Face-Off. Nancy Warren
over to her.
“Hi,” he said. “You need a hand?”
When her face turned up he felt a kind of shock travel through his system. He was so used to tanned bombshells that he’d forgotten how soft and pretty a woman could look. Beneath the helmet she had big blue eyes and pale skin. Blond hair that had picked up some static from the cold and was levitating in places.
“I don’t think hockey’s for me,” she said.
He took the stick out of her hand and shot it across the ice toward the exit gate.
“Then you should probably get off the ice.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
He held out his hands, palms up. “Come on. Take my hand. I’ll get you out of here.”
She looked up at him. “What if we both fall?”
“I won’t let you fall.”
After thinking about it for a second, she gave him one hand.
“Your glove is too big,” he said, feeling the smallness of her hands inside the huge mitt.
“I know. I borrowed all this stuff from my brother. Except for the skates.”
“May I?” and without waiting for an answer, he pulled off her glove. And took her hand. Which was as small and soft as the rest of her seemed to be.
Once she knew he had her and he wasn’t about to take her down, she held out her other hand. He pulled off the other glove, sent the pair skidding to join the stick, and then while she hung on with a death grip, walked slowly backward, sliding her along with him. “That’s it.”
Her cheeks were pink with cold and he sensed that, like her hands in those gloves, her body inside the padding was much smaller. “You need some equipment that fits you.”
“No, I don’t. I am done with hockey.”
He laughed easily. Something he hadn’t done in so long he’d almost forgotten the sound.
“I’m a coach. I could help you.”
“That’s sweet of you, but—”
“And here’s your first lesson. Stop looking at your feet.”
“But—”
“It’s like dancing. You have to trust your body.”
She glanced up, took a deep breath and skated forward a little bit. He let go of one hand and stepped to the side. “Now, relax and think about how good that cup of coffee’s going to taste.”
“What cup of coffee?”
“The one I’m going to buy you when we get off the ice.”
She had dimples, he noticed when she smiled. “I don’t even know your name.”
He hesitated. It didn’t seem like she’d recognized him. Now he was going to give her his name and that would ruin the fun vibe between them. “Jarrad.”
She glanced up, and there wasn’t the slightest recognition. “Hi, Jarrad. I’m Sierra.”
“Pretty name. You’re doing great, Sierra.”
“It’s easier when you hold me up.”
“All you need is practice.” As they reached the edge of the rink he was almost sorry. “And here we are.” He helped her step off the ice, then went back to collect the gloves and stick.
When he returned, she was unlacing skates that in his opinion should be in the garbage. “Well? Can I buy you a coffee?”
She glanced at him, as though trying to divine his intention, which would be tough since he didn’t know what his intentions were himself. Only that he liked the look of this woman and didn’t want to say goodbye quite yet.
“All right.”
Once she had her street shoes back on and the padding off, he realized he’d been correct. She had a sweet little body.
The coffee shop in the ice sports complex was quiet. He got them both a coffee and brought the steaming cups to the small table in the corner where he figured no hockey fans would spot him right away. Especially since he made sure to sit with his back to the room.
“You’re tanned,” she said. “Did you just get back from Hawaii or something?”
“California.”
“Nice.”
They sipped coffee and he realized he didn’t have much practice anymore in talking to regular women who weren’t either famous themselves or involved with celebrities.
While he racked his brain for something to say, she said, “What team do you coach?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure I’m going to coach them. It’s the fire and police team, but I came here today as an observer and what I observed is there’s no teamwork. No sense of a common goal. They’re like a bunch of little kids, all trying to grab the glory.”
A smile lit up her face. “Ah, maybe I can help. I know a lot about organizing little kids.”
3
HE WAS SO CUTE, SIERRA thought, gazing at the earnest expression in the green eyes across from her. He had sun-streaked brown hair and a craggy face that was more appealing because it was so imperfect.
His nose had obviously been broken at least once and there was a toughness to his body that she liked. He had a scar that started at his left cheekbone, a little too close to the eye for her comfort in imagining what injury might have caused it, that jagged its way down an inch or so into his cheek. When he smiled, the scar creased like an overenthusiastic laugh line. She found it fascinating.
She’d never felt so comfortable with a man so quickly. It was as though she already knew him.
“I teach grade two. When the boys aren’t getting along on the playing field, or aren’t working together, you know what I do?”
He seemed absolutely fascinated. He leaned forward and cupped his chin in his hand. “What do you do?”
“You see, boys are very visual, and they’re competitive. It’s simply in their nature. So I tell them to imagine they are building a big fort. If each of them only looks out for himself, then there will be a bunch of little forts, none of them strong enough. But if they work together, they can build something stronger and better.”
“And does it work? “
“Pretty well.”
“Would it work with a bunch of overgrown boys? The kind who fight crime and put out fires?”
“I have no idea. But I’ve sometimes thought that when it comes to competition and games, big boys have a lot in common with little boys.”
The man across from her laughed. “You know a lot about men.”
“No,” she said sadly. “I don’t think I do.”
He gazed at her quizzically for a moment, but instead of calling her on possibly the stupidest remark she’d ever made to an attractive stranger, he said, “I have an idea.”
“What?”
“You help me with my overgrown kids and I’ll teach you to skate well enough to be able to play hockey.”
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for hockey,” but to her own ears it sounded as if she was saying, “persuade me.” And so he did.
“It’s a fun sport, and if you want the respect of your young male pupils, tell them you play hockey. They’ll think you rock.”
She couldn’t help a slightly smug smile from blooming. “My male students already think I rock.”
When