Icebreaker or endgame?

Can two devoted athletes make room in their lives for love?

Mike Reimer knows from experience that hockey and relationships don’t mix. And hot-tempered swim coach Bridget O’Reilly couldn’t be more wrong for the widowed pro goalie, aka the Iceman. As the playoffs approach, Mike’s growing feelings for her could melt the hardest heart. But what if being with Bridget means letting down his team...and, worst of all, himself?

KIM FINDLAY lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband, two sons and the world’s cutest dog. When she can get time away from her accounting business, she can be found sailing, reading or writing, depending on the season, time of day and her energy level. You can find her at kimfindlay.ca, @missheyer74 or on Facebook.

Crossing the Goal Line

Kim Findlay

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08295-2

CROSSING THE GOAL LINE

© 2018 Kim Findlay

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

“Go get some gear on,” Bridget 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. He wasn’t sure what she thought she was trying to prove, but he could handle a girl in road hockey, even if his game had been off lately.

“So what are the rules?” he asked once they’d strapped on their pads. He tapped his stick on the pavement.

“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.”

She was good. He had to give her that. Much better than he’d expected. Mike, however, was better than good. He was one of the best. He was soon in his zone, watching her every move and expression. She didn’t score, though she came close.

After fifteen furious minutes, Bridget called time. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

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.”

Dear Reader,

I’m so excited you’ve joined me for my first Harlequin romance!

The sports world offers compelling stories. There’s the athletes’ dedication and the amazing things they can accomplish. There are the fans who live and die with their teams, a loyalty that transcends geography and success or failure. It doesn’t hurt that athletes are by necessity in top physical condition. Combine all that and you get some great settings for romance.

In this story, Mike Reimer is a successful hockey goalie, but past experience has convinced him that his commitment to his sport makes relationships untenable. Since he’s dealing with a crisis of confidence in his play, that has to be his first priority. Still, he can’t help but notice Bridget O’Reilly when she dives into his life...and falls in love with his car. Bridget is a former competitive swimmer now channeling that drive into coaching. She understands the passion it takes to win because she shares it. As Mike gets back to his championship form, his future is leading him out of Toronto. Bridget, however, has her family and her own dreams in the city. Is either of them willing to risk it all for the other?

To share your own love of sports, the people who play them and the stories they generate, please find me at kimfindlay.ca, on Facebook at kimfindlayauthor or on Twitter, @missheyer74.

Kim

For my parents and sister, who let me read, and my husband and sons, who let me write.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

NOT 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.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE 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.”

CHAPTER THREE

MIKE HAD NO plans to spend time with Bridget. His focus was on hockey, and he’d learned the hard way that hockey and relationships didn’t mix for him. The road ball game had been fun, but that wasn’t going to make him the best again. Still, it had reminded him of why he played. It would be a nice touch, and reflect well on his upbringing, if he made some kind of thank-you gesture to the O’Reillys. He could send Mrs. O’Reilly some flowers, but he didn’t know their address, and he wasn’t going to have them delivered to Bridget at the pool. He’d picked up on the fact that the family was hockey mad, which was something he could work with. Once the regular season games began in October, he thought it was a good time to set something up. When he saw Bridget was teaching during his next lap swim, he came back to the pool after changing.

She was ushering the kids into the changing rooms. One kid was giving her a hard time. He thought it was the one who muttered at him at the game. When she finally shooed the boy into the changing room, Mike called her name. She started, then recognized him and walked over.

Her hair was standing up in spots, and her glasses looked heavy on her face. He wondered why she hadn’t had her vision corrected. She was comfortable in a swimsuit, and she had a fit and trim figure. Her movements were sure and controlled. She might be a coach, but she was still an athlete.

“Mike?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“I should be able to get a couple tickets to tomorrow’s game, if you think someone in your family might like to go? I’d like to thank them for the evening last week.”

* * *

BRIDGET BLINKED. HE wanted to thank them? She thought she should be thanking him. As she’d told him in the car, he’d been an awfully good sport.

“Ah, sure. That would be great,” she responded.

“I’ll need to send you the details on how to pick up the tickets. What’s your cell?”

Bridget recited her number. She held back a grin. She’d have to tell Jee that she’d given her phone number to a hockey star.

“Okay, I’ll set it up with the sales department.”

“Thanks. You don’t have to, you know,” she assured him.

“Don’t thank me until I know for sure I can get them for you,” he said, busily typing.

Bridget shrugged and turned to go. She was busy, but her dad would be thrilled.

Sure enough, later that day Bridget got a text telling her where and how to pick up the tickets. Bridget saved the text and showed her dad that night when she got home. Her mother thought Bridget should go, since Mike was “her” friend. Cormack argued that she’d just been to a game. Since Bridget was working till after the game started, the problem was solved: her father went with Cormack. She knew Patrick would be irritated when he found out, but fortunately, the O’Reillys had had lots of experience with arguments among siblings.

* * *

MIKE SAW BRIDGET only briefly on occasional mornings. They’d nod, and that was about it. He was absorbed with work, where he’d won the starting goalie’s job. Now he had to make sure he played well enough to keep it. His entire focus was on rebuilding his hockey skills and reputation. When he wasn’t practicing, training or playing, he was watching tape and conferring with coaches. He still had to prove himself. His last playoff performance was fresh in everyone’s mind so he overheard a lot of negative comments, but he kept up his cool front. He wasn’t nicknamed Iceman for nothing.

October started well. There were a couple of shootout losses, some wins. Turchenko started in the second of a back-to-back pair of games and didn’t do well. Yes, things were going almost exactly the way he wanted. And then, just as that first month was winding up, it happened.

Toronto was playing Philadelphia on Hockey Night in Canada, one game before the first meeting of the season against Quebec. Mike was playing like he wanted to, and feeling good about the next game against his former team.

There was a two-on-one breakaway in the third period. Mike was focused on the player with the puck, but kept his peripheral vision on the man’s teammate, waiting for a possible pass. He could hear the crowd responding in the background over the scraping of skates on ice. Everyone was shouting, and suddenly his goalie crease was crowded with hockey players, one guy landing in the net. Mike was trying desperately to ignore everything but the puck when he felt a weight on his ankle through the pads, and a sharp pain. The whistle blew, and one by one the players stood up, all except for Mike.

Damn. He knew what that feeling was.

The coaches and trainers came out. Mike insisted on getting on his good foot to let one of the trainers pull him over to the bench upright, but that was just for pride’s sake. He wasn’t going to be playing the rest of this game, or quite a few after this. Turchenko put on his helmet to take over, while Mike finally surrendered and let the medics carry him away.

Mike had his ankle tended to by the team doctors. They fitted him with a soft, removable cast which meant he had to take more care not to reinjure himself, but overall recovery would be shorter. He was given a strict regimen to follow, including in-home therapy sessions with the team trainers. Then he was sent home to recover. And to wait. Wait to see if Turchenko would take his job.

“Home” was the solitary splendor of a hotel suite. Last season Mike had been traded at the trade deadline, so they’d put him up in a hotel for the remainder of the season. He’d been so angry with management—they’d asked him to waive his no-trade clause. He’d agreed to the deal but walked out in an icy fury before even finding out where they wanted him to go.

He hadn’t even thought of listing his property in Quebec. Reality just hadn’t sunk in yet. Quebec City had been his home for his entire hockey career. He was popular, had friends, fans. But management slanted the news so that it seemed he’d asked for the trade, and when his replacement had led Mike’s former team to sweeping a playoff series over Mike and the Blaze, the fans back in Quebec had seemed to be happy he was gone. Suddenly he was no longer wanted at home in Quebec, but he had nowhere else to go. Toronto hadn’t welcomed him. He’d been waiting to hear that another trade was in the works, but that hadn’t happened. He’d finally listed his Quebec home when he’d come back to Toronto at the end of the summer, but he was still living at the hotel.

And he was once again quietly and impotently furious. Unlike the O’Reillys, his temper was slow-burning and stayed under the surface. His career was out of his hands, and it was infuriating.

Two days later he was able to watch Turchenko earn a win against Ottawa. He wanted to throw the remote at the television. That was supposed to be Mike’s win. Mike didn’t think Turchenko played well, but he was good enough, and the pundits were predicting Turchenko would take over the starting position permanently.

That would leave Mike playing backup until Toronto could find another team willing to take on his expensive contract. If he didn’t bounce back from this injury, regain his form, there might never be another contract. That, he refused to think about.

The best-case scenario was that he’d recover and play at his previous top level. In that case, whether or not the Blaze kept him till the end of the season, neither Toronto team would be able to offer what he could ask for in free agency next summer. There wasn’t a single scenario that left Mike living in Toronto, so this was a temporary stay. The impersonal hotel room underlined the impermanence of his future. When he wasn’t winning, it turned out people didn’t want to be with him. His mother had called, but she was busy in Phoenix. She’d come if he asked, but she’d raised him to be self-reliant.

Then he got the text.

* * *

THE O’REILLYS WERE watching the game when Mike went down. Bridget had been at a meet on the other side of the city, and had stopped in on the way to her basement suite. Her mother warmed up some food for her while she joined her dad and Cormack and Bernie and Bert.

Bridget’s mom didn’t follow hockey, but she liked Mike, and even though they hadn’t seen him for a month, she picked up from their talk that the young man who had no family around had been hurt. A couple of days later when Bridget stopped by to catch up, she found that her mother had made up her mind.

Bridget and most of her brothers had inherited their father’s temperament: they could fire up in anger, but it passed as quickly. Bridget’s mother didn’t have a temper, but she could be incredibly stubborn when she made up her mind. Mike’s story had touched her, and she was concerned that he was injured, in a new city, with no family for support.

Bridget tried to explain that he was a highly paid professional athlete and could afford any care he needed, and that the team was invested in keeping him well. Her mother said that he had been very nice to the family, and that they should return the favor. When pressed, Bridget had to admit that she did have a way to contact Mike. She hated doing it. Mike hadn’t reached out to them since he’d provided those tickets, so she felt she was crossing a boundary Mike had put in place. But as a result of her mother’s insistence, she finally agreed to ask him if they could do anything for him.

She pulled up the number on her phone that Mike had given her and started typing.

This is Bridget O’Reilly. My mother was worried—

“Do you have to tell him who you are? Doesn’t the phone number let him know that?” Her mother was reading over Bridget’s shoulder.

“Mom, he sent me one message. I highly doubt I’m in his contacts. It’s just going to pop up as a random number.”

“And say we were all worried. You make me sound like a fusspot.”

Bridget rolled her eyes, since her mother was behind her and out of view, but she deleted the second sentence.

This is Bridget O’Reilly. We hope you’re doing well.

Bridget was not going to sound like she was up at night worrying about his injury.

Do you need any help?

“Ask if he’d like some soup. There’s nothing better than homemade soup when you’re not feeling well.”

“He doesn’t have a cold, Mom. He broke a bone.” According to the papers, it was an ankle bone. He’d be out four to six weeks, which meant it would be December before he’d be playing again. She started her text over.

This is Bridget O’Reilly. We saw you go down and hope you’re recuperating well. My mother has some homemade soup she thought you might like.

She hit Send before her mother came up with anything else.

Bridget knew Mike would think they were overstepping. He’d probably block her number, if he hadn’t already. After all, they hadn’t done anything but nod in passing for most of a month. He couldn’t be close friends with every group of fans he interacted with.

Bridget was so convinced he wouldn’t actually respond that when her phone pinged an hour later, she expected it to be Jee. Instead, the message read, I’d love some soup.

Bridget stared, as if the text was some kind of trick. Now her mother would be able to say she’d told her so.

Actually, that wasn’t the worst part for Bridget. Her mom needed someone to take her to see Mike. She wouldn’t drive downtown. Bridget, who had time off in the middle of the day, was the one who would have to chauffeur this trip. She expected an awkward meeting, but Mike had said yes for some unknown reason, so they pulled into the closest parking garage and carried a bag with soup, rolls and pie into the lobby of Mike’s expensive hotel.

Mike had a suite on one of the top floors. Once the front desk let him know they’d arrived, a bellboy went up the elevator with them to let them into his suite. Bridget followed her mother down a hallway with a couple of bedrooms, and came out to the main room, with a combined seating, dining and kitchen area surrounded by windows with sweeping views of the lake. Not bad, Bridget thought.

“Mrs. O’Reilly, Bridget, thanks for coming. Sorry, I can’t get up very well...”

Bridget finally got a good look at Mike.

He was stretched out on a couch with his cast resting on a pillow. He had a couple of remotes beside him, as if he’d just turned off the TV or video gaming system set up across the room from him. He looked tired, stressed and not very welcoming. You didn’t have to invite us, Bridget thought. But then he smiled, a tired, but friendly smile.

“Please, have a seat.”

There were several seats to choose from: the room was bigger than Bridget’s whole apartment.

“I’ll take this stuff over to the kitchen area,” Bridget said, transporting the bags to the other side of the island.

Her mom put her coat on the edge of a chair. Then she crossed over to Mike and put a hand on his forehead. She adjusted a couple of cushions.

“How’s that? Are you doing okay? Don’t you have someone staying with you?”

“Much better, thank you. I’m doing as well as expected. I don’t need an attendant, as long as I’m careful.”

Her mother gave him a look she’d given to Bridget as well as her brothers many times.

“And of course you’re careful?” she said, disbelievingly. “I could tell you about my kids...”

Bridget paused as she put the soup in the mostly empty refrigerator. Just what stories was her mother planning to share? Fortunately there were more stories about her brothers than herself. Her mom apparently didn’t believe the broken arm she’d gotten in the superhero contest the boys had invented was very funny, but Bridget thought Mike was looking less gloomy. Misery loves company.

Bridget sat on the edge of the love seat that faced Mike’s couch while her mother learned the details of the injury, and the resulting recovery process. She looked around. It was a nice suite, though rather corporate—bland and not at all homey. She noticed some weights, a bench, and a complicated home gym over near the windows. She was sure that wasn’t part of the original hotel decor but it would explain the dining table pushed back against the wall. Mike must be working out here while he was recuperating. That made sense: she couldn’t really picture him hobbling to the hotel gym. She tried to imagine how much a suite like this would cost, and couldn’t even come up with a ballpark figure.

She came back to the conversation when she heard her name.

“Don’t you, Bridget?” her mother was saying with a disapproving look.

“Don’t I what?”

“You work out after your morning swim practices.”

“Yeees...” Bridget agreed cautiously.

“Mike wants to fit in some additional workouts when the team people aren’t around, so you could help Mike in the mornings. He has to be especially careful with that cast.”

Bridget’s mother cast a doubtful look at what was around Mike’s ankle. As kids, they’d always had the familiar plaster casts, but while Bridget had been fortunate enough to keep her bones intact while competing, she’d seen these casts. This one was blue plastic, with inflatable padding, and could be removed as needed. Mike had left it open, probably anxious to avoid as much muscle atrophy as possible.

Bridget had helped teammates do their workouts with those soft casts, but that was a whole different thing than working out with Mike Reimer. Bridget opened her mouth to object. Mike beat her to the punch.

“I couldn’t impose. I’m sure Bridget is too busy for that.”

Bridget looked at her mother. She was giving Bridget that look, the “didn’t I raise you properly?” look. What was her mother thinking? Mike could have all the help anyone needed, so why would he need her? She turned to look at Mike, and, for just a moment he looked—sad? Lonely?

“Don’t you have people from the team coming in every day?” Bridget asked.

“Of course, if I want to do additional workouts, I’ll be fine on my own. It’s not like I haven’t worked out before. I understand, you’re busy.”

Was he actually lonely, maybe bored here, all on his own? Where were the beautiful women coming to keep him company? His entourage? Did hockey players have those?

“And what are you eating? Do you only have access to hotel food?” Bridget’s mom spoke as if she were referring to a school cafeteria rather than a starred restaurant. “I’d be happy to send you some. I always make too much.”

Bridget knew her mother would be thrilled to have someone else to cook for. And she also knew who her mother would enlist to deliver the food. Well, if she was being pressed to come by anyway...she bit her lip. “Mike, it wouldn’t be a horrific inconvenience to come over sometimes and work out with you. But I feel like we’re imposing.”

Mike sighed, and his shoulders dropped. “Honestly, it would be nice to see someone from time to time. I’m not a good patient. Too much time on my own and I get a little...restless.”

Bridget’s mother smiled. “I know what it’s like. I raised six kids, and none of them were good at being sidelined. I can send some of the boys over in the evenings as well. Just till you’re back on your feet. You tell them when you’ve had enough and I’ll make sure they don’t overstay their welcome. Now, I’ll go warm up that soup for you.”

Her mother headed over to the kitchen area. An occasional mutter about the pots was all they heard from her for a while.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Bridget asked, watching him closely.

Mike let his head rest against the back of the couch. “Really, I don’t. Most of the day I have nothing to do but watch sports channels talk about whether Turchenko is going to be the permanent starter. If you could take pity on me, it would at least distract me for a while and I’d feel like I was doing something to keep my job.”

“Then I guess you’ve got a spotter for the duration. And a food delivery service, if I know my mother. Cormack’s the only one still living at home, so she has a lot of mothering not being used.”

* * *

THE NEXT DAY Bridget stood in front of the suite doorway, backpack containing her post-workout clothing on her shoulders, and carrying a cooler with her mother’s next installment of food. Her hair was still a little wet from the pool. Tony had been into splashing this morning. Bridget had restrained herself from drying her hair. She was only here to do a workout. How she looked didn’t matter. Still, she’d made sure to wear her least ratty sweats.

She’d been provided with a key card to get in so that she didn’t have to disturb the bellboys or make Mike hobble down the hallway. She’d texted him to let him know she was at the hotel. She was nervous, even though Mike sounded as if he’d like some company. She’d worked out with many people, including men, so it wasn’t like she didn’t know what she was doing. Maybe it was because he was such a highly paid athlete. Or because guys could have real ego issues if they were challenged by a woman. That was all she was worried about, surely.

She made her way down the hall, taking in the view of the clouds obscuring the lake. She pulled off her jacket and saw that Mike had maneuvered himself to the bench. He was wearing only shorts—and his cast, of course. It shouldn’t have been disconcerting. She’d worked out with swimmers in less. Yet somehow this felt more personal. She wasn’t at a competition with a bunch of people around. She was alone with Mike in his home.

He smiled when he saw her. She smiled back, hesitantly. “So, what’s the plan?”

“The trainers are taking care of my leg, keeping the muscles working around the broken ankle. I need to do the upper body, and core work, maybe the rest of my leg work tomorrow. Since I can’t do any cardio until I’m okayed to swim, it’s just weights for now.”

Bridget cast an eye over his equipment. It was comprehensive.

“Looks like you should have everything you need. I was going to fill up my water bottle—some for you too?”

He nodded, already concentrating on setting up the bar for his first reps. She got the water and grabbed some towels. They began.

Bridget stood over the bar, ready to spot in case Mike got in trouble. He had more weights on it than she used, but he was a big guy, and he had different goals for his conditioning than she did. He settled in place, told her how many reps he was intending, and they started.

Once she was in a familiar routine, Bridget found she was calmer. She was also more aware of Mike as a man. She’d seen him, somewhat vaguely, at the pool, and she’d seen him in jeans when they played road ball and in dress clothes at the rink. But now he was wearing only those shorts and she could get a good look at just how fit he was.

She worked with many fit swimmers. Mike was less lean and more powerful. His thighs were massive, and if a few days off had made them less toned, it wasn’t apparent. His abs were spectacular. All that up and down in front of the net, she deduced. His arms, chest—he was an impressively fit athlete. She told herself not to stare.

They took turns lifting. Mike turned out to be a good workout partner. Some people you had to push through a workout, talk them into doing just a little bit more. Mike pushed himself; in fact, she had to make him stop. They were perfectly compatible that way, since she often pushed herself a little too far, and once during this workout, when she was in a zone, he actually grabbed the bar to stop her from going further than she should.

Before she left, Bridget brought up something she thought might be an issue. “Would you like me to stop my brothers and friends from coming over in the evening? Mom doesn’t realize...”

Mike looked at her, puzzled. “Doesn’t realize what? That Cormack is a Turchenko fan? There are a lot of them around. If he takes over the starter’s job, I might as well get used to the gloating.”

“No, I mean you might have someone else coming over,” she offered.

He shrugged, telegraphing how few people were knocking on his door. “It’s a big room.”

“I mean, you might prefer not to have additional guests.”

Mike looked at her for a moment and laughed. “Female guests, you mean? Don’t worry. I’ll put your brothers off myself if I get a hot date lined up.”

Bridget was peeved. She was just trying to be helpful. He didn’t need to laugh at her.

* * *

CORMACK AND THE two B’s did go over, as did Patrick and Brian at different times. Bridget heard about it through Jee later. After a couple of games, Turchenko started to play poorly and was pulled for the backup goaltender. The backup didn’t do much better, but not much was expected of him. So, while Cormack might be disappointed that his player was making his case to remain as a backup, and Blaze fans were enduring their usual beatdown, at Mike’s there was an excellent spread, courtesy of the hotel’s room service, and apparently a good time was had by all. Bridget wondered why no one else realized this was an odd situation. They were the blue-collar O’Reillys, and hanging out with a hockey superstar had never been part of their lifestyle. What was going to happen when Mike was done recuperating?

Bridget went most mornings to work out with Mike, but she had a swim meet on the weekend, so didn’t see Mike again until Monday. It was a gray day in November, full of sleet; winter was making its first foray. The suite was gloomy and the sound of the icy pellets tapped on the big windows.

Mike was in a quiet mood. He wasn’t a talkative guy most of the time, but his mind was definitely elsewhere. Bridget offered to leave him alone, but he just grunted and crutched to the workout machines. Bridget wasn’t sure what was bothering him, but she followed his lead and kept the conversation limited to what was necessary. After showering and changing into street clothes, she started warming the soup her mom had sent over. Mike came back from his own shower, by now able to crutch dexterously down the hallway, wearing a pair of sweats cut off short on the leg with the cast and a long-sleeved Blaze T-shirt. The black shirt made his eyes look silver and emphasized his muscled build. Bridget told herself to smarten up.

“Thanks,” Mike said, looking at the soup. Then, noticing that she’d set only the one place at the breakfast bar, looked up questioningly. “Gotta go?”

“I have things to do, and I don’t think you want company now,” Bridget answered honestly.

Mike paused for a moment. “Sorry. I’ve been distracted, so I’m not the best company. But I’d like you to stay. Unless, of course, you really need to go...”

Bridget could feel her mother nudging her to be helpful. She said, “It’s nothing pressing, but I don’t want to get in your way.”

For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to respond. He was looking out the windows, though the sleet obscured the view, and then he finally spoke.

“It was on a day like this that my wife died. When I’m stuck inside like this, I can’t avoid reliving it.”

Bridget felt her mouth open. She quickly closed it. His wife? Dead?

Mike looked back at her shocked expression. “You don’t know the story? I thought the headlines were everywhere.”

Bridget shook her head.

“It was seven, almost eight years ago. March, just before the start of the playoffs, not long before I was called up.”

Bridget worked the math in her head. “We were on a tour in Australia that spring. I remember Toronto wasn’t in the playoffs, so I’d mostly ignored the hockey news. Besides, Quebec won, so...oh. That would have been your first Cup.”

Mike looked out the windows as the half ice, half rain pelted them, though Bridget doubted he really saw what was out there.

“The short version is that she was in a car accident. Bad weather, car went off the road. She was probably driving too fast and would have died on impact.”

“I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

Mike had his crutches, but was mostly balanced on his one good foot.

“She was pregnant.”

* * *

MIKE STARED OUT over where the lake would normally be. Back then there had been no spectacular view. He was a farm team goalie for the Rimouski Raiders, in Quebec. Their place was barely adequate, but Amber had worked hard to make the most of it. As she often complained, she didn’t have anything else to do.

He found himself talking, mostly to himself.

“We met in college. I’d been drafted by Quebec when I was eighteen, but my mom insisted I had to get a degree. She’d never cared much for hockey and wanted me to have a backup plan. So instead of going directly to the farm team, I went to college on a hockey scholarship, and met Amber in a freshman English class. She knew nothing about hockey but came to every game and started learning rules like offside and icing.” He smiled at the memory. “Her father was a professor there, and she’d grown up in that town. Lived in the same house her whole life. She’d had this storybook life that was so different than mine.

“We graduated the same year, and got married that summer. In the fall, I had to report to Rimouski.”

He remembered the excitement of finally, finally being able to start his hockey career. But there had also been trepidation. What if he wasn’t good enough? “Amber hated it. Most of the guys on the team were single, and she was positive they were taking me to strip clubs and that we were meeting women every time we were on the road. The married guys were older and had kids, so Amber didn’t really fit in with their wives.

“She wanted me to quit. She’d tell me that the chances were that I’d never make it to the big show, and if I loved her I’d want her to be happy. She told me I was selfish, putting my dream above her. I argued that I’d thought it was our dream. I was young, and sure I was going to make it, if she’d just stick it out a bit longer. I didn’t want to give it up.”

His grip tightened on the crutch handles. That had been a bad period. He’d never dreamed that they would spend that much time fighting as newlyweds.

“We made the playoffs that year in Rimouski. I was playing well. I tried to convince her that it meant I would make it, that we would make it. We had a big fight. It was the night the team was going out to celebrate. I left, slamming the door. When I came back, she was gone. She’d packed up to go back to her parents.

“Then the police came to tell me she was dead. And that she was pregnant when she died. I don’t even know if she knew that. She hadn’t told me, in any case.”

Mike still wondered if she’d known, and if she had, if she had deliberately left without telling him. That fear could still hurt.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.