by Kim Findlay
“Okay, I’m in. Should I wear my Turchenko jersey?”
“I’ll have security chuck you out if you do,” he answered, with a smile.
She asked if she should pick him up. Mike grinned at the thought of trying to get into her vehicle with his crutches, let alone what the ride would be like. He responded that he’d arrange for her to park her car at the hotel and they’d take his vehicle, which had a pass to get into player parking at the arena.
Bridget arrived in good time, almost quivering with excitement. Mike knew he was being a little cruel, but he kept a straight face as the valet at the hotel entrance pulled up in an old-school Land Rover.
Bridget looked confused. “Where’s your McLaren?”
“It’s a summer car,” he responded innocently.
Her eyes flashed. “I should leave you to get yourself to the arena.”
“That’s a scary threat. If only they had drivers and cars you could hire to take people places.”
She snorted. “You’re just afraid of women drivers,” she said. “It would serve you right to get a female cab driver.” She paused and looked at the Land Rover. He could see the emotions passing over her face. The Rover was still a pretty cool vehicle. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll drive you.”
“Thanks. Since you can drive a stick, this is roomier and safer. If you hit anything, I’ve got some protection.”
He tried to keep his face straight as he maneuvered into the Rover with the anxious assistance of the valet. Bridget was still sputtering as she got behind the wheel. When she saw his smile she stopped.
“Okay, smarty-pants. It would serve you right if someone did hit us.”
She got over her snit and asked him questions about the Rover, and why he’d picked it. He admitted that while he didn’t need all its capabilities, winters in Quebec were icier and snowier than Toronto, and he’d liked knowing he could handle any weather thrown at him. Plus, he thought the Rover was cool.
Bridget looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. “Well, at least it’s not a Hummer.”
Mike was about to reply indignantly when he noticed the grin she was trying to hide. “Next one,” he promised.
* * *
MIKE DIRECTED HER into the area for player parking. Bridget felt like she was getting the handshake to enter some super secret club. Security was tight. The team had provided a couple of assistants to take them up to the owner’s box, complete with a wheelchair for Mike. Bridget wondered what brain trust had thought he would agree to that. Didn’t they deal with male egos all the time? Mike turned down the wheelchair and sent the gophers away.
Bridget had been to the arena for that preseason game in October, but this was different. Mike might play behind a mask, but his face was recognized. He was asked to sign things, people snapped pictures, asked about his ankle and on occasion offered advice about everything from foot rubs to stopping pucks. Mike was obviously familiar with fan behavior and handled it easily. Bridget was an invisible sidekick, happy not to be in the pictures. She’d occasionally hold his crutches, or snap a photo for those who weren’t into taking selfies. She’d decided not to wear her Giguère jersey, opting for a fairly generic Blaze long-sleeved T, and she guessed that most of the people swarming around Mike thought she was with the team, escorting him.
A few people expressed a wish for Mike’s quick return, and it made Bridget feel good. Mike had been winning some games before the injury, and with the way Turchenko was playing, people were starting to realize Mike was the better option as the Blaze’s starting goalie.
The luxury box was intimidating. Top management people were there, people with money and power. Bridget didn’t know how one was supposed to deal with them. It was revealing that Mike did. She guessed he’d been interacting with people like this for years now, and with his résumé, which boasted Cups and numerous other awards, he probably was a power person himself. Mike introduced her by name but didn’t specify their relationship. Bridget wondered just what you would call it. Workout buddy? Friend? Driver? She was happy to stay in the background since she knew from experience that she had a pretty stellar talent for putting her foot in her mouth. Mike looked for her as the teams cleared the ice to start the game and waved her into the seat beside him.
There were definite perks to being in a box. No lining up for food, drinks or bathrooms, and the seats were much more comfortable. Watching the game with Mike was new, too. She had thought he was focused when watching TV. Watching in person, he was completely oblivious to everything around him. She could sense the tension in his body. Everyone was tense; it wasn’t a pretty game. Both teams scored numerous times, but it was easy to see that Mike wasn’t very happy with Turchenko’s play. She watched Turchenko instead of the defense this time, considering, trying to be objective. He made some great saves, and then let in a soft goal. Mike seemed to feel pain with each bad goal. He wanted to be out there badly. She hoped the team doctors would check his ankle carefully. She wasn’t sure he could be trusted not to rush back to the ice before he should.
The power people gathered in groups toward the back of the box, discussing the game. Bridget turned to Mike, waiting to see what he wanted to do.
“I hate this,” Mike said. He lifted his head and looked around. He caught her glance, and smiled.
“It’s okay, I’ll survive. I’ve got to get back out there.” He nodded toward the ice.
“You also have to let your bone heal.”
“Yes, Dr. O’Reilly,” Mike teased. “And now you need to get home for your beauty sleep. Me, too.”
* * *
THEY TOOK A back way to the player’s parking garage. The other players were still cooling down, showering, changing and giving interviews, so there was no one else there. Bridget didn’t envy them. She’d been spectacularly bad at giving interviews. She was either on her guard and answered in monosyllables, or said too much, and found her comments were pulled out of context, making her look like an idiot. She was still working on that. It was going to be part of her coaching life, though her least favorite.
Bridget thought she was doing quite well with the Land Rover, but there was so much congestion with postgame traffic that they weren’t going anywhere fast. Mike was quiet, still dwelling on the game, she expected.
She decided to distract him. “So, if you’d still had the McLaren on the road, would you have let me drive?”
It took a moment for the words to work their way into Mike’s head. He looked at her and said, “No.”
“Hey, I’m a good driver. And I would kill to drive her.”
“I’m the one you’d kill. You’re much too aggressive. And anyway, I can’t get into my McLaren with crutches.”
Bridget glared at him. “I am not too aggressive. My car likes to be driven that way. And you can’t say I’m driving aggressively now.”
“You’re not driving aggressively now because we’re stuck in gridlock.” There were thousands of people all leaving the arena at the same time.
“What if I promise to drive like someone’s grandmother. Just once...” Bridget wheedled.
Mike looked at her with amusement. “The day you score a goal on me is the day I let you drive her.”
Bridget privately thought that day could be a long time away. But she wouldn’t admit it.
“I think you have a problem with women drivers,” she reiterated.
“I have a problem with anyone driving my car. I’m not letting you, and I’m not letting your brothers. My car, I drive.”
“Until I score on you.”
“Yeah, till then. Good luck.”
Bridget chewed on her bottom lip. This was a challenge, and she’d always responded to challenges. She wanted to do it; wanted it badly. Driving the car would be nice, but making Mike eat his words would be nicer. She looked over at him and found he was looking at her with misgiving.
&n
bsp; “I just made a big mistake,” Mike said.
Bridget quickly switched to concern. Had the outing been too much? “You shouldn’t have come tonight. I could tell it was tough for you to watch. Mind you, unless you were a Nashville fan, it was tough to watch for anyone.”
“Nice try, Bridget, but I’m not worried about the game—at least, I’m over it now. The mistake was daring you.”
Bridget laughed. “Too late.”
“I don’t know,” he said, musingly.
“You can’t back out on the deal now!” Bridget protested, pulling through the intersection on a very late yellow light.
“I can if you’re going to run a red!” he yelled.
“That wasn’t red. And I think I need to get you home, since you’re an invalid and it’s making you cranky.”
“If you get in an accident, the deal is off. I can’t risk that with my car.”
“Of course not. I’d never hurt anything as beautiful as that!”
Mike had seen her falling for his car, so he knew she would intend to take great care. But he also knew what it felt like when you got behind the wheel of a vehicle with that kind of power and responsiveness. He’d taken a few risks himself. He looked at Bridget and was sure he saw gears turning in her brain.
“You can’t sneak into the suite in the middle of the night, put a net behind the bed and shoot a puck at it. You have to score fairly.”
“Of course,” she answered, seeming offended. “But maybe we should clarify what you think is fair. You have to be awake, apparently. What if you’re drunk?”
Mike laughed out loud. “That’s only good if you’re drunk, too.”
“Noted. But I’m not giving up. Still, it’ll be fair. I’m not too bad, really, and if you were having a bad day...”
“That scares me more than what Turchenko was doing out there.”
Bridget stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m a good driver,” she said, as she cut someone off to change lanes.
“My poor car.”
“See? You’re already accepting the inevitable. How long do I get to drive it? Do I get extra chances if I score more than once?”
Mike was happy that they’d finally arrived at the hotel. This conversation was going nowhere good.
Bridget pulled to a stop in front of the hotel. A valet appeared, opened Mike’s door and helped him with the crutches. Another opened the door for Bridget, and she passed him the keys.
“When you take down the Rover, could you bring up the car that’s in its spot? Ms. O’Reilly needs to get home.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Why don’t you go head up? You don’t need to wait for me,” she offered, and he noticed she sounded a bit distant.
“No, I’m fine. I’ll wait for your car to arrive. I wanted to say something anyway.” Mike wasn’t sure just how to put it.
Bridget crossed her arms. “I can’t drive your car no matter what,” she guessed.
Mike smiled. “No, I won’t be that mean. I’ll just hope for the best. I was asked by the team if I’d start coming in to practices in the mornings. They’d like me to help with Turchenko.”
“Help him take over your job, you mean?”
“No, I think everyone is sure I’ll be the starter again, but there are times, like back-to-back games, where he’ll need to play. They think I can help.”
Bridget nodded. “That makes sense. You’re almost out of the cast anyway, aren’t you?”
“I wanted to let you know. It means we won’t be working out here anymore. I’ll be heading in to the team facility every day. I hope you don’t mind.”
Bridget’s cheeks flushed.
“No problem. I was glad to help the team, but I’m quite happy to get back to the club. I do have my own things to do,” she said coolly.
There was something in her tone of voice—Mike knew something had gone wrong with the conversation, but the valet showed up with her car. She thanked him for the game, and took no time to get into her vehicle and start off. The speed of her exit made him cringe for the fate of his car.
He hadn’t handled this well. He’d upset her, and he wasn’t sure exactly how. He was more than grateful to the whole O’Reilly family, but especially to Bridget. This convalescence had been a tough time. They’d helped him get through. They’d stuck with him when he was struggling. He wanted to find a way to express his appreciation, but right now, he was tired from his first outing in weeks, and he needed to rest.
* * *
MIKE WAS WELCOMED back to the team more warmly than he’d expected, but he missed the workouts with Bridget—also more than he’d expected. Though they’d just exercised together, for the most part, they had talked seriously once. That had unlocked something in his brain. He was considering that instead of being the bastard who’d used his wife’s death to give himself the career he’d always wanted, maybe hockey had just helped him get over losing Amber. Maybe, he could even try again, sometime after he was done with hockey. To find someone else. Have another chance to have his own kid. He’d spent time with the O’Reilly family, and before that, the Sawatzkys. He would like that kind of family someday. Not while he was playing, he wouldn’t make that mistake again, but later, in that scary future when there was no more hockey to play.
Two weeks later he was able to lose the cast permanently. He no longer needed to swim at the club; the pranks were over. He started some on-ice workouts. Once again, hockey was taking up all his time and energy, mental and physical.
He didn’t forget the O’Reillys and the debt he owed them, but they were on the back burner for the time being. This was why hockey didn’t mix with relationships. He couldn’t allow himself to get distracted from playing, and people usually had a hard time accepting that.
CHAPTER FIVE
BRIDGET SNIFFED. She wasn’t one to cry, but she was sad to be finished with her special class. The kids had all done well. For the last class, they’d played games in the water, and then she’d given them each a certificate and a hug. Even Tony looked sad to say goodbye. She overheard him admit that one of the girls was actually the best swimmer of the group, which Bridget considered to be a major breakthrough. The program was a success, much to the dismay of Wally the Weasel. It was going to continue in the new year, but not with Bridget. One of the regular swimming instructors would be teaching, and the club was even going to pay her for her time. Wally the Weasel was ready to choke on the thought. Every time Bridget was near him, she heard him muttering about budgets, but he was easy to ignore. Bridget knew she’d gone from being someone he just tolerated to someone he actively disliked, but what could he do about it? She was just relieved that he hadn’t been able to end the program as she thought he’d been trying to at the start.
Mike didn’t go to the club anymore, and Bridget was glad of that. Really. She didn’t want him thinking she was trying to bother him. And life was easier now that she wasn’t heading downtown every day. Sure, things were quiet since she was no longer teaching her children’s class, but it was natural to find things a little flat with winter weather grabbing hold. It was December, after all. She put all of her focus into coaching her swim team instead. She had researched, tried some new out-of-the-pool exercises to help their conditioning, and it was paying off. Two of her swimmers, Annabelle and Austin, were really improving. She called them her A-team. Life became a little less gray as she helped them get better and better.
* * *
MIKE WAS FINALLY cleared to play again at the start of December, and now, a couple of games in, he was feeling good. The first game back had been a test. The team looked to be out of playoff contention at this point, and Mike’s goaltending might be the only way to save the season. Was he going to come back as the Iceman, or was he going to wash out the way he had last spring?
The start was a little shaky. Practices couldn’t replace game tim
e, and Mike was rusty. The Blaze were down two-zip at the end of the first, but the first goal had been scored on a power play, and the other had been well screened. Mike stopped a breakaway at the beginning of the second, and fans started to hope.
The game went to overtime, but Mike held on and the Blaze won. It wasn’t just the win, though that was also important. This had been a solid performance for Mike. Toronto had been outshot almost two to one, and there had been good scoring chances. Mike hadn’t just scraped through, despite the scoreboard. He’d bailed out the team. The Iceman was back.
He was playing the way he knew he could. But the team would have to claw their way back to playoff contention if he wanted to discover if he was all the way back. He took time to go to the club one day after practice, to let Wally know that Bridget’s class could swim in peace now.
He didn’t expect to see Bridget, and he didn’t want to run into her when he wasn’t quite sure what he felt about her. He missed their morning workouts. He missed talking to her. He found himself thinking of things he wanted to tell her. Were they friends? Their last interaction after the game had been awkward. He hadn’t reached out to her, in case she was upset, and as time passed, it grew more awkward to think of what to say.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be a friend, and anything more was out of the question.
Bridget was fun, but she was also a competitor, and she understood his competitive drive better than any other woman he’d known, and even most men. He couldn’t see a way for them to just hang out without risking misleading her about wanting more from a relationship, which wouldn’t be fair right now. He didn’t get involved during hockey.
Wally—Walter—was in his office, and more than thrilled to see him. He wasn’t as thrilled to hear that Mike wasn’t coming back to swim. And it wasn’t just because the Weasel liked to annoy Bridget. As he told Mike, her experimental class was over.
“Fortunately, there weren’t any incidents, but they’re starting another class in the new year.” He sniffed.
“It’s nice of Bridget to offer her time,” Mike responded.