Читать книгу Game On - Nancy Warren - Страница 9

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WHEN SHE ARRIVED home at the end of a long day, Serena was so tired she wanted to throw a frozen dinner into the microwave, pour herself a huge glass of wine and flop on the couch.

But her blog waited.

She could hear her inner saboteur muttering, I don’t want to blog tonight. I’m too tired.

Negative thinking, she reminded herself. Negative thinking got you exactly nowhere. Her success was the product of hard work as well as talent and she never let herself forget it. She was a big believer in the saying that success was 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration.

She updated her blog every Monday. In a perfect world she’d update more often, but she tried to use her time as wisely as possible and once a week was a reasonable compromise.

As was a glass of wine, she decided.

She unzipped her boots, put her clothes neatly away and dragged on her oldest, most comfortable pair of jeans and a favorite pink sweater.

Then she poured herself that glass of wine. Instead of the microwave dinner, she took the extra few minutes to put brown rice in the steamer and a chicken breast in the oven and throw together a salad.

She sipped her wine while dinner was cooking and settled herself in front of the computer. In forty minutes she’d have the blog post written and dinner would be ready. She could do this.

She pulled up her website. The woman staring back at her from her home page seemed to have all the answers, all the confidence in the world. She’d paid a professional photographer a lot of money to get that message of confidence across.

To hide the truth that deep inside she was desperately afraid that one day she’d be found out as the fraud she was. That she wasn’t calm and confident. Inside she was the scared little girl who was hungry more often than not. Who collected cans and bottles off the side of the road in order to— Stop it, she ordered herself. She wasn’t that helpless little girl anymore and she’d worked hard to become the woman she now was.

What would she even write about?

“Negative Thinking.” The words were typed before she even realized she already had her topic for the week.

An image of the undeniably gorgeous, rough, tough hockey-playing detective—who was probably as much of a mess inside as she was—rose before her.

One thing you learned when you lived with secrets was that everyone had them.

What were Adam’s secret insecurities? The ones that were keeping him from playing hockey to his full potential? He probably didn’t even know. Neither, at this point, did she.

But they’d find them. He’d be a fun case, she decided. Once she got through his barrier of pride and toughness. There was a guy who didn’t let people in easily.

She knew the type well. She was exactly like him.

He was also her weakness. There was a moment when the screen wavered in front of her eyes and she saw not a blank page but a very sexy image of a tall, rugged, ruthless man who took what he wanted without waiting for permission. She shivered, then shook off the ridiculous fantasy. Adam Shawnigan was a client, not a potential lover. She did not, she reminded herself, have time for a lover.

“Negative Thinking.” The cursor blinked, inviting her to continue.

I know more people who have been brought down by negative thinking than by any other cause. How do you fight an enemy when the enemy is you?

Once she’d begun, the words poured out of her. Before she realized it, she’d written a longer blog post than usual. Her glass of wine was empty, the chicken was cooked and the rice was quietly staying warm for her.

She served herself dinner on the kind of china that she’d seen on TV shows when she was a child. The soap operas her mom loved to watch and her personal favorite, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Watching that show, she’d first begun to realize a person born poor could have a different life. Even now she recognized that a lot of her work was about helping clients live a different life, creating the future they dreamed of.

Sure, she could eat off everyday plates, except that she didn’t own any. When Serena Long ate dinner, she did so on fine china that she’d worked hard to afford. She drank out of crystal glasses and her cutlery was sterling.

While she ate, she checked the email account associated with her blog.

Often she gained new clients or opportunities to speak through her website and blog. Her assistant monitored the emails regularly and passed on anything that needed answering, but Serena also checked in herself now and again.

She pulled up the current emails. There were three. Considering she hadn’t given a speech recently or been mentioned in the media, three was pretty respectable.

The first was a thank-you from someone who had heard her speak and been inspired to face their fear of the water and enroll in beginner’s swimming lessons. Serena experienced the familiar feeling of pleasure when she realized she’d helped someone. A complete stranger she’d never meet but whose life she’d improved, even if only a little bit.

With a smile, she sent a quick message that basically said, “Congratulations! Keep up the good work.”

Then she clicked open the next message.

Hi gorgeous, the message began. I bet you could improve my performance. Want to try? Call me. With a hiss of annoyance, she deleted the message. The amazing thing about the perverts she heard from was how unimaginative they were. Couldn’t they at least put a little effort into their crude attempts to shock her or connect with her or whatever they were trying to do?

* * *

“I DID NOT go behind your back,” Max stated, putting down the heavy chair with a thunk. Adam had called both his supposed buddies to help him move the furniture out of his living room so he could refinish the floors. In truth, he hadn’t planned to sand the floors for a couple of months, but he had a mad-on and experience told him that physical exertion mixed with concentration was the best combination for getting rid of the mad.

Besides, making his sandbox pals come move furniture gave him an opportunity to berate them at the same time as he got free labor out of them.

“You hired a performance coach without telling me.”

“Technically, I didn’t hire her. She’s working for free. And I told you I was going to do it.”

“You didn’t tell me she was coming to hockey practice this morning.” He scowled at the memory of how she’d blindsided him with her cool sexiness and that uncomfortable resemblance to Madame D. His skin prickled with the attraction he was determined to ignore. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Most people would be pretty happy to have a professional performance coach helping them improve their game.”

He felt twitchy and irritable. Unlike himself. Usually if he had a problem, he understood its cause and dealt with the issue, but he’d never been in a position like this before, where he couldn’t control his behavior on the ice. The fact that he didn’t feel in control around the sexy Serena Long only compounded his frustration. “Why is she doing you this favor?”

“So that’s what’s got up your butt,” Dylan commented, flopping onto the couch they were supposed to be moving.

Max gazed at Adam for a long moment. “What did she say?”

“She said she’d do anything for you.”

Max looked inscrutable. But then, Max worked hard at looking inscrutable. “That was nice of her.”

“You’re not answering his question, dude,” Dylan said from his sprawled position on the couch. “He wants to know if you’ve had sex with the woman he’s got the hots for.”

“Is that what you want to know?” Max seemed to find this whole thing highly amusing, which only aggravated Adam more.

“No.” He grabbed his end of the couch and motioned Dylan off it so he could lift the other end. “Okay, yes,” he grunted as they hoisted the thing into the air.

“I didn’t set you two up on a blind date. You’re supposed to focus on improving your game. So why do you care?”

“I just want to know.”

Max carefully placed his chair in the corner of the spare bedroom. Dylan and Adam humped the couch in after him and pushed it against the back wall. “I don’t think I want to tell you.”

Dylan swore. “There’s a cold beer in the fridge with my name on it. I don’t care who slept with who—I just want to get this stuff moved so I can relax.”

They continued moving tables, the TV and a couple of lamps. When they were done, they had nowhere to sit but the old oak kitchen table Adam had refinished himself. He pulled out three cold ones, thumped them down on the table. Regarded Max, who wiped off the top of his bottle before he drank.

“What do you think?” he asked Dylan. “Did he?”

“Sleep with Serena Long? Hard to tell. He’s doing his inscrutable thing. You’re the detective. What do you think?”

“I think he’s playing with me.” He slumped into a chair and grabbed his own beer.

“Yeah,” Dylan said. “Why would sexy Serena sleep with him, anyway? What’s he got to offer a woman like that? A genius brain? Billions in the bank? Those big brown eyes?” Dylan shook his head. “She wouldn’t touch him.” He touched his bottle to Adam’s in a toast. “Not that you care.”

“I don’t.” He tipped the bottle against his lips and hoped the cool liquid would dampen his irritation.

“What are you using on the floors?” Dylan motioned to the now-cleared fir floor. It was original to the old cottage Adam had bought the year before and was slowly fixing up. It was a simple place, rustic and solidly built on a couple of acres of land. He’d known the minute he’d seen the run-down home that this was the renovation project he’d been looking for.

Since it had been rented for years and then left empty for a half a year after that, the place was a little dilapidated. And full of mice. But the old fir floors he’d revealed when he ripped up the filthy threadbare brown shag rug would come back with some work. The walls needed only patching and paint. The kitchen he could live with for a while since he rarely cooked. His first project had been the bathroom, most of which he’d done himself, with the help of a professional plumber. He’d patched and painted all the walls before he moved in, and he lived with the scuffed, scarred flooring.

But now he had a mad-on, and Max had done nothing to dissipate it. The floors were going to be sanded. And hard.

“I’ll rent a commercial sander. See how they come up, then decide. Might do a stain, might just slap on some Varathane to protect them.”

Dylan nodded. He was also a handy type. Unlike Max, who hired everything out and was currently checking email on his smartphone while they talked flooring.

As they finished their beer, the talk veered to people they knew, hockey, the upcoming play-offs.

“That performance coach sure is hot,” Dylan said, seemingly out of the blue. “She single?”

“As far as I know,” Max said. “Why? Are you interested?”

“Hell, no. I’m interested in winning the bet. I figure you’re both so competitive that if you two are going to fight over a woman, one of you will end up with her. Leaving me closer to winning the bet.” He grinned. “All those seasons of watching Survivor are paying off.” He raised his beer bottle in the air. “To the last bachelor standing. Me!”

Max still hadn’t volunteered the information Adam wanted by the time the guys were leaving. As they headed out the door, Adam turned to Dylan. “Why are we still friends with this guy?” he asked.

Dylan regarded Max. “He’s short and a weenie. Makes us look good.”