A door closed downstairs and he was reminded of his unwanted guest. Samantha Walters. She was a contradiction with her shapely body and innocent blue eyes hiding a will of steel. She wasn’t afraid of him even though half of the NHL gave him a wide berth. He’d seen through her little ruse to get him walking. She’d read him like an open book, realizing he wasn’t the type of guy to turn away from a challenge. What else had she figured out about him? This was the reason he didn’t do shrinks—his thoughts were his own, dammit. And yes, he did realize she wasn’t a head doctor, but she might as well be. She’d been playing mind games with him since her arrival.
Well, the sooner he mended, the faster she could leave. With that in mind, he forced his knee through a series of extensions and then squats—which hurt like hell—before rewarding his efforts with a long, hot shower. By the time he dressed and made his way down the stairs, the scent of bacon and pancakes drifted from the kitchen. She cooked. He wasn’t sure why that warmed his chest, but it did.
Her back was to him as she stood at the stove, a heaping plate of flapjacks on the counter next to her mug of steaming coffee.
“Looks like you made enough for an army,” he said by way of greeting.
She jumped and yelped. The pancake she’d been flipping soared through the air to land on the edge of the two-seater pedestal table before slowly losing its war with gravity to splat on the tile floor—right next to a startled cat. Cleo let out a yowl fit to raise the roof, jumped backward on stiff legs and hissed at the strange oval steaming on the floor.
Mac grinned, not sure which female looked more outraged. “I don’t think Cleo is going to give you a stellar review.”
Samantha glared at him through a pair of oval cats-eye glasses. “Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people?”
Mac clumped to the coffee machine, snapped a pod into place, and leaned nonchalantly against the counter to wait for his brew. “I thought the crutches would have announced my arrival.” He reached for a strip of bacon and frowned when she tapped his fingers with the spatula. “You plan on eating all that by yourself?”
“Maybe,” she muttered, covering a yawn with her hand.
Butterflies fluttered in Mac’s stomach. He rubbed the spot. The tantalizing aromas must have made him hungrier than he thought. He took a sip of his coffee, then set the cup aside to nudge the doc away from the stove. “I’ll finish up. Go sit down and I’ll bring it over.”
She stared up at him with dazed, sleepy blue eyes that made him feel ridiculously protective. He cleared his throat and waved her away. “Go. It’s the least I can do.”
She shrugged and handed him the spatula. “Don’t burn it, then.” She crouched to scrape the pancake off the floor and broke a piece for the cat. “Here, kitty. I’ll share with you.”
Mac suppressed a smile. She was just as feisty as Cleo.
He finished cooking the last of the pancake batter and shut off the stove before hobbling over to the table with the plates perched precariously in his hands.
Samantha watched him, eyes intent on his battered knee. “Is it very painful?”
His first reaction was to deny it, but something made him admit the truth. “Yeah, but that’s okay, as long as it heals.”
Her gaze became sympathetic and he turned away for the syrup. He didn’t need compassion, he needed her to push him past his comfort zone. “What’s on today’s agenda, Doc?”
She rose to grab the dinner plates and their coffee cups, waiting until they’d loaded up the dishes to answer. “It’s Sam, and I thought we’d give snowshoeing a try.”
Surprised, he halted the overloaded forkful of food. “Is that safe?” Well, he’d wanted a challenge. He needed to be careful what he wished for.
She nodded. “We won’t go far. Besides,” she glanced above her head, “you’ve already been warming up.”
He looked up as well, and realized his room was over the kitchen. She must have heard him exercising earlier. Busted.
“Look, play-offs are coming up soon and I need to be there for my team. I owe them.” He took a bite of pancake dripping with syrup to prove his point, but it tasted like sawdust.
Sam tipped her head as though trying to figure him out. “Why do you say that?”
He shrugged, not ready to tell this virtual stranger his life story, even if it did feel as though he’d always known her. “It’s greed. I want my name on the Stanley Cup, that’s all.” He ignored the disappointment on her face to shovel more food into his mouth.
* * *
Sam sipped her coffee and glanced surreptitiously at the man sitting across from her. Rather than classically handsome, Mac’s face was a combination of rough edges and interesting planes. A broad, intelligent forehead, thick, expressive brows, gray-blue eyes that shifted from mercury to steel in an instant, chiseled cheekbones over a jaw covered with a five o-clock shadow, and lips that set her pulse pounding. His golden-brown hair was surprisingly thick for a guy who wore a helmet to work every day. Parted on the side, it lay ruthlessly over his scalp in an obviously high-end cut, but even that couldn’t control the wave over his brow or the one caressing his nape.
“Do I have syrup on my chin?”
Sam’s gaze flew to his amused one. “Huh? No. I was just… thinking, that’s all.”
“Okay. Penny for them?” he teased.
She attempted to laugh it off, but it fell flat. “Do you ever wish you could change one thing from your past?” Where had that come from? Mac didn’t care about her mistakes. He was a client, no more, no less. She’d better keep that in mind. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked.”
He shook his head. “No, that’s a fair question. I think we all have something we wish we could change. I was married once.” He smiled faintly, lost in memories. “She was my girlfriend in high school. We were together for eight years before she….” He pushed away from the table. “We should go. It gets dark early here.”
Sam nodded and watched pensively as he hobbled out of the room on his crutches. Obviously, they’d been deeply in love.
While Cleo lapped milk from a bowl in the corner, she rose and began to clean their breakfast dishes, aware she’d lost a chance to come clean about why she was really there.
6
The air was crisp, the sky a clear robin’s egg blue, and the view wasn’t bad either. Mac grinned as Sam bent over to tighten her snowshoes, her heart-shaped ass mouthwatering in a pair of Pepto pink tights that matched her down ski jacket topped off with a white fur-lined knitted hat. She could have modeled for a sports magazine in that getup and had thousands of guys drooling over her. It made him wonder why she’d chosen to become a therapist.
“Are you staring at me?” she asked, catching him off guard.
He shrugged and stomped his feet to check his own bindings. “I was just wondering what made you take up therapy in school. It’s basically a thankless job, isn’t it? Dealing with a bunch of angry, frustrated clients doesn’t sound like a ball of laughs to me.”
She tucked a few stray strands of honey-blond hair under her hat before meeting his eyes, her gaze intense. “Is that what you are, Mac? It’s okay to be discouraged, you know. Getting injured is scary, your body doesn’t feel like your own. But I will get you on the road to recovery, trust me.”
The only person Mac fully trusted was dead.
He anchored the crutches under his arms and started across the field toward the frozen lake in the distance. It didn’t take long to get into a semi-comfortable rhythm and he let the past go to enjoy the moment. A quick glance over his shoulder showed Sam following close behind with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes to rival the winter skies.
“You’ve done this before,” he accused. What else did she have up her sleeve?
She smirked. “My parents took us to Tahoe every Christmas until I turned fourteen.”
He leaned on his crutch and unobtrusively eased weight off his knee. “What happened then?” Was the pain less today? It seemed like it might be ge
tting…
“My dad died.”
The words dropped like a bomb. The shock reverberated through Mac’s chest, shards of ice decimating his heart. It was as though he’d returned to the nightmare days of his own loss. The anger and despair, the deep, dark pit of desolation he’d embraced as penance for not protecting Jess—he should have kept her safe.
“How?” The words were little more than a husky rattle, but he was powerless to hide behind his tough guy image right now. He could see it in her eyes, she was one, too. A reluctant survivor.
She hugged herself and stared at the windswept ice of the lake peeking through the virginal snow. “A heart attack. He’d been out skiing with Kevin all day, came home and collapsed.” She sniffled and tugged off her gloves to wipe at her eyes. “Just like that, he was gone. I always wondered if there was something we missed, you know? A sign of what was wrong, that he needed help.”
He told himself empathy drew him to her side. He had no excuse for cupping her cheek. No explanation for the jolt of electricity that made his fingers tingle and pulse throb. Her beautiful blue eyes darkened behind tortoiseshell lenses, the awareness palpable between them. Mac shifted closer, intent on tasting those pretty pink lips until he stepped down wrong and his knee twisted painfully under his weight.
“Dammit,” he growled, dropping his crutches so he could clutch the aching joint.
“Mac, what happened? Are you all right?” Her hand fluttered over his shoulder before she plopped down in the snow to get a better look. “Let me see,” she ordered, gently, but firmly, slipping under his grip to check the torn ligament.
He stared at her bent head, cursing himself for a fool. What was he doing, allowing a passing attraction to jeopardize his career? He needed to focus on recovery. No more distractions.
He took a careful step back, breaking contact. “It’s fine, Doc. I’ll ice it later. Let’s finish this damn walk, already.”
Sam stared up at him, her gaze turbulent, before rising with his crutches in hand. She swept the clinging snow from the hand grips and passed them over. “Sure. I’m ready when you are.”
“Fine,” he snapped, angry as much with himself as with her easy dismissal. He turned and started the return trip, taking a shortcut through the trees where the snow wasn’t as deep.
“What’s your problem, Wanowski?”
Sam’s breathless shout drew him up short. He turned, surprised, and suffering a pang of guilt by the distance between them. “I thought you said you could keep up.” Better to retain the aggression between them. Safer.
She puffed out a disgusted laugh. “I didn’t know you planned a marathon.”
He grinned, watching as she picked her way toward him. Damn, but he liked her sense of humor. She didn’t take any flack, either. If he was being honest with himself—something he tended to avoid these days—he’d have to admit he hadn’t been fair to Sam. He’d acted like an ass from the moment they’d met. He was lucky she hadn’t packed up and returned to the city with her uncle. The real issue was she was a good-looking woman and he was drawn to her when he didn’t want to be attracted to anyone ever again. Sex was one thing, he was a man, after all. He’d slept with his share of hockey babes after… But, none of them mattered. They helped to blow off steam, that’s all.
Sam was… different.
“Hurry up, I’m getting old waiting on you,” he called, just to see her eyes flash. He wasn’t disappointed.
She stooped mid-stride and scooped up a handful of snow encrusted with pine needles and debris. “You know,” she mused, “I’ve been listening to your sarcasm for two long days now.” Tossing the ball from hand to hand she eyed him like he was the bullseye at a county fair game of chance.
Mac was fairly certain she wouldn’t risk him twisting his knee again while avoiding her retribution, but just in case, he glanced around for a tree large enough to hide his bulk. And that was when he noticed the hunter. The man wore dark camo fatigues and had a black balaclava over his face, though it really wasn’t that cold. The high-powered rifle looked like an extension of his arms, the scope big enough there was little doubt he could see what he was aiming for. Which didn’t explain why it was pointed their way. Sam was easily identifiable in her cotton candy getup, even if he was in dark leather—stupid choice, now that he thought about it.
He took a step forward and raised his arms to let the guy know they were there. “Hey, don’t shoo…” Before he could finish, a loud crack reverberated through the forest, followed by a high-pitched scream.
Sam. He turned toward the spot he’d last seen her just as another crack exploded nearby and something struck him from behind, knocking him to the ground.
7
Sam lay on the ground at Mac’s back, mewling cries of terror crawling up her throat and blocking any possible clues of their assailant’s location. Someone was freaking shooting at them. Who got up in the morning and decided, I’m going to shoot someone today. Couldn’t he tell they weren’t deer or moose or whatever the hell he was aiming at?
Shaking, she ran trembling fingers over Mac’s torso, praying like she’d never prayed before that he hadn’t been hit. “I’m sorry I knocked you over,” she sobbed. “Please, M… Mac, talk to me. I’m so sc… scared.”
“Shh,” he snarled, throwing a hard glance over his shoulder. His gaze narrowed. “Are you hit?”
Shocked into silence, she dabbed her brow and lowered her hand to stare blankly at the reddish-brown streak staining the threads of her white mitt. “I….” She swallowed hard. “It’s a scratch, I’m fine.” They had bigger problems at the moment.
He considered her for a moment, then gave a short nod. “Probably some dumbass hunter. We’ll stay low for a bit, see if he moves on.” He turned his attention to the trees, searching out the monster in their midst.
Sam ducked her head to make a smaller target. Her cheek brushed the sandpaper-like surface of the snow and she inhaled the crushed pine needles under their bodies. Her mind filled with images of her family; Dad teaching them to fly fish, Kevin racing his tricycle to keep up to her and her friends, Mom encouraging her to go after her dreams. She covered her mouth to hold back the sobs. Would she ever see them again?
When she’d seen that gun pointed their way, her heart stopped. One second, she’d been contemplating the best place to hit Mac with her snowball and the next she’d seen that hunter and instinct had taken over. If he’d been shot… well, he wasn’t. If they got out of this in one piece, she was calling Uncle Thomas to pick them up. A mountain cabin was no place to be during hunting season—unless your name was Davy Crockett.
“I think he’s gone. We should be safe now.” Mac rolled onto his back and winced.
Contrite, Sam laid a hand on his broad chest. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”
He turned his head to meet her gaze. “Who taught you to tackle like that, an old boyfriend?”
She smiled. “My brother, actually. He went to college on a football scholarship.”
“Ahh. Remind me to thank him sometime.” He closed his hand over hers and squeezed. “You’re quite the woman, Samantha Walters.”
Sam melted under the warmth of his regard. “Maybe you can meet him after we get off this mountain.”
He stiffened. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She sat up, oblivious to danger. “Are you nuts? You can’t be serious. What if something happens and you’re up here all by yourself? Who’s going to help you then, you big oaf?” Frustrated, she rose and dusted off her pants, keeping an eye out for any movement in the forest around them.
Maybe because of the gunshots, or maybe it was due to their little squabble, but the cheerful chirping chickadees and raucous squawks of jays had been replaced by an eerie silence. The shadows had lengthened since they’d started out just after lunch, and now stretched long, dark fingers through the broad branches of towering hemlock and fir trees. It all served to reinforce Sam’s decision; she was going back to the city where she belonged—wi
th or without Mr. Tough Guy Wanowski.
“Can you get up on your own?” she asked, reaching for the discarded crutches. When she turned back, it was to see Mac, powerful arms braced, balancing his weight on the palms of his hands. In the next instant, he pushed upward, as smooth as a puma’s pounce, and landed on his feet with barely a wince.
Show off. Still fuming, Sam tossed him his crutches and clumped toward the cabin, wishing she could ditch the awkward snowshoes and sprint to safety. They walked in silence for about ten paces before Mac had to ruin it.
“Are you always this tempestuous?”
The dulcet tone of his voice scraped on her last nerve. “Aren’t you the least concerned? That hunter had a scope, he had to see us.” She stomped her foot, sending a puff of snow into the air.
“I know,” he said, so quietly she stopped to hear him better. He met her gaze and shrugged. “It’s not the first time.”
Sam gasped. “Someone shot at you before?”
He shook his head. “God, no, nothing like that.” He guided them into a thick stand of trees and put himself between her and the last place they’d seen the stranger. “More like warnings. The first one happened just before Murtagh slammed me against the boards a couple of weeks ago at the Philly game. There was a note in my locker, stay out of our way.” He caught her skeptical look and smiled. “Yeah, I thought it was a team prank, too, and would have brushed it off except…”
Sam frowned. “Except what?”
“Some threatening phone calls. I told Coach and he pretty much laughed it off, said I was bound to make a few enemies along the way.” He looked down at the thick padding around his knee. “I guess he was right.”
Was he suggesting his injury might be connected to the threats he’d already received? The gunshots? Her breathing sawed in and out of her throat in sync with her pounding pulse. The forest wavered, and she realized she was on the edge of a panic attack. A warm male hand cupped the back of her neck and forced her head between her knees.
Skating on Thin Ice: The Men of WarHawks- Book 1 Page 3