Skating on Thin Ice: The Men of WarHawks- Book 1

by Biggar, Jacquie

  He looked perplexed, but she also caught a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Of course. Mac needs help and you need a job; win-win.”

  “Uncle Thomas, you better not be trying to set me up. I already told you, I’m happy on my own.” Sam slammed the lid harder than she meant to and gave her family member a stern look. “Just because you and Aunt June had so many happy years together doesn’t mean it’s in the cards for me.”

  His expression turned somber and Sam cursed her unthinking comment. “Your aunt was the best thing that ever happened to this old coot. I miss her every single minute of the day.” He grasped her hand where it rested on the trunk. “Mac’s one of the good ones, honey, but that’s not the reason I brought you out here. His career is on the line and I happen to believe in your ability to get him on his skates before the play-offs. Can you do that?”

  Could she?

  The ultrasound had shown the injury to be moderate, but one glance at the patient convinced Sam this wouldn’t be a cakewalk. For one thing, he wasn’t even supposed to be walking around yet, even if he was on crutches. And didn’t the man realize it was winter? Why was he standing there in shorts and no jacket? She didn’t plan on playing nursemaid to a spoiled rich boy, it wasn’t in her contract. But it was also obvious the hockey player meant something to her uncle, so she would try her best. For him.

  “Yeah,” she said, narrowed gaze on her quarry. “I can do it.”

  * * *

  Mac stared at the pint-sized female lugging a suitcase that looked as if it weighed as much as she did, and his blood boiled. Never mind he had no idea who she was or why she thought she was staying in his home, he’d been taught to be a gentleman and not being able to help was galling.

  Edwards stumbled along behind, his face pale and tired-looking. Mac was worried about his old friend. He’d tried to get the doc to go to a doc but that had gone over like a lead balloon.

  “I don’t need some quack telling me what’s wrong,” he’d growled. “I’ve taken care of you, haven’t I? It’s just a bug. It’ll be gone soon enough.”

  Wasn’t much Mac could say to that and he’d been sidetracked by his own injury, but it had been two weeks—shouldn’t he be looking better by now?

  “Doc.” He greeted the other man while eyeing the blonde struggling up the stairs with her case. Shit, he hated this. “I see you brought company.”

  Edwards ascended the steps, his hand reaching out to grasp the woman’s elbow to help her balance. The contrast was stark; the middle-aged man with a bald spot on his head and a bit of a paunch, and the willowy woman with vivid blue eyes and a flawless complexion. What was she to the doc? Mac frowned. Why should it matter to him? If the doc wanted a fling and the woman was willing… all the best to them.

  The couple finally made it up his stairs and stopped in front of him.

  Edwards stretched his hand out to take Mac’s in a firm shake. “Mac, you’re looking good. Must be all this fresh mountain air, huh?” He grinned, over jovial.

  Mac went on the alert. “What’s going on, Doc? You heard from the board? I’ve called the coach a dozen times and get nothing but the runaround. We’ll see,” he muttered. “It will depend on what your therapist has to say. I’m going crazy up here.”

  Edwards nodded, his eyebrows bunching across his lined forehead. “I warned you to stay low. You’re an integral part of the team, but no one likes a pain in the ass and that goes double for the coach. You need to back down and let us do our job, so you can do yours. You hear me, Mac?”

  Mac squeezed the grips on his crutches while the red tide of frustration washed through him, leaving him tired and disheartened. “Yeah, I hear you,” he said. “When’s the therapist arriving? I thought he was coming with you?”

  Doc glanced at the woman beside him and something about the stunned look she gave him warned Mac before the words confirmed it. He was already shaking his head when she spoke.

  “Not a he, Mr. Wanowski, she. I’m Samantha Walters, your new physiotherapist. You can call me Sam.”

  Well, shit.

  3

  The dismay on the hockey player’s chiseled face would have been comical if this job didn’t mean so much to Sam. Her foothold in a male-dominated industry was tenuous at best. She’d clawed her way through uni and several months of training before building enough of a name to open her own business. A big step, and one she hoped wasn’t a mistake.

  “Not what you expected?” she asked. Might as well start out as she meant to go on—diplomacy wasn’t part of her nature. Just ask her mother.

  Wanowski glared at Sam and her uncle. “I don’t need a babysitter, Doc. How is she going to help me?”

  Sam had a few ideas, but he probably didn’t want to hear them. “Are you a chauvinist, Mr. Wanowski?”

  “Samantha, you’re not helping,” her uncle chided. He looked small and frail next to the Hulk. “I’m sorry for misleading you, Mac. I should have clarified my niece prefers to go by the name Sam, but trust me, she knows her job. Just give her a chance.”

  The last thing her uncle needed was stress. If Mr. Negativity thought she would be more hindrance than help, so be it.

  Her suitcase thunked onto the wooden deck, a loud punctuation mark in the sudden silence. “Look, if you don’t want me here, suit yourself. I have better things to do than to spend my days arguing with a Neanderthal. It’s your life, Mr. Wanowski, do with it what you will. I only ask that you allow us a short rest in your home and then we’ll be on our way.” She lifted her chin, prepared to shove past his brawny chest if it meant getting her uncle inside. It was times like this she wished she’d learned how to drive.

  Mac sized her up as though it was her fault he’d been benched, before turning a slightly warmer gaze on Uncle Thomas. “Must have been a long drive.” He shot the puck in her direction. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee. You may as well come on in. I need to get off my feet anyway. Doctor’s orders.”

  “You obey a command? That must be one for the record books.” Sam couldn’t resist, the verbal sparring warming her up faster than her down parka.

  He frowned, his jaw ticking with annoyance. “You don’t know me, Miss Walters, but apparently you have an issue with me. All the more reason our relationship wouldn’t work. I need someone who can set their personal prejudices aside long enough to do their job.”

  Aaand, he scores.

  “You two sound like an old married couple,” Uncle Thomas muttered.

  That froze the bickering better than anything she could come up with. Wanowski opened his cabin door and waved them through. “It’s getting cold. There’s a storm in the works, you’ll want to head out soon.”

  He must be a blast at the after-parties. Sam stepped around her luggage and waited for her uncle to enter the lion’s den. She drew even with the hockey player and hesitated, the force of his presence both intimidating and compelling. “Don’t blame him,” she said. “He cares about the team and was under the mistaken impression you did too.”

  Mac grasped her wrist as she went to walk past. “The WarHawks mean everything to me. My problem is you, Samantha.” He said her name like it was an insult. “I don’t like being made a fool of, that’s something you might want to remember.” He cast her arm aside and entered the house, leaving her shivering on the porch.

  The guy was intense. The pay wasn’t worth it. If she pulled some weekends at the hospital, ate macaroni and cheese, and groveled to her old boss at the diner she might—might—scrape enough together so that she wouldn’t lose her office space. For this month anyway.

  The cabin came as a surprise. She’d expected dark wood and slate floors to match their host’s sable hair, steely-gray eyes and moody demeanor. Instead, the entry was light and airy with a tall ceiling and dormer windows. The walls were painted a sage-green. Hardwood flooring and an iron and glass staircase leading to the second floor completed the modern décor. No moose head wall mounts for this mountain getaway, in its place a stunning abstract caug
ht the light and refracted it back in an array of warm, relaxing tones. It all served to increase her curiosity about Mac, The Hammer, Wanowski. What was his story? Why was he up here, all alone, instead of in the city enjoying the tender loving care of some puck bunny? Her uncle had made it clear Mac was single and a ‘stand-up guy’, whatever that meant. As far as she was concerned, if he paid her the agreed upon salary and kept his hands to himself, that’s all she was interested in. Or should she say, had been interested in—until he’d fired her before she’d even started.

  The low murmur of male voices guided her into a cozy den. She had a fleeting impression of walls lined with books, a sleek desk edged in chrome, and a crackling fire behind a steel grate before focusing on her uncle sitting on a leather ottoman inspecting Wanowski’s knee.

  The big man stood with his back to her, impatience radiating from broad shoulders. “It’s fine, Thomas. I’ve been following the R.I.C.E. formula you recommended. Rest, ice, compression,” he tapped the elastic bandage circling above and below the joint, “and elevation.” He set the crutches aside and sank, with a sigh, onto the matching sofa. His hooded gaze trailed up and down her body before returning to her face. “So, you really think you can fix me before the play-offs?”

  Sam bit off a smile. It would take a lot longer than two weeks to change this man’s attitude. “Yes, I can get you on your feet. I can’t guarantee you’ll be fit to skate. That’s going to depend on you.”

  His hand went to his knee, covering the injury as though he could make it disappear. “I need to get back to my team.” He lasered her with his gaze. “Two weeks, Miss Walters. You’re hired.”

  The rush of success racing through Sam’s bloodstream was tempered by the six-foot-whatever glaring at her like the possible ruination of his career was her fault.

  Let the games begin.

  4

  Mac remained on the sofa brooding while Samantha—he refused to think of her with a masculine name—said goodbye to her uncle and no doubt received advice on how to treat his well-known surly temper.

  It hadn’t always been that way. His wife’s death changed everything.

  “Ready to start?”

  Mac jerked, drawn out of the dark pit of memories. He frowned at the young blonde standing in the doorway. “Start what?” She’d better not expect him to run laps or some shit.

  She tapped her toes in those ridiculous high-heeled boots she’d worn. “I thought we’d take a walk. See how that knee is doing under repetitive movement. You up for it? I totally understand if it’s too much for you.”

  Too much for The Hammer? That’ll be the day. Mac rose, ignoring the ache in his leg to reach for the crutches. “Lead on, Doc.” There was no way he was going to admit how bad it hurt. The operating table was the only other option besides therapy, and he didn’t plan on going down that road anytime soon.

  Fricking Murtagh.

  Samantha eyed his bare legs. “I can wait if you want to get some pants on,” she muttered, her cheeks turning a becoming pink.

  Mac grinned. “Never seen hairy legs before, Doc?” Other than a loose pair of sweats, shorts were the only comfortable clothing he had to fit over his knee.

  She shrugged and turned away. “It’s your funeral,” she said, trouncing down the hall to the front door.

  Mac followed, his steps slow and measured. The last thing he needed was to slip and set his recovery back.

  Samantha watched him, arms folded under her more-than-a-handful breasts—not that he was noticing.

  “Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” she said, her brows furrowed.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead and frustration got the best of him. “Just do your job, Doc. I’ll worry about the rest.”

  She stiffened, her arms dropping to reveal clenched fists. “Anyone ever tell you you’re not very nice?”

  He chuckled. “You’re kidding, right?” He couldn’t say nice was something he’d ever been accused of before. Or at least… not in a very long while.

  Samantha opened the door and a rush of cold air sent prickles up his legs. Good. It reminded him, not that he needed it, of what was at stake. He grabbed his jacket off the hook and mentally girded himself for the long road ahead.

  * * *

  Sam jerked awake, gasping. Her heart beat an urgent fight or flight warning, hands clenching the down duvet into a hard ball around her neck. She lay there for a moment, trying to hear over her own raspy breathing. Nothing. The house was silent except for that silly cuckoo clock ticking off the endless minutes of the night.

  She never slept well in strange places anyway, and today had been particularly stressful. Mac, The Hammer, Wanowski wasn't making her job easy. He'd made it more than clear what he thought of therapists. Too bad he didn't have a choice; the team managers called the shots—whether he liked it or not.

  There it was again.

  An eerie moan accompanied by a scratch, scratch, bam. Scratch, scratch, bam.

  If Wanowski thought he was going to get rid of her that easily, he better think again. Sam rolled out of bed and grabbed the first defensive thing she could find, the hardcover book she'd borrowed from the den earlier.

  The door creaked like an old woman's knees, instantly ending any element of surprise she might have had. The hall was dark. Quiet. Too quiet.

  "Hel... hello?" she asked, her voice little more than a squeak. The book remained clenched over her head, ready for... who knows what. She wished she hadn't skipped those self-defense classes her best friend, Grace, had taken.

  Mo-o-o-an.

  The hair stood up and tried to run off her neck. Why hadn't she just stayed in her warm, cozy bed hiding under the pillows like any other scaredy-cat would do?

  Sam swallowed hard and stepped into the hall. "No... not funny, Mac." She squinted owlishly as a set of glowing green eyes, halfway up the wall, turned her way. Sam screamed.

  "What the hell?" Mac hollered from his room upstairs.

  Not Mac then.

  The clunk of crutches on hard wood floors heralded her host's arrival. The lights flicked on and Sam got a blurry eyeful of rumpled, annoyed man glaring at her from the head of the staircase. Boxers never looked so good. The random thought warmed her cheeks.

  "Do you make a habit of freaking out in the middle of the night, Doc? Because, I gotta tell you, it sucks."

  Embarrassed, she dropped the weapon/book to her side, noticed his narrowed gaze on her chest, and brought it up again. Right, her nightshirt was soft and comfortable, but white, and threadbare in spots.

  Sam pointed down the hall. "Something was staring at me out of the wall," she accused as though it was his fault.

  "Oo-kay." He looked at her like she was crazy before slowly, carefully making his way down the stairs on that bum knee. She'd feel bad if she didn't have the impression he was mocking her.

  Mac stopped by the elegant sofa table cleared of everything except a silver filigree picture frame. He straightened it on the table, his fingers almost caressing.

  "Who is that?" Sam asked, desperate to disperse the lingering ghosts. She remembered seeing a younger, softer version of Wanowski with a beautiful woman smiling into his eyes. His wife, maybe? Where was she then?

  Mac ignored her to bend at the waist, his broad back gleaming under the brass and glass ceiling light. When he rose, a big, black cat rested over one muscular forearm. "I think I found your ghost," he murmured.

  Sam smiled. "He's gorgeous. Yours?" She moved hesitantly toward them. "Is he friendly?" She'd been bitten by a neighbor's cat as a child and had never quite recovered from the experience.

  Mac nodded, fondling the dark, silky-looking ears. "It's a she. Cleo. And yes, she's a pussycat."

  Sam giggled. The man was attractive when he wasn't being a jerk. "When I heard those bumps in the night, I wasn't expecting a harmless feline. Or a badass hockey player to come to my rescue."

  His lips tilted in an almost smile. "How do you know the cat is harmless?"

  Sam shrugg
ed, her own lips flirting with a smile. She noticed he didn't argue with his description. Badass, indeed. This was going to be an interesting two weeks.

  5

  The next morning Mac woke stiff, sore, and surprisingly refreshed. The doc was right, it was time to kick up his rehabilitation program. Cleo jumped down from her perch on the dresser and gave him the stink eye before slipping out the door like a dark shadow. No wonder she’d scared Samantha last night, she spooked him out with those all-seeing green eyes.

  He still remembered the day Jess brought the bedraggled stray home. The kitten had been found in a cardboard box, malnourished and filthy. The animal shelter where she worked was already overcrowded. Jess couldn’t allow them to put the poor animal down, so she brought it home—to their condo filled with European leather furniture, silk curtains, and a strict regulation of no pets. Jess had held the kitten up for his inspection, her blue eyes filled with love and laughter and he’d caved like a besotted idiot. She could have brought home a slobbering St Bernard and he would’ve found a way to make her happy. After her death, he didn’t have the heart to give Cleo away, so here they were, three years later and still working on their trust issues.

  The loft of the cabin he’d rented from his teammate, Roy Donaldson, looked out over the eastern slopes of the Vancouver Island mountain ranges, affording him an unparalleled view of stunning blue skies and snow-topped peaks. Hard to imagine he could be skiing all day and sailing the next. The hills were pristine. Too bad he was injured. He loved hitting the slopes now and then. Nothing like racing across crisp, freshly fallen snow with the scent of pine in the air and frost biting his ears. It gave his life clarity outside of a hockey rink. Between off-season practices and the hectic game schedule, sometimes it seemed he lived and breathed hockey. Not that there was anything wrong with that, the sport had been good to him. Saved him really, after Jess.