here,” he responded.
“I don’t think Toronto fans are known for being kind. Crazy, yes, masochistic, sure, but not really kind. And they’re tough on goalies. You’re replacing a popular guy, and Turchenko has a lot of fans here, so they’re going to be rough on you.”
“You’re not a Turchenko fan?” Mike asked, remembering her brother’s comment.
“I think he’s got a lot of skill, but he’s not working hard enough. He makes spectacular saves, so you know he can do it, but he shouldn’t have to. He pulls a lot of boneheaded moves.”
Mike smiled again. This woman was obviously smart, and he agreed with her about Turchenko. But he’d revealed enough.
“I should let you go. You work in the morning?”
“Don’t worry about the time. It’s my own fault for abducting you like that. I do appreciate your being such a good sport about it.”
Mike unfolded himself from the car. “Honestly, I enjoyed myself. I like your family and—” he paused and leaned in “—you couldn’t score on me.”
With a grin, he slammed the door shut on her sputtering.
* * *
BRIDGET DIDN’T SEE Mike the next morning. She reprimanded herself for noticing. He was a big-time professional athlete. He had been very nice last night, but he was from a different world. He wasn’t interested in her, and she wasn’t looking for a guy now anyway. Coaching may not have been her first career choice, but now that she was doing it, she had serious plans.
She had a good workout and then headed home to get ready to spend some time with Jee. They’d been best friends growing up, and they still shared almost everything. Bridget couldn’t really be her friend’s confidant on marital issues since Jee had married her brother Brian—even if Brian was her favorite brother. Bridget didn’t think Jee had issues with her in-laws, but then, she’d known what she was getting into. Jee had spent most of her free time at Bridget’s.
Everyone in the family knew that Jee and Brian had been trying to start a family for more than a year now. But Bridget knew the details that the others didn’t. She felt for her friend’s troubles, but all she could do was provide a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen.
Bridget could tell when they met that Jee had had bad news again, so they went on a shopping spree. Bridget shopped only in athletic stores or online, but she was happy to keep Jee company and to compliment her choices. Jee would roll her eyes at some of her comments, but by the time they were done, Jee was looking a little more cheerful.
They stopped at a neighborhood restaurant to have dinner. Jee wanted to hear about Mike. The family news network had been working with its usual speediness.
“There’s not much to tell. I bet you heard everything that happened and some that didn’t.”
“What’s he like? He’s good-looking, right?” Jee asked, perking up a little.
Bridget focused on the first question. “He was nice enough not to raise a stink about me kidnapping him.”
“Kidnapping? Nancy didn’t mention anything about that.” Jee sounded shocked.
“Patrick couldn’t tell her what he didn’t know. I didn’t share that with the family. You know he was the lane swimmer, right?”
Jee nodded. Bridget had complained to her about the lane swimmer. She recapped the events of the day for her friend but didn’t mention the conversation in the car. She didn’t think Mike wanted public speculation about his possible retirement. In Toronto, that would cause an uproar. Maybe she’d read too much into it anyway.
“So is he cute in person?” Jee asked.
Bridget thought. “Not really cute. He’s big—taller than any of the boys, and he’s fit, obviously. He’s got a bend in his nose, but otherwise he’s pretty undamaged for a hockey player.” Bridget thought about the gray eyes, smiling at her, daring her to try to score on him. He had a nice voice, too, and well, he wasn’t ugly.
“No,” she continued. “Cute is not the right word, but he’s okay-looking.”
“You mean he’s no Connor Treadwell,” Jee said, an edge to her voice.
Bridget blushed. Jee was the only member of her family who knew all about the crush she’d had on Connor Treadwell. Connor was a champion American swimmer. He was retired now, but Bridget had run into him at meets over her career, and since he was now coaching, she’d met him at competitions and conferences, too. He had blond hair, bright blue eyes and an incredible body that a swimsuit exposed to admiration. Bridget had gone out with him a couple of times, but they hadn’t parted on good terms. Jee thought he was a jerk, but Bridget knew she was partly to blame herself.
“You should be happy about that,” Bridget responded. “But except for running into him at the club, I doubt I’ll have anything to do with Mike Reimer again.”
