See Jane Score

Chapter 2

Exchanging Pleasantries: A Fight

“Say that again?” Caroline Mason’s fork paused halfway to her mouth, a piece of lettuce and chicken suspended in midair.

“I’m covering the Chinooks games and traveling with them on the road,” Jane repeated for the benefit of her childhood friend.

“The hockey team?” Caroline worked at Nordstrom’s selling her favorite addiction-shoes. In appearance, she and Jane were on opposite ends of the spectrum. She was tall, blond, and blue-eyed, a walking advertisement of beauty and good taste. And their temperaments weren’t much closer. Jane was introverted, while Caroline didn’t have a thought or emotion that wasn’t expressed. Jane shopped from catalogues. Caroline considered catalogues a Tool of Satan.

“Yep, that’s what I’m doing on this side of town. I just came from a meeting with the owner and the team.” The two friends were fire and ice, night and day, but they shared a common background and history that bonded them like Super Glue.

Caroline’s mother had run off with a trucker and had drifted in and out of her life. Jane had grown up without a mother at all. They’d lived next to each other in Tacoma, on the same desolate block. Poor. The have-nots. They both knew what it was like to go to school wearing canvas sneakers when most everyone else wore leather.

Grown up now, they each dealt with the past in their own ways. Jane socked away money as if each paycheck were her last, while Caroline blew outrageous sums on designer shoes like she was Imelda Marcos.

Caroline set her fork on the side of her plate and placed a hand on her chest. “You get to travel with the Chinooks and interview them while they’re naked?”

Jane nodded and dug into the lunch special, macaroni and cheese with smoked ham chunks and crushed croutons baked on top. With the weather outside, it was definitely a mac-and-cheese day. “Hopefully, they’ll keep their pants up until I leave the locker room.”

“You’re kidding, right? What reason, other than seeing buff men, is there for walking into a smelly locker room?”

“Interviewing them for the paper.” Now that she’d seen all of them this morning, she was beginning to feel a bit apprehensive. Next to her five-foot stature, they were huge.

“Do you think they’d notice if you snapped some pictures?”

“They might.” Jane laughed. “They didn’t seem as dumb as you’d expect.”

“Bummer. I wouldn’t mind seeing some naked hockey players.”

And now that she’d seen them all, seeing them naked was one aspect of the job that worried her. She had to travel with these men. Sit with them on the airplane. She didn’t want to know what they looked like without their clothes. The only time she wanted to be near a naked man was when she was naked herself. And while she wrote explicit sexual fantasies for a living, in her real life she wasn’t all that comfortable with blatant nudity. She was not like the woman who wrote about dating and relationships in the column for the Times. And she was absolutely nothing like Honey Pie.

Jane Alcott was a fraud.

“If you can’t take pictures,” Caroline said as she reached for her fork once more and picked the chicken from her Oriental salad, “take notes for me.”

“That’s unethical on a lot of different levels,” she informed her friend. Then she thought about Luc Martineau’s offer to “piss” in her coffee, and she figured she could bend ethics in his case. “I did see Luc Martineau’s butt.”

“Au naturel?”

“As the day he was born.”

Caroline leaned forward. “How was it?”

“Good.” She pictured Luc’s sculpted shoulders and back, the indent of his spine, and his towel sliding down his perfect round cheeks. “Really fine.” No denying it, Luc was a beautiful man; too bad his personality sucked.

“God,” Caroline sighed, “why didn’t I finish college and get a job like yours?”

“Too many parties.”

“Oh, yeah.” Caroline paused a moment, then smiled. “You need an assistant. Take me.”

“The paper won’t pay for an assistant.”

“Bummer.” Her smile fell and her gaze lowered to Jane’s blazer. “You should get new clothes.”

“I have new clothes,” Jane said around a bite of ham and cheese.

“I mean new, as in attractive. You wear too much black and gray. People will begin to wonder if you’re depressed.”

“I’m not depressed.”

“Maybe not, but you should wear color. Reds and greens especially. You’re going to be traveling with big strong testosterone-infused men all season. It’s the perfect opportunity to get a guy interested in you.”

Jane was traveling with the team on business. She didn’t want to catch the interest of a man. Especially a hockey player. Especially if they were all like Luc Martineau. When she’d declined his offer concerning the coffee, he’d almost smiled. Almost. Instead he’d said, If you change your mind about that, let me know. Only he hadn’t said about. He’d said aboot. He was a jerk who hadn’t completely lost his Canadian accent. The last thing she wanted or needed was to attract attention from men like him. She glanced down at her black blazer and pants, and her gray blouse. She thought she looked okay. “It’s J. Crew.”

Caroline narrowed her blue eyes and Jane knew what was coming. J. Crew was not Donna Karan. “Exactly. From the catalogue?”

“Of course.”

“And black.”

“You know I’m color blind.”

“You’re not color blind. You just can’t tell when things clash.”

“True.” That’s why she liked black. She looked good in black. She couldn’t make a fashion faux pas in black.

“You’ve got a nice little body, Jane. You should work it, show it off. Come back to Nordy’s with me, and I’ll help you pick out some nice things.”

“No way. The last time I let you pick out my clothes, I looked like Greg Brady. Only not as groovy.”

“That was in the sixth grade and we had to go to Goodwill to do our shopping. We’re older and have more money. At least you do.”

Yes, and she planned to keep it that way too. She had plans for her nest egg. Plans that included buying a house, not designer clothes. “I like the way I dress,” she said as if they hadn’t had the same conversation a thousand times in the past.

Caroline rolled her eyes and changed the subject. “I met a guy.”

Of course she had. Since they’d both turned thirty last spring, Caroline’s biological clock had started ticking and all she’d been able to think about were her eggs shriveling up. She’d decided it was time to get married, and since she didn’t want to leave Jane out of the fun, she’d decided it was time they both got married. But there was a problem with Caroline’s plan. Jane had pretty much decided she was a magnet for men who would break her heart and treat her bad, and since jerks seemed to be the only type of man who made her go all weak and sweaty, she’d been thinking about getting a cat and staying home. But she was stuck in a Catch-22. If she stayed home, she wouldn’t discover new material for her Single Girl column.

“He has a friend.”

“The last ‘friend’ you set me up with drove a serial killer van with a couch in the back.”

“I know, and he wasn’t real pleased to read about himself in your Times column.”

“Too bad. He was one of those guys who assumes I’m desperate and horny because of the column.”

“This time will be different.”

“No.”

“You might like him.”

“That’s the problem. If I like him, I know he’ll treat me like crap, then dump me.”

“Jane, you rarely give anyone the chance to dump you. You always keep one foot out the door, waiting for an excuse.”

Caroline didn’t have a lot of room to talk. She dumped guys for being too perfect. “You haven’t had a boyfriend since Vinny,” Caroline said.

“Yeah, and look how that turned out.” He’d borrowed money from her to buy other women presents. As far as she could tell, he’d bought mostly cheap lingerie. Jane hated cheap lingerie.

“Look on the bright side. After you had to dump him, you were so upset you regrouted your bathroom.”

It was a sad fact of Jane’s life that when she was brokenhearted and depressed, she cleaned with a vengeance. When she was happy, she tended to overlook towels falling out of the closet onto her head.

After lunch, Jane dropped Caroline off at Nordstrom’s, then drove to the Seattle Times. Because she wrote a monthly column, she didn’t have a desk at the paper. In fact, she’d hardly ever ventured into the building.

She met with the sports editor, Kirk Thornton, and he didn’t have to tell her he was less than thrilled to have her covering for Chris. His reception of her was so cold, he could have chilled a glass on his forehead. He introduced her to the three other sports reporters, and their welcome wasn’t much warmer than Kirk’s. Except for Jeff Noonan’s.

Even though Jane was hardly ever in the Seattle Times building, she’d heard about Jeff Noonan. He was known by the female staff as the Nooner and was a sexual harassment lawsuit just waiting to happen. Not only did he believe a woman’s place was in the kitchen, he believed it was on her back on the kitchen table. The look he gave her told her he was thinking about her naked, and he smiled like she should be flattered or something.

The look she returned told him she’d rather eat rat poison.

The BAC-111 lifted off from SeaTac at six-twenty-three a.m. Within minutes, the jet broke through the cloud cover and banked left. The morning sun shot through the oval windows like spotlights. Almost as one, the shades were slammed shut against the brutal glare, and a good number of hockey players put their seats back and sacked out for the four-hour flight. A mix of aftershave and cologne filled the cabin as the jet finished its ascent and evened out.

Without taking her eyes from the itinerary in her lap, Jane reached over her head and adjusted the air. She turned its full force on her face as she looked over the team schedule. She noticed that some of their flights left right after a game while others left the next morning. But except for the flight times, the schedule was always the same. The team practiced the day before each game and had a “light” run-through the day of the game. It never varied.

She set aside the itinerary and picked up a copy of the Hockey News. The morning light broke over the NHL team reports, and she paused to read a column concerning the Chinooks. The subhead read, “Chinooks’ Goaltending Key to Success.”

For the past few weeks, Jane had crammed her head with NHL stats. She’d familiarized herself with the names of the Chinooks and the positions they played. She’d read as many newspaper articles on the team as she could find, but she still didn’t have a firm grasp on the game or its players. She was going to have to fly by the seat of her pants and hope she didn’t crash and burn. She needed the respect and trust of these men. She wanted them to treat her as they did other sports journalists.

In her briefcase, she’d stashed two invaluable books: Hockey for Dummies and The Bad Boys of Hockey. The first gave her the rudiments and the how-tos, while the second told the dark side of the game and the men who played it.

Without lifting her face, she glanced across the aisle and down a row. Her gaze followed the emergency lights running down the dark blue carpeting and stopped on Luc Martineau’s polished loafers and charcoal trousers. Since their conversation at the Key Arena, she’d done more research on him than the other players.

He’d been born and raised in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. His father was French-Canadian and divorced his mother when Luc had been just five years old. Luc had been drafted sixth overall into the NHL at the age of nineteen by the Oilers. He’d been traded to Detroit and finally Seattle. The most interesting reading had come from The Bad Boys of Hockey, which had devoted an entire five chapters to Luc. The book had gone into detail about the bad boy goalie, claiming he had the quickest hands on and off the ice. The photos had shown a string of actresses and models on his arm, and while none of them had come right out and claimed they’d slept with him, they hadn’t denied it either.

Her gaze rose to his big hand and long fingers tapping the arm of his seat. A sliver of his gold Rolex showed from beneath the cuff of his white-and-blue-striped shirt. She took in his shoulder and the profile of his high cheekbones and straight nose. His hair was cut short like a gladiator ready to do battle. Assuming half the juicy details of the bad boy book were true, Luc Martineau had a woman stashed in each city the team visited. Jane was surprised he wasn’t terminally exhausted.

Like all of the other players, this morning Luc looked more like a businessman or an investment banker than a hockey player. Earlier at the airport, Jane had been surprised to see the whole team show up in suits and ties as if they were on their way to the office.

Her view suddenly blocked, Jane glanced up into the battered face of enforcer Rob “the Hammer” Sutter. Bent over to accommodate the low ceiling, he appeared scarier than usual. She didn’t have the faces of all the Chinooks memorized yet, but Rob was one of those guys who was easy to remember. He was six-foot-three, two hundred and fifty pounds of intimidating muscle. At the moment, he sported a fuzzy goatee on his chin and a brilliant shiner beneath one of his green eyes. He’d taken off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and loosened his tie. His brown hair needed cutting and he had a piece of white tape across the bridge of his nose. He glanced at the briefcase on the seat next to her.

“Do you mind if I sit down for a few?”

Jane hated to admit it, but she’d always been a bit unnerved by big guys. They took up so much space and made her feel small and a little vulnerable. “Ahh, no.” She grabbed the leather handles and shoved the briefcase on the floor by her feet.

Rob crammed his big body in the seat next to her and pointed to the newspaper in her hands. “Did you read the article I wrote? It’s on page six.”

“Not yet.” Feeling a bit boxed in, Jane thumbed to page six and looked at a game photo of Rob Sutter. He had some guy in a headlock and was punching his face.

“That’s me feeding Rasmussen his lunch in his rookie season.”

She glanced sideways at Rob, taking in his black eye and broken nose. “Why?”

“Scored a hat trick.”

“Isn’t that his job?”

“Sure, but it’s my job to make things rough for him.” Rob shrugged. “Make him a little nervous when he sees me coming.”

Jane thought it prudent to keep her opinion of his job to herself. “What happened to your nose?”

“Got too close to a stick.” He pointed to the paper. “What do you think?”

She skimmed the article, which seemed to be well enough written.

“Do you think I hooked the reader in the first graph?”

“Graph?”

“That’s journalist talk for paragraph.”

She knew what graph meant. “I am more than a punching bag,‘” she read out loud. “That got my attention.”

Rob smiled, showing a row of beautiful white teeth. Jane wondered how many times they’d been knocked out and replaced. “I had a lot of fun writing that,” he said. “When I retire, I’m thinking maybe I’ll write articles full-time. Maybe you could give me some pointers.”

Getting a foot in the door was a lot easier said than done. Her own resume was less than stellar, but she didn’t want to rain on Rob’s parade by telling him the truth. “I’ll help you, if I can.”

“Thanks.” He half rose and pulled a wallet from his back pocket. When he sat down again, he flipped it open and pulled out a photograph. “This is Amelia,” he said as he handed her a picture of a baby girl resting on his chest.

“She’s so tiny. How old is she?”

“One month. Isn’t she the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen?”

Jane wasn’t about to argue with the Hammer. “She’s gorgeous.”

“Are we showing baby pictures again?”

Jane looked up and into a pair of brown eyes watching her over the seat in front of them. The man handed back a photo. “That’s Taylor Lee,” he said. “She’s two.”

Jane looked at the photo of a toddler as bald as the guy who’d handed it over, and she wondered what it was about people assuming everyone wanted to see their baby’s pictures. She didn’t recognize the eyes staring at her over the seat until Rob gave her a clue.

“She’s awfully bald, Fishy. When she gonna get some hair?”

Bruce Fish, second-string winger, half rose and took back his photograph. The light shone on his bald scalp while a scruffy beard covered the lower half of his face. “I was bald until I was five, and I turned out cute.”

Jane managed to keep a straight face. Bruce Fish might be a skilled puck handler, but he was not an attractive man.

“Do you have any kids?” he asked her.

“No, I’ve never been married,” she answered, and the conversation turned to which Chinook was married and who had how many children. Not exactly stimulating conversation, but it alleviated her worry that the players would shut her out.

She handed Rob his photograph and decided to get down to business. To dazzle them with her research, or to at least show them that she wasn’t completely clueless. “Given the age and lack of franchise players, the Coyotes are playing better than expected this year,” she said, reciting what she’d just read. “What are your biggest concerns going into Wednesday’s game?”

They both stared at her as if she’d just spoken a language they didn’t understand. Latin, perhaps.

Bruce Fish turned around and disappeared behind his seat. Rob shoved the baby photo in his wallet. “Here comes breakfast,” he said as he stood. The Hammer quickly departed, making it quite clear that while she was good enough to talk with about journalism and babies, he wasn’t going to talk with her about hockey. And as the flight progressed, it became even more clear to Jane that the players were ignoring her now. Except for her brief conversation with Bruce and Rob, no one spoke to her. Well, they couldn’t ignore her forever. They had to allow her locker room access and answer her questions. They had to talk to her then or face a discrimination lawsuit.

She refused a muffin and orange juice and raised the arm between the chairs. She scooted to the aisle seat, spread out her articles and books, then took off her gray wool blazer. She got down to the business of trying to figure out what points were as opposed to goals. What penalty was awarded for which infraction, and the ever-confusing icing call. She grabbed a brick of Post-Its out of her briefcase, scribbled notes, and stuck them inside the book.

Keeping track of her work and life via sticky notes wasn’t the most efficient way to run things, and she had tried more organized methods. She’d tried a software program on her laptop, but she’d ended up scribbling notes about what to write in it. She’d bought the day planner she currently used, but only to stick notes on the calendar pages. Last year, she’d bought a Palm Pilot, but she’d never gotten comfortable with it. Without her sticky notes she’d had an anxiety attack and had ended up selling the handheld device to a friend.

She scribbled notes about hockey terminology she didn’t know, stuck them in the book, then glanced down a row at Luc. His hand rested beside a glass of orange juice on the tray table. His long fingers tore at a cocktail napkin, and he rubbed bits of paper between his fingers and thumb.

Someone called Luc’s name and he leaned forward and glanced toward the back. His blue gaze landed somewhere behind Jane, and he laughed at some joke she didn’t get. His teeth were white and straight, and he had a smile that could make a woman think of hot sinful things. Then he lowered his gaze to her and she forgot about his teeth. He simply looked at her as if he couldn’t quite figure out how she’d gotten there-like a spot on his tie-then his scrutiny slid down her face and neck to the middle of her plain white blouse. For some disturbing reason, her breath caught in her chest, right where his gaze rested. The moment became suspended. Prolonged. Hanging between them until his brows pulled into a straight line. Then, without looking up, he turned away. She finally let out her breath, and once again she had the feeling she’d been judged and found lacking by Luc Martineau.

By the time the aircraft touched down in Phoenix, the weather was fifty-three degrees and sunny. The hockey players straightened their ties, put on their jackets, and filed out toward the bus.

Luc waited until Jane Alcott passed before he stepped into the aisle behind her. While shrugging into his Hugo Boss jacket, he studied her from behind.

She’d hung a wool blazer over the same arm that held a big briefcase crammed full of books and newspapers. Her hair was pulled back again into a tight ponytail, and the ends curled and brushed her shoulders as they moved forward. She was so short, the top of her head reached to just below his chin, and through the haze of cologne and aftershave he smelled a hint of something flowery.

The edge of her briefcase caught the back of a seat and she stumbled. Luc grasped her arm to steady her as newspapers, books, and multiple notes fell to the cabin floor. He let go of her arm, then knelt beside her in the cramped aisle. He picked up a book on the official NHL rules and Hockey For Dummies.

“Don’t know much about the game, huh?” he said as he passed her the books. The tips of his fingers brushed hers and she glanced up at him.

With her face a few inches from his, he took the opportunity to study her. Her skin was flawless and there was a slight pink flush to her smooth cheeks. Her eyes were the color of summer grass, and he could make out the faint lines of contact lenses on the edges of her irises. If she wasn’t a reporter and hadn’t already asked him if he was still drug-free the first time they’d met, maybe he’d think she wasn’t all that bad-looking. Maybe he’d even think she was kind of cute. Maybe.

“I know plenty,” she said as she pulled her hand away and stuffed the books into the front pouch.

“Sure you do, Ace.” He tore a sticky note from the knee of his pants. On it was written: What the heck is a body check? He grabbed her wrist and slapped the note in her palm. “Looks like you know squat.”

They stood and he took the briefcase from her.

“I can carry that,” she protested as she shoved the note into her pants pocket.

“Let me.”

“If you’re trying to be nice, it’s too late.”

“I’m not being nice. I’d like to get out of here before the bus leaves.”

“Oh.” She opened her mouth to say more but closed it again. They proceeded down the aisle; the swing of her ponytail told him of her agitation. Once inside the bus, she sat next to the general manager, and Luc dumped the briefcase into her lap and walked to the back.

Rob Sutter leaned forward as Luc dropped into a seat in front of the enforcer. “Hey, Lucky,” Rob said. “Don’t you think she’s kinda cute?”

Luc glanced several rows up at the back of Jane’s head and the curls of her tight ponytail. She wasn’t bad-looking, but she wasn’t his type. He liked Barbie Doll women. Long legs and big breasts. Big hair and red lips. Women who liked to please men and didn’t expect anything but pleasure in return. He knew what that said about him, and he didn’t particularly care. Jane had nice skin and her hair might be okay if she didn’t pull it back so tight, but her breasts were small.

A picture of the front of her blouse flashed across his brain. He’d turned to answer something Vlad Fetisov had asked him, and he’d noticed her for the first time since takeoff. Then he’d noticed the two distinct points in the front of her silky blouse. For a brief moment, he’d wondered if she was cold or turned on.

“Not especially,” he answered Rob.

“Do you think it’s true that she slept with Duffy to get this assignment?”

“Is that what the guys are saying?”

“Either him or his friend at the Seattle Times.”

The thought of a young woman like Jane getting it on with two old geezers to get a job turned Luc’s stomach. He didn’t know why it should bother him one way or the other, and with a shrug he dismissed Jane and whom she may or may not be sleeping with from his mind.

He was expecting an important call from his business manager, Howie. Howie lived in LA and sent all three of his children to boarding school in southern California. The more Luc had thought about it, the more he’d convinced himself that boarding school in California was the perfect solution for Marie. Marie had lived in southern California for most of her life. It would be like going back home for her. She’d be happier and he’d get his life back. An all-around win situation for everyone.

The Chinooks checked into the hotel by eleven, had a quick lunch, and were on the ice by two for their scheduled practice at the America West Arena. The team hadn’t lost a game in two weeks, and Luc had put up five shutouts already this season. The team hadn’t been a real threat since their former captain, John Kowalsky, retired. This year was different. This year they were hot.

By four, the Chinooks were back at the hotel and Luc rode the elevator to his room and placed a phone call to a friend. Two hours later, he stepped back off the elevator, ready to live his life while he could.

He’d first met Jenny Davis on a United flight to Denver. She’d served him a soda water and lime, a bag of nuts, and a cocktail napkin with her name and telephone number written on it. That was three years ago, and they got together when he was in Phoenix or she happened to be in Seattle. The situation was mutually satisfying. He satisfied her. She satisfied him.

Tonight he met Jenny in the lobby and together they drove to Durant’s, where Luc ate his night-before-the-game meal of lamb chops, Caesar salad, and wild rice.

After dinner, Jenny took him to her home in Scottsdale, where she fed him his dessert. She had him back at the hotel by curfew; he loved his life on the road. Walking back into the hotel, he was completely calm, relaxed, and ready to take on the Coyotes tomorrow night.

He talked for a few minutes with his teammates in the lobby bar, then made his way up to his room. His right knee bothered him a little, and he grabbed the empty ice bucket from atop the television, then walked down the hall to the ice machine. He almost turned back when he saw Jane Alcott standing in front of the vending machine feeding it change. Her hair was pulled on top of her head and fell in a tangle of loose curls. She stepped forward and pushed the button to her selection, and a bag of Peanut M &M’s dropped to the bottom of the machine.

She bent over, and that’s when he noticed her nicely rounded butt with cows on it. In fact, she had cows all over her blue flannel pajamas. The thing was one piece, and from the back looked like long Johns. She turned and he was confronted by a horror worse than those pajamas. A pair of black-rimmed glasses sat on her face. The lenses were small and square, and he supposed they were in style with militant women’s groups. They were just plain ugly.

Seeing him, her eyes widened and she sucked in a startled breath. “I thought you guys were supposed to be in bed by now,” she said.

Damn, he didn’t think a woman could look any more sexless. “What is this?” he asked and pointed the bucket at her. “The I-don’t-ever-want-to-get-laid-again look?”

She frowned. “This may shock you, but I’m here to do a job. Not to get laid.”

“Good thing.” He thought of his conversation with Sutter and wondered if she’d slept with old Virgil Duffy to get her job. He’d heard the stories of Virgil’s fondness for women young enough to be his granddaughter. In fact, when Luc had first moved to Seattle, Sutter told him that in 1998 Virgil had been set to marry a young woman, but the woman had come to her senses and had left him at the altar. Luc didn’t listen to gossip and didn’t know how much of it was true. He just couldn’t picture Virgil in the role of a hound, though. “I doubt you’ll find any action in that getup.”

Jane ripped open her bag of candy. “You don’t seem to have a problem with finding action, Lucky.” Luc didn’t like the way she said Lucky and he didn’t ask her to elaborate. She did anyway. “I saw you leave with the blonde. If I had to guess, I’d say she was a stewardess. She had that come-fly-me look about her.”

Luc moved to the ice machine and lifted the lid. “She was my cousin, twice removed.” She didn’t look like she believed him, but he really didn’t care. She’d believe what she wanted and write what sold papers.

“What’s with the ice? Your knees bothering you?”

“Nope.” She was too damn smart for her own good.

“Who’s Gump Worsley?” she asked.

Gump was a hockey great who’d played more games than any goalie in history. Luc admired his record and his dedication. Years ago, he’d taken Gump’s number for luck. It was no big deal. No big secret either.

“Have you been reading up on me again?” he asked as he scooped ice with his bucket. “I’m flattered,” he said, but he didn’t bother to make it sound convincing.

“Don’t be. It’s my job.” She popped an M &M into her mouth, and when he didn’t say anything she lifted a brow. “You’re not going to answer my question?”

“Nope.” She’d soon learn that none of the guys were going to cooperate either. They’d all talked about it and come up with a plan to confuse and bug the hell out of her. Maybe get her to go home. Outside the locker room, they’d show her baby pictures and talk about anything other than what she was dying to talk about. Hockey. Inside the locker room they’d cooperate just enough to avoid a discrimination suit, but that was it. Luc didn’t think much of the scheme. Sure it would bug her, but not enough to make her go home. No, after talking to her a few times, he figured there wasn’t much that could knock Ms. Alcott off her pumps.

“Tell you what, though.” Luc shut the lid to the ice machine and said close to her ear as he walked past, “Keep digging, ‘cause that Gump thing’s a real interesting story.”

“Digging is also my job, but don’t worry, I’m not interested in your dirty little secrets,” she called after him.

Luc didn’t have any dirty secrets. Not anymore. There were parts of his personal life he’d rather not read about in the papers, though. He’d rather it wasn’t known that he had several different women friends in several different cities, although that piece of information in itself wouldn’t make banner headlines. Most people wouldn’t care. He wasn’t married and neither were his friends.

He opened the door to his room and shut himself inside. There was only one secret he didn’t want anyone to know. One secret that woke him up in a cold sweat.

Each time he played, he played with the possibility that one good hit would cripple him for life, and worse, end his career.

Luc dumped the ice into a hand towel and stripped to his white boxers. He scratched his belly, then sat on the bed with his knee elevated over a pillow, the ice packed around it.

His whole life, all he’d ever wanted was to play hockey and win the Stanley Cup. He’d lived and breathed it for so long, that’s all he knew. Unlike some guys who got drafted out of college, he’d been drafted into the NHL at the age of nineteen, a bright future ahead of him.

For a while, his future had gotten off track. He’d slid into a vicious cycle of pain and addiction and prescription drugs. Of recovery and hard work. And now finally a chance to return to the game that made him feel alive. But the sport that had given him a Conn Smythe the year before his injury now looked at him sideways and wondered if he still had what it took. There were those, some within the Chinook management, who wondered if they’d payed too much for their premier goalie, if Luc could still deliver on his once-promising career.

Whatever it took, no matter how much pain he had to play through, he’d be damned if he’d let anything stand between him and his shot at the cup.

Right now, he was hot. Saw every play, got a piece of every puck. He was in his zone, but he knew how fast his hot streak could turn cold and unforgiving. He could lose focus. Let in a few soft goals. Misjudge the speed of the puck, let too many get past, and get pulled from the net. Having an off night and getting yanked from the pipes happened to all goalies, but that didn’t make it any less appalling.

A bad game didn’t mean a bad season. Most of the time. But Luc could not afford most of the time.