by Anna Sugden
He must be thinking of his friend. “I’m sorry about Adam.”
His shoulders hunched, as if he was bracing himself against the painful knowledge of his friend’s betrayal. “Me, too.”
“I don’t suppose the investigators will do anything with the evidence against him.”
“There’s no point.” He put his mug on the table. “But Adam’s parents want to make the story public.”
Her eyes widened. “They do?”
“I spoke to them after the hearing. I thought they should hear about Adam from me.” He scrubbed his hand over his jaw. “They felt terrible about Adam’s deceit, but they were also relieved to have an explanation for his death.”
She felt sorry for them. “Maybe it’ll help them heal.”
Jake smiled. “We’re setting up the Adam Stewart Foundation, to provide education about the dangers of steroids and support people caught up with them. If we prevent even one athlete from following that path, it’ll mean Adam’s life wasn’t wasted.”
Maggie wasn’t surprised Jake had found a way to honor his friend despite Adam’s betrayal. Jake was a good man. If only he could see the truth about himself.
“This mess with Adam opened my eyes.” He leaned forward. “Made me realize my old high-octane life didn’t make me a bad person. Just as all Adam’s noble deeds didn’t make him a saint.” He tapped his chest. “What’s in here is what’s really important.”
Maybe Adam had done him a favor after all. Happiness filled her. Still, uncertainty remained. He’d said nothing about what that meant for her or their relationship.
“Do you plan to go back to your old life?” Her heart gave a heavy thump as she waited for his answer.
He shook his head. “I don’t want that anymore. At least, not all the time. I wouldn’t mind the occasional party or high-profile event.”
He waited for her reaction, his gaze intent.
“That’s a lesson we both learned.” She smiled and shared her thoughts from the plane. “It’s not the life that makes the woman or man, but the other way round.”
“So you’d be happy to accompany me to another function? I’d like another shot at showing everyone how serious I am about you.”
Her smile faded. Not quite the result she’d hoped for. “I thought you said there wasn’t another big event until June.”
“There isn’t. But, if you agree, this one will be special.”
“I don’t understand.” She frowned.
“It would be our wedding. I’d like you to marry me.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “M-marry?”
He took the cup out of her hands and twined their fingers. “You’re perfect for me.”
“Hardly.” Her old insecurities rose, threatening to choke her. “I won’t change, Jake. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
“I don’t want you to.”
She searched his eyes. Could she trust the message that glowed in the brilliant blue depths? “You don’t?”
“I love you, Maggie, just as you are.”
She’d heard of time standing still but had never experienced it until now. “Oh.”
“I’d hoped for a little more enthusiasm.”
Happiness exploded within her. “Wow.”
“Better.” He grinned.
“Are you sure? There will always be issues and people desperate for a story. What happens the next time things go belly-up and we’re splashed across the media?”
“Nothing can hurt us if we deal with things together. We make a good team. If we’re honest and trust each other, we can handle anything anyone throws at us.” Jake’s earnest expression was as convincing as his words.
Doubt lingered. “Even if it distracts you from your play?”
He looked chagrined. “My insecurities hampered my play. I didn’t trust what was in my heart. You helped me believe in myself again. Gave me the strength to be the man and player I want to be. I know you don’t like hockey, but...”
Maggie laid her finger over his lips. “I love you just as you are.”
When he started to speak, she shook her head. “Hockey’s not bad. Just don’t expect me to keep quiet when someone hurts you.”
“Same goes.” His tongue licked the length of her finger, sending heat spiraling through her. “You didn’t answer my question. Will you marry me?”
“Yes, please,” she breathed, as his mouth covered the pulse point of her wrist.
“How about raising a hockey team of our own?” His lips trailed along her arm, lingering at the inside of her elbow.
She gasped as desire pooled deep within. “Well, maybe a top line.”
“And a defensive pair.”
“That’s five children!”
He laughed and took her in his arms. “I believe in big families.”
“We’ll see,” she managed, before his mouth covered hers.
His kisses were still convincing. And delicious.
When he finally lifted his head, he asked, “Do you think Emily will be okay with this?”
“Trust me, she’ll be thrilled.”
“I nearly forgot.” He pulled an old red box out of his pocket and flipped open the lid. “This was my grandmother’s ring. If you don’t like it, we can get another one, but I thought it would be perfect for you.”
This time, the word didn’t make her wince. As he slipped the ring onto her finger, she smiled, then pulled his head to hers. “You’re right...it’s perfect.”
EPILOGUE
“LAST MINUTE of play in the period.”
The sound of 18,000 people on their feet, cheering, clapping and stomping, almost drowned out the announcer’s voice. Maggie had never experienced anything like the excitement inside the arena.
Beside her, Emily jumped up and down as Jenny and Tracy screamed themselves hoarse. Gio high-fived everyone around him while Tina and Aunt Karina hugged tearfully.
The volume exploded as the crowd counted down the final twenty seconds of the game.
Maggie joined in, though her throat tightened, stealing her voice as her Jake flew over the boards with Tru at his side. There was no way Minnesota could get three goals in the time left, but Jake’s expression was as intense for the final face-off as it had been for the first.
With five seconds to go, helmets, sticks and gloves were tossed to the ice as the victorious Ice Cats began to celebrate. Jake leaped in the air, fist pumped, then bear-hugged Tru. They both raced across to join the swarm of screaming, laughing, hugging players surrounding Ike. JB jumped into the mass like a bodysurfer at a concert.
The sheer joy in their faces made Maggie well up.
Her heart ached momentarily for their defeated opposition, who stood heads hanging or sat slumped on the ice. It had been a tough series, each game decided by one goal. The teams had alternated victories, finally needing the seventh game to break the deadlock. She knew what it had cost Jake to get to this point, how he’d played his heart out. She couldn’t imagine going through all that and facing the agony of coming up one game, one goal, short.
“Mummy, look!” Emily shouted.
Maggie’s gaze swung to the glass to see Jake blowing kisses to her.
I love you, he mouthed.
Her tears spilled over.
Tracy and Jenny hugged Maggie, laughing and teasing.
As the teams’ traditional handshake line started, a steward collected Jake’s family and friends and guided them to the Zamboni entrance, where they could watch the Cup ceremony before joining the players on the ice.
Once the Cup was on its stand, the NHL commissioner began to speak. A chorus of boos rang out. Those boos turned to cheers as he handed Scotty Matthews, the Ice Cats’ captain, the huge silver chalice. The crowd went wild as Scotty raised th
e Cup over his head.
Maggie hadn’t thought she could get any more emotional, but when the captain passed the Cup to Jake, the tears started again. Her heart swelled with pride and joy as she saw the man she loved realizing the dream he’d had since he’d first strapped on skates.
Before he passed the trophy to Tru, Jake looked up to the rafters and bobbed the Cup in tribute to Adam.
Her Bad Boy truly was a good man.
* * *
A SHORT TIME later, Maggie stood beside Jake as he answered commentator Mike “Doc” Emrick’s questions.
Battered and bruised, sweat poured down his face and clung to that awful play-off beard Jake had insisted on growing. It didn’t hide his new array of scars.
How she loved this man. Her warrior.
She couldn’t wait for their wedding, next week after the NHL award ceremony. She and Emily had already moved into Jake’s house.
It seemed a long time since she’d arrived in New Jersey, wondering what her new life would bring. Even in her wildest dreams she couldn’t have imagined how it had turned out, from her partnership with Tracy in Making Your Move to her very own Bad Boy.
As Jake would say—perfect.
“Last question, then I’ll let you carry on with your celebrations,” the commentator said. “What of the future? You’ve already said you’ll be back with the Cats next season, ready to make another run for the Cup. What else do you hope for?”
Jake grinned, then winked at Maggie. “A baby.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from When Adam Came to Town by Kate Kelly!
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CHAPTER ONE
SYLVIE CARSON PUSHED the door to the family café open and made a beeline for the washrooms located at the front of the restaurant. She locked herself in a stall and thrust her head down between her knees. Breathe. She counted to seven before letting out her breath, blood rushing to her head.
Second breath. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. And out. The door to the washroom burst open.
“They’re taking bets out there on how many months along you are, and who the father is. Oliver’s in the lead.” Sylvie heard the scrape of a match as Teressa, head cook and childhood friend, lit a cigarette.
“No smoking in here,” Sylvie croaked. She sat up and braced her hand against the side of the stall as she waited for her equilibrium to even out.
“Like you’re going to fire me. You have a better chance of finding an available man who can support himself in this village than a professional cook. Unless you want to do my job. You’d have to learn how to boil water first, though.” Teressa snickered.
Sylvie pushed the stall door open with her foot. “Very funny.”
“For someone who has the perfect life, you’re sure acting like you’re at death’s door a lot.” Teressa frowned at her in the mirror. “Please tell me you’re not pregnant. It would ruin my day. You’re the golden girl, and golden girls do not mess up. Although having to marry the scrumptious Oliver...” Her friend looked away from her reflection in the mirror long enough to take another drag off her cigarette. “Hard to feel sorry for you, Syl.”
Teressa had two small children to support, both from different fathers, which made her life a scheduling nightmare. So, yes, from Teressa’s point of view, Sylvie’s life probably looked pretty good. She was single, made enough money that she didn’t have to worry about it and had even achieved a small amount of fame.
And it had all come to a crashing halt six months ago.
The curvy redhead took one last look at herself in the mirror and turned to face Sylvie. “No offense, but I don’t get why you’re still here. If I had your life, I’d be out of Collina like a shot. Your dad’s getting stronger every day. He’s out in the kitchen right now, trying to tell us all how to run a restaurant. You should stop torturing yourself and go back to Toronto and your cushy life.”
Sylvie sighed. Cushy life. Why did people think being an artist was easy? “Wait ’til everyone finds out that I’m not pregnant...that I’m just...whatever.”
Every day, that first step inside the café, the oh-my-God-what’s-happened-to-my-life moment, stole the breath right out of her body. She’d tried blaming the whole fiasco on her father’s heart attack and having to move home six months ago. Six months! Normal, well-adjusted people did not let their lives become gridlocked because their father got sick.
The first signs that her life had derailed came the day after her father’s heart attack. She’d gone into her studio, picked up a brush and painted mud. Okay, not mud. She was a skilled craftswoman, after all. But the tingle of magic she’d always felt had been absent, and it showed.
She and Oliver, her agent boyfriend, had tried to keep her problem under wraps, but rumors were starting to circulate about her inactivity. Oliver insisted she needed to return to Toronto, but Sylvie didn’t know if she’d be able to paint, or—worse—if she even wanted to. Either way, she wasn’t leaving until her father felt a hundred percent better. Then maybe they could discuss the real problem—the secrets her family had kept from her all these years.
Teressa stuck her cigarette under a stream of water, chucked it in the garbage and started washing her hands. “Well, boss, I came to tell you the customers are packing in for breakfast, and sweet little Tyler is hiding God knows where. I think he’s been alley-catting all night again. If his mother wasn’t the only decent hairdresser in town, I’d beg you to fire him. And, lentil soup, Sylvie? Again? Your father had the heart attack, not the entire village. We’re going to have a revolution on our hands if you put too much healthy stuff on the menu.” She stopped on her way to the door. “If I knew how to fix things for you, sweetie, you know I would, but I’m afraid you’re on your own with this one. Oh, and there’s a big bruiser of a guy waiting at the cash register. Haven’t seen him around before. He’ll start growing roots if he stands there much longer.”
Sylvie rubbed her hands over her face and levered herself off the toilet. “I’m right behind you. I’m good now.” But Teressa was already gone, the door swishing shut behind her.
Sylvie stood at the sink and scrubbed her hands. The panic attacks may have started after her father’s heart attack, but having to move home for a while hadn’t helped her being blocked and not able to paint. She knew her family and friends had her best interests at heart but she wished to God they’d stop asking if she had started painting again. Nothing like having your failure thrown in your face every day.
If she went back to Toronto—when she went back to Toronto... Her lungs seized up. Would it all come back to her? Her talent? Her bright, shining future? She’d lived and breathed painting for seventeen years and without it, she was lost.
Hell, at the moment she could hardly talk herself into leaving the washroom. Returning to Toronto seemed as inconceivable to her as swimming across the frigid Bay of Fundy that sat outside her door. No, for once in her life she had to make a decision completely on her own. She needed to stay home in Collina and figure out who she would have been if painting hadn’t become the central focus of her life.
When she dragged herself back
into the dining area, Tyler was leaning his forehead against the cool, stainless steel soda machine, ignoring the man waiting at the cash two feet behind him.
Sylvie hurried across the room. She felt sorry for Tyler, nineteen and nothing to look forward to but more of the same. It was enough to drive anyone to drink. But she couldn’t afford to sympathize too much. Tyler had to pull his weight, or Pops would insist on spending even more time here. The heart specialist had been explicit last week, Pops was to work no more than two hours a day, and that was pushing it.
She was already desperate to find a second cook. But even though good help was slim pickings in the village, that didn’t mean she could let Tyler get away with too much. And God forbid her family let her work in the kitchen or try her hand at bookkeeping—not the talented Sylvie Carson. They thought they were freeing her up to pursue her dreams, but every time they said no, she felt more and more limited as to what she could do. Instead she was expected to sit and stare at an empty canvas and pray for inspiration.
“Be with you in a second,” she said to the man standing at the cash register. She huddled with Tyler in the corner. The tall, wiry teenager looked like he’d fall over if she breathed on him. “We’re busy, Ty. I need your help.”
He shot her a sheepish look. “My stomach’s all jumped up this morning.”
“Right.” She sighed, checked out the guy at cash again. He looked like he was trying not to grin. Another tourist soaking up the local color. She lowered her voice. “Go tell Pops. He’ll fix you up with his secret concoction. It’ll probably burn your toenails off, but it’ll settle your stomach.”
Summoning a smile, she scooted over to the cash register. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?”
As she looked up at the man, his tawny gaze caught hers and pulled her in. He was tall and lean, his jean jacket outlining broad shoulders and a narrow waist. With an artist’s eye, she automatically studied the way he held himself, as if taking care not to disturb the air around him. His nose had been broken at least once. She was guessing more than once. He didn’t have the bright-eyed, ain’t-life-grand look most visitors wore when they walked in the door. A stranger, but not a tourist.
