by Kim Findlay
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 th
ere 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 thr
ew 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?”