by Anna DePalo
“I have students who would enjoy a field trip to the Razors’ arena as part of Career Week.”
He sat back in his chair, his lips twisting with amusement. “It’s one request after another with you.”
“Since you seem to be more approachable these days, I figured I had nothing to lose.”
“I don’t come cheap.”
“I know. Last time you got a construction contract out of the bargain.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment. Ever since their encounter in the storage room, he’d thought about how it would feel to cup her face in his hands again and thread his fingers in her hair. He’d bet her long curly locks fanned across his pillow would be spectacular—and erotic.
“So what’s it going to be this time?” she asked.
He could think of a lot of things he’d like to bargain for. “An answer to a question. I’m curious.”
She looked surprised and then wary. “That’s it?”
He felt a smile tug at his lips. “You haven’t heard the question yet.”
She shifted in her seat. “Okay...”
“Why Sal? There are a lot of seemingly reliable, boring guys out there.”
She stared at him a moment, eyes wide, and then took a deep breath. “Timing.”
“I can appreciate the importance. Timing is everything, on the ice and off.”
“Yes, and ours has never been great.”
He had to agree with her there. “And Sal’s was?”
“It was part of it.”
“Which part?”
“My mother had just gotten married...”
“And Sal was available when you were vulnerable?”
“Something like that,” she admitted.
“I can understand family responsibility, Marisa. Your mother getting married set you free and maybe even adrift.”
She looked surprised by his insight. Hell, he was surprised himself. Where had that bit of pop psychology come from? Too much latent baggage from his own family floating to the surface?
Marisa wet her lips. “I guess I didn’t want my mother to worry about me anymore once she was married.”
“So Sal had it on timing?” As opposed to a former hockey player?
“He can also be quite charming when he wants to be.”
“So is a used car salesman,” Cole quipped. “So Sal laid on the charm...?”
“He was there, and the type I was looking for.”
Cole quirked his lips. “You have a type? I thought your type was high school prankster.”
She shook her head. “My goal was to marry someone not like my father.”
“You knew him?” He didn’t recall Marisa ever mentioning her father in high school except to say he’d died a long time ago.
“No, he passed away before I was born. But I’d always thought my parents had meant to get married. In my twenties, I found out that wasn’t the case...”
Cole said nothing, waiting for her to go on.
“My mother finally revealed my father had broken up with her even before he died in a car accident. He was out of the picture before she gave birth.”
“So your father’s side of the family was never involved in your life?”
Marisa nodded. “My father’s only surviving relative was my grandfather, who lived on the West Coast. As for my father, he was pursuing a minor league baseball career, and a wife and baby didn’t fit with his plans. He had big dreams and wanderlust.”
“So you believed Sal was the guy for you because he wasn’t bitten by the same bug.”
“I thought he was the right man. I was wrong.”
Cole suddenly understood. Marisa had thought Sal would never leave her. He wasn’t a professional athlete whose career came first. In other words, Sal was unlike her father...and unlike Cole, who’d left Welsdale at the first opportunity for hockey.
Marisa had discovered the truth about her father long after she’d finished high school at Pershing. So if Cole’s reaction after missing out on a potential hockey championship at Pershing hadn’t soured her on athletes, then the truth she learned about her father in her twenties certainly would have.
As Marisa steered the conversation back to scheduling a student field trip to the Razors’ arena, as well as setting up another time for her to review Serenghetti Construction’s old architectural plans, Cole realized one thing.
He’d had his chance with Marisa at eighteen, but these days she was looking for something—someone—different.
Six
Marisa had never been inside the New England Razors arena, which was located outside Springfield, Massachusetts. The closeness to the state border allowed the team to attract a sizable crowd from nearby Connecticut as well as from their home base, Massachusetts.
Marisa had just never counted herself among those fans. She’d always felt that going to a game would be a painful blast from the past where Cole was concerned. The Razors’ games were televised, but she could handle Cole Serenghetti’s power over her memories—sort of—when it was limited to a glimpse of a screen in a restaurant or other public place.
Right now, however, she was getting the full Cole Serenghetti effect as he stood a few feet away addressing a group of Pershing high school students. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved black tee. His clothing was casual, but no less potent on her senses. She was sensitive to his every move, and was having a hard time denying what it was: sexual awareness.
“Look,” Cole said to the kids arrayed before him in a semicircle inside the front entrance, “since it’s a Saturday and this is a half-day field trip, we’ll do a tour of the arena first and then some ice-skating. How does that sound?”
Some kids smiled, and others nodded their heads.
“And how many of you want to be professional hockey players?”
A few hands shot up. Marisa was glad to see those of three girls among them. Pershing fielded both boys’ and girls’ hockey teams, but the girls tended to drop out at a higher rate than the boys once they hit high school.
One of the students raised his hand. “Does your injury still bother you?”
Marisa sucked in a breath.
“It’s important to wear protective equipment,” Cole said. “Injuries do happen, but they’re unusual, especially the serious ones.”
The kids remained silent, as if they expected him to go on.
“In my case, I tore up my knee twice. I had surgery and therapy both times. After the second, I could walk without a problem, but playing professional hockey wasn’t in the cards.” Cole’s tone was even and matter-of-fact, and he betrayed no hint that the subject was a touchy one for him. “I was past thirty, and I’d already had several great seasons with the New England Razors. I had another career calling me.”
“So now you do construction?” a student piped up from the back row.
Cole gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Yup. But as CEO, I spend more time in the office than on a job site. I make sure we stay within our budget and that resources are allocated correctly among projects.” He cast Marisa a sidelong look. “I also go out and drum up more business.”
Marisa felt heat flood her cheeks even though she was the only one who could guess what Cole was alluding to.
A few days ago she and Cole had finally had their intended meeting at his offices to go over architectural plans for past projects. When she’d shown up this time, Cole had had the plans ready for review in a conference room. She must have appeared relieved that she wouldn’t have to step back inside Serenghetti Construction’s storage room, because Cole had shot her an amused and knowing look. Still, she’d gotten enough information to go back to Mr. Dobson with no surprises but some valuable input.
Fortunately, they hadn’t had the opportunity to discuss their encounter in the storage room. Every time Cole had looked as if he was about to bring it up, they’d been interrupted by a phone call or by an employee with a question.
Cole scanned the small crowd assembled before him.
“Today I’m going to show you career fields connected to hockey that you might not have thought of. Sure there are the players on the ice that everyone sees during the game. Their names make the news. But behind them is a whole other team of people who make professional hockey what it is.”
“Like who?” a couple of kids asked, speaking over each other.
“Well, I’m going to take you to the broadcast booth, in case anyone is interested in sports journalism. We’ll walk through the management offices to talk to marketing. And then we’ll go down to the locker rooms, where the sports medicine people do their stuff. Sound good?”
The kids nodded.
“I’ll stop before I show you the construction stuff,” Cole quipped.
“Is that how you stayed involved with your old sport?” a ninth grader asked.
“Yup.” Cole flashed a smile. “We repaved the ground outside the arena.”
From her position a little removed from the crowd, Marisa sighed because Cole had a natural ability to connect with kids. He was effortlessly cool, and she was...not. Some things never changed.
Cole winked at her, shaking her out of her musings. “And if you’re all good, there might also be an appearance by Jordan Serenghetti—”
The kids let out whoops.
“—who is having a great season with the Razors. But more important, in my opinion, he’s having an even better life as my younger brother.”
Everyone laughed.
Marisa thought Jordan would dispute Cole’s assessment if he were there.
After Cole gave the kids a tour of the parts of the arena that he had referred to, he led the group to the ice rink.
As everyone laced up their skates, Marisa overheard a couple of the kids talking about her with Cole. When they mentioned to him that she was a fantastic cook, she felt heat rush to her face.
She hung back and skated onto the ice after everyone else. She was wearing tights and a tunic-length sweater so her movements weren’t restricted, but she hadn’t been on skates in a long time. She became aware of Cole watching her, hands in pockets, as the others glided around.
“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” he said.
She continued to skate at a leisurely pace, now only a few feet away from him. “I’ve had ice-skating lessons.”
He arched a brow.
“It’s New England. Everyone assumes you know how to stay upright on the ice.”
To underscore her words, she did several swizzles, her legs swerving in and out.
“Looks like you did more than learn how to stay upright,” Cole commented. “Where did you learn?”
“At the rec center outside Welsdale,” she admitted, slowing. “It opened when we were kids, and they gave free lessons.”
“I know. My father built it.”
She stared at him and then gave an unsurprised laugh. “I should have guessed.”
She thought a moment, concentrated and then gaining speed, did a scratch spin. Glancing back at Cole, now meters away, she shrugged and added, “I picked up a few moves.”
She wasn’t sure how many moves she could still do, but it seemed that as with riding a bike, some skills she’d never lose.
“So when did you change course from budding skating star to top-notch teacher?” Cole asked as he skated toward her.
She shrugged again. “We didn’t have the money for me to pursue the sport seriously. It would have meant lessons, costumes and travel expenses. When I was accepted to Pershing, I had to concentrate on getting good grades in order to keep my scholarship.”
She tensed as soon as the word scholarship was out of her mouth because they were close to the big bugaboo topic between them. Still, the truth was that Cole had gotten to play in the NHL while she’d received her coveted scholarship and moved on to teaching—a nice, stable profession rather than glitz and glory. He’d been able to afford his dreams while she hadn’t.
“I was signed up for figure skating and ice dancing lessons as a kid—”
She laughed because she couldn’t envision Cole doing the waltz—on the ice or off. He was too big...too male.
“—but they didn’t take,” he finished drily.
She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to school her expression. She was a lot better at keeping a straight face in the classroom.
“My mother was determined to make her sons into little gentlemen.”
Marisa willed herself to appear earnest. Instead Mrs. Serenghetti had gotten a bunch of pranksters.
“You think this is funny.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Here, I’ll demonstrate,” he said, approaching. “I remember a thing or two.”
She blinked. “What?”
“We’re here to show these kids careers related to hockey.”
“Like ice dancing? I thought that branching out usually went the other way.”
“Like if you sucked at ice dancing as a kid, you took up hockey instead?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“So now I’m a failed figure skater? Someone who couldn’t hack it?” He rubbed his chin. “I have something to prove.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. But before she could respond, he reached for her hand and then slid his other around her waist, so that they were facing each other in dance position.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a high voice, caught between surprise and breathlessness at his nearness.
“Like I said, I have something to prove. I hope you remember your figure skating moves, sweet pea.”
The arm around her was a band of pure muscle. He worked out, and it showed. The power he exuded made her nervous, so she didn’t raise her gaze above his mouth—though that had potency enough to wreak havoc on her heart.
She and Cole skated over the ice, doing a fair facsimile of dancing together. His hands on her were warm imprints, heating her against the cold of the ice.
When she stole a peek at him, she quickly concluded he was still devastatingly gorgeous. His hair was thick and ruffled, inviting a woman to run her fingers through it. His jaw was firm and square but shadowed, promising a hint of roughness. His lips were firm but sensual. And the scar—oh, the scar. The one on his cheek gave character and invited tenderness. He was a catalog of sexy contrasts—a magnet for women in a much blunter way than Jordan. She lowered her lashes. But not for me.
“Are you ready for a throw jump?”
Her gaze shot to his. “What?” She sounded like a parrot but she couldn’t have heard him right. “I thought we were just dancing! What about your knee?”
He shrugged. “It couldn’t take repeated hits from a defenseman who weighs over two hundred pounds, but I’m guessing you don’t weigh nearly as much.”
“I’m not telling you how much I weigh!”
“Naturally.” Cole’s eyes crinkled. “Here we go, Ice Princess. Think you can land a throw waltz jump?”
In the next moment they were spinning around and Cole was lifting her off the ice.
“Ready?” he murmured.
She felt herself moving through the air. It was a gentle throw, so she didn’t go very high or far. She brought down the toe of her right foot and landed her blade before extending her left leg back.
Cole grinned, and the kids around them on the ice laughed and clapped while a few chortled.
“A one-footed landing,” Cole said, skating toward her. “I’m impressed. You’ve still got game, sweet pea.”
She laughed. “Still, can you see me competing in the Olympics?” she asked, gesturing at her ample chest. “I’d have had to bind myself.”
Cole gave her a half-lidded look as he stopped in front of her. “Now that would be a shame.”
She’d walked into that one. Students glided by around them, and there were a few gasps as Jordan appeared. This was hardly the place for Cole and her to be having a sexually tinged moment.
“Relax,” Cole said in a low voice. “Nobody is paying attention to us anymore.�
��
Easy for you to say. She tingled with the urge to touch him again. “Cole Serenghetti, too cool for school.”
“If you were the teacher, I’d have had my butt glued to my seat in the front row.”
“You say that now,” she teased, even as his nearness continued to affect her like a drug.
“I was a callow teenager who couldn’t appreciate what you were going through.”
“Callow?” she queried, still trying to keep it light. “Are you trying to impress the teacher with your vocabulary?”
He bent his head until his lips were inches from hers. “How am I doing?”
Oh wow. “Great,” she said a bit breathlessly. “Keep at it, and you might even get an A.”
It was the pep talk that she usually gave her students. Keep trying, work hard and the reward will come... The moral of her own life story, really. Well, except for her love life...
Cole’s eyes gleamed as he straightened and murmured, “I’ve never cared about grades.”
She didn’t want to ask what he did care about. She’d guess his currency of choice was kisses—and more... Troublingly, she could seriously envision getting tangled up with Cole again even though she should know better...
* * *
Cole swiveled on his bar stool and looked at the entrance again.
This time he was finally rewarded with the sight of Marisa coming toward him. She was wearing jeans—ones that hugged her curves—and a mint-colored sweater. She had on light makeup, but it was a toss-up whether her curls or her chest was bouncier.
Cole felt his groin tighten.
He hadn’t been sure she would show. His text had been vague.
Meet me at the Puck & Shoot. I have a plan u need to hear.
Ever since he’d upheld his end of the bargain by giving her students a tour of the Razors’ arena, he’d been desperate to come up with another excuse to see her.
She stopped in front of him. “I heard women proposition you in bars these days.”
“Care to make one?”
“How about a drink instead?”
“That’s a start.” He stood, closing the distance between them even further. “What’ll you have?”
“A light beer.”
