Crossing the Goal Line

by Kim Findlay

“There seems to be a class.”

  “Oh, that’s just Bridget’s special project.” With a sudden suspicious glance, Walter asked, “Has she said something to you? Has she done anything?”

  Mike wondered if Walter was afraid of the redhead, Bridget.

  “No. Is she likely to?” he asked in amusement. Did Walter think she could hurt him somehow?

  The other man sighed. “She has a temper, and she’s a little obsessive over that class.”

  So it was this class, not all of her classes, Mike thought.

  “What’s so special about that class?” he asked aloud.

  Walter shook his head sadly. “Those kids aren’t members, and their parents certainly aren’t. They’re from the local school. As you can tell, the neighborhood around the club went downhill sometime after the club was established, and, well, the locals aren’t the kinds of people we’d accept as members. Bridget thought this class bringing in neighborhood kids would help with community relations. Not that we have problems, I assure you. Just a little graffiti, and honestly, these days, who doesn’t?” Walter smiled ingratiatingly. “If you have any problems with Bridget, any at all, just let me know.”

  Mike had the strong impression that Walter was hoping he’d find some.

  “Bridget is a swimming instructor?” he asked. She was obviously good. Maybe he could hire her for a couple of lessons. It was frustrating to have someone beat him that easily. He hated losing.

  “No, not exactly. She’s the coach for our swim team.” Walter sighed, obviously not happy to have to sing her praises. “She was a competitive swimmer, and yes, there has been improvement with the team so far,”

  Walter didn’t seem to hope or want that to continue, but he cleared his throat, adding, “She’s not really one of us. She came up with this crazy idea about building community relations by teaching local kids to swim and got some of the members all excited about it, but I’m just waiting for those kids to cause a problem. They don’t know how to behave in a place like this, and they’re not likely to become members in the future. They’re going to start thinking they’re entitled to use our resources, and it’s going to cause trouble down the line.”

  Mike kept his expression neutral. “Not really one of us” meant not rich. Mike had grown up close to the poverty line, so he didn’t feel quite like “one of us,” even though he now had enough money to make him welcome almost anywhere. When he was young, he would have been one of “those kids.”

  He felt warmer about this Bridget. If she’d swum competitively, well, that would explain how she was able to beat him. And he liked her motive for starting this class, whether or not it would work out.

  He also understood a little better why she might not appreciate his swimming during her class time. The pool was plenty big, so they could coexist, but Walter was obviously opposed to the idea of the class and would be pleased to squeeze it out. This must look like a first step.

  “Thank you, Walter. I just wanted to understand. Since I’m new here, I don’t know the protocol. Didn’t want to ruffle any feathers.”

  Walter assured him that no feathers worth worrying about were being ruffled.

  He smiled and tried not to dwell on the fact that Walter had a very punchable face.

  Mike thought he’d like to make a gesture to indicate that he would support the class, and decided to think that over.

  He had no idea that the gesture would result in his being kidnapped.

  * * *

  BRIDGET FOUND THE gesture in an envelope addressed to her a couple of days later. In the envelope were ten tickets to a preseason Blaze game. There was a printed note, apologizing for the intrusion into her class space, and indicating that these tickets were in appreciation. There was a scrawl at the bottom that was presumably a signature, but it was illegible.

  Bridget understood it was from the lap swimmer, and even for a preseason game, these hockey tickets were hard to come by. She cynically thought that money could solve a lot of problems. The lap swimmer must have a lot of cash. He was probably some business type, of which the club had many.

  She’d never been to the new arena built for the expansion team ten years ago, and had never seen a professional game live in her life, even though her whole family had been hockey fans from birth.

  Canadians loved hockey, so the new team, the Toronto Blaze, had quickly gained fans and sold out the same as the sister team. Her brothers would be very envious. That was the good part.

  Taking eight kids along would certainly limit how intently she could watch the game. Or maybe prevent her from watching it at all. Bridget had nephews and nieces so she knew what she was in for.

  The club had a van to take the swim team to meets, and Bridget was able to book it for Saturday. Tad was happy to come along when there was an opportunity to see a hockey game.

  As expected, the outing wasn’t a walk in the park. The kids weren’t really bad. Tony of course had to question everything Bridget told him, but eight kids were a handful. She and Tad finally corralled them in their seats. Then Bridget had to prevent Tony from finding a better view by climbing over the seats in front of him. Seats that were occupied.

  Bridget would have gladly watched the play on the ice, even if it was mostly prospects playing, but the kids started to get bored. Popcorn and drinks helped distract them for a bit, and then the trips to the bathroom began.

  During the break between the first and second periods, Bridget and Tad split the children up and took them around the arena. Bridget started to wonder if this had been worthwhile. It would be nice to have the chance to explore the arena but these kids didn’t want to look at hockey memorabilia; they wanted to run.

  Then, at the end of the second period, someone appeared at the end of their row.

  Bridget had taken the aisle seat so that no one—Tony—could get out without her knowledge. Because of that she was the first to realize he was there, and she recognized him at once. The man was tall, six-four according to the newspapers, and Bridget thought that looked right. He was wearing a suit, minus the jacket, and wasn’t bad looking, especially for a hockey player. He had all his own teeth and hair, for starters. His nose had a distinctive bend from a previous break, but he wore it well. His hair was dark, his eyes a light gray.

  This was Mike Reimer, the expensive goalie Toronto had acquired in a trade last year from Quebec City. The goalie who’d won three Cups in Quebec and then bombed out in Toronto.

  He was standing at the end of the row, holding a handful of team hats. For a moment Bridget stared, wondering why he was there. Had their benefactor set up a meeting with a member of the team? Or...but no...

  Then Tony said, “It’s that rotten swimmer from the pool!” And Bridget closed her eyes, wanting to strangle Tony.

  Now she understood the preferential treatment her lane swimmer had been given by the management committee at the club, and the tickets for her class. She felt stupid. Anyone but a blind swimmer would have realized...but she had to open her eyes and deal with this. As briefly as possible.

  * * *

  MIKE HAD NOT been enjoying the hockey game.

  He was in the luxury box with the rest of the players who weren’t playing that afternoon, but no one from the team had been talking to him. He got it. He really did. He knew he’d let them down during the last playoffs, and he hadn’t been forgiven. He was naturally a reserved guy, and had spent his entire career with one team. Learning to make nice with new guys wasn’t his forte.

  It didn’t help that Mike’s backup was a popular guy. When the team’s starting goalie had retired after an injury last year, many thought that Turchenko would get his chance. Turchenko thought so, too. He was a gregarious guy who spoke in fractured English, and his mangled phrases were often quoted. He was blond and blue-eyed and looked good in photos. He was also undisciplined and lazy, not making the most of his natural talent
. Mike found him immature.

  But Turchenko was playing today, and doing well. So Mike “overheard” a lot of comments about how good the kid was doing, and he had to bite his tongue. Nothing was going to change unless he, Mike, went out and played like a top goalie, and there were still a couple of games before he’d be back in net. So, he grabbed the hats he’d picked up for the kids and took them over to see how things were going.

  The redheaded instructor was there, this time in jeans and a jersey (not his of course) looking a little frazzled. He felt some satisfaction from that. It still smarted that she’d beat him in swimming.

  “Everyone having fun?” he asked.

  Bridget turned to the row of kids and asked, “Having fun?”

  The response was positive. Mike passed down the red-yellow-and-black hats, which each kid immediately put on. Good, Mike thought. He was making progress with someone.

  Bridget turned to her charges. “What would you like to say to Mr. Reimer?” she asked.

  A chorus of thank-yous came back, with something that sounded like “bad swimmer.” Mike thought that was a little unfair. He reserved his talents for frozen water.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Reimer,” Bridget added.

  He blinked. Bridget turned back to the kids, dismissing him. This was a new low.

  Before he could ask what her problem was, he heard a cough behind him.

  “Mike Reimer? Could I take a picture?”

  Mike turned. Part of being on the team was public relations, and he’d always honored that. So he signed what was put in front of him, smiled for pictures, ignored the comments made behind his back and left as the third period started without speaking further to the swimming class.

  * * *

  BRIDGET HADN’T PLANNED on kidnapping anyone. She’d dropped off the eight kids, with sticky faces, stories and hats, in front of their local school. Parents and caregivers were waiting, and Bridget thought, after reviewing the outing, that there wasn’t much in the stories that would worry any responsible adult.

  Of course, with Tony, all bets were off.

  She drove back to the club and dropped Tad at the front door. After parking the van, she’d taken the keys in and filled out the form that Wally the Weasel required. She made sure to note that there was no damage, since Wally seemed to expect these kids to act like wild animals. She’d stopped by her desk (a cubby off the pool room) to catch up her notes on the swim team, and then, finally, had been ready to head home.

  She was still a little irritable, but she was free, and was looking forward to a relaxing evening. Now that the hockey preseason had begun, there were sure to be some of her brothers and friends at the house to watch a hockey game, and her mother would have prepared an incredible amount of food. Bridget rented the apartment in the basement of her parents’ place, so she decided she might as well join them. She sent a text to see who was around.

  She slipped out the back door to get her car from the parking lot, and beside her fifteen-year-old Mazda was a man leaning on a car.

  Not just any man, and not just any car.

  * * *

  MIKE SAW THE back door open, and then the red hair. He crossed his arms and waited. He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d come back to the athletic facility. He didn’t have friends here to make plans with on a Saturday night. He could have gone to a bar or club. He knew he’d have heard some insults, but a well-known athlete whose salary was published in the media could find companionship.

  He’d grown tired of that scenario long ago, though. Puck-bunnies and sycophants weren’t what he wanted. He just wanted to hang with someone.

  The redhead—Bridget—had been a little testy at the game, but he wasn’t sure if that was the kids, or him, or maybe she just didn’t like hockey. He decided he was going to find out.

  He’d heard of love at first sight, but this was the first time he’d seen it happen, right in front of him. Bridget had come out, checking her phone, not even noticing him. Then when she’d looked up, she seemed annoyed. But as he’d waited, her expression softened, a small smile turned up the corners of her mouth and she moved forward as if drawn by an irresistible force.

  Mike watched as she closed in on him...and then passed him...staring at his car. She brought one hand up, as if to touch it, then dropped it again.

  She shook her head, and looked back at him. “A P1?”

  Mike raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Yes.”

  He watched as she completed her circuit of his car. Not everyone would recognize a McLaren, or know which one he had. He’d impressed people with this car, mostly when they realized what it cost, but he’d never been ignored for it. He didn’t like that. It was a nice car, even a beautiful one, but still it was just a car. Maybe he’d been spoiled. People noticed him. They might think he was slime crawling out from under a rock, or they might think he was a hockey god, but they didn’t ignore him.

  With a sigh, she finally tore her gaze away, and saw him standing there, waiting.

  “If I won a lottery...” she said dreamily. “Brian wants an Aston Martin, and Patrick a Ferrari, but this—she’s exactly what I’d choose.”

  Mike didn’t know who Brian and Patrick were, and he didn’t much care. He’d decided this had been a mistake, so he’d ask about the kids and the game and get out of there. If he wanted his ego stepped on further, he could just walk down Yonge Street.

  “So, the kids all got home safely?” he asked.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she answered tersely.

  What was her problem?

  “I hope everyone enjoyed it,” he persisted.

  “I think the kids enjoyed the hats and the popcorn more than the game. There weren’t that many players they knew.” She paused for just a moment. “Turchenko seemed to be doing well.”

  Mike was tired of hearing how well Turchenko was doing. The guy had played well for the half of the game he’d been in. He also hadn’t been challenged that much. Mike knew, though, that a lot of people, including most of his teammates and the fans in Toronto, hoped he’d win the starting job and leave Mike to warm the bench.

  He was determined that wasn’t going to happen. So his response was not very diplomatic.

  “Of course, everyone likes Turchenko. He’s blond and blue-eyed and flirts with—”

  “Right, because I care only about the way he looks. I couldn’t possibly understand hockey with my poor female brain,” Bridget spit out.

  Mike hadn’t meant that. He’d been raised by a strong woman who’d used her brains and hard work to deal with being pregnant and stranded at sixteen. He’d been going to say that Turchenko flirted with the press, not women, but Bridget had reacted like an angry cat. Her eyes were flashing, her freckles almost obscured by her heated cheeks, and he could swear her very hair was vibrating with anger. It was fascinating.

  Walter had said she had a temper, and Mike was obviously getting a look at it. He was tired and irritated, and glad he wasn’t the only one out of sorts. Instead of answering diplomatically, he decided to poke the bear.

  “A lot of people think they understand hockey, but it’s different when you’re actually playing it.”

  Yep, Mike thought. Her hair is vibrating.

  “Okay, come with me,” she snarled. She stomped over to the Mazda. She unlocked the door and looked back. “Get in, hot shot.”

  “In that?” Mike responded, looking from his pride and joy to the car Bridget was halfway into.

  “Afraid of a girl?”

  The bear was well and fully poked. Those eyes were almost lasering through him. With a shrug, he swung himself around the car and opened the passenger door. He’d barely folded himself in when a blast of rap music assailed his ears and Bridget tore out of the parking lot.

  Mike propped his hand against the roof of the little car to keep from falling on Bridget as she down
shifted for the turn. He should have known that anyone who fell for his car the way she had would drive a stick. And skillfully, too, though she was going a little too fast for safety.

  “Okay, now that you’ve got me, where are we going?” he yelled over the music.

  “To play hockey!”

  Mike wedged himself against the door. He didn’t know what she had in mind, but this was more fun than he’d had in a while.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHE OBVIOUSLY KNEW the way well, and as she took another side street, he realized he was lost. But they finally pulled up in front of a brick two-story on a dead-end street. Bridget pulled out the keys, and Mike welcomed the sudden silence as the “music” stopped in mid-phrase. She slammed out of the car and stalked up the driveway before unlocking the garage door and sliding it open.

  Inside was hockey gear. A moment passed. Then he realized that when she said they were going to play hockey, she hadn’t meant on a screen or table. She wanted to play road hockey. He almost laughed. Sure, she was a good swimmer, but did she really think she could take on a professional hockey player?

  Apparently, she did. She was dragging a net down the driveway. Mike opened the door and got out of the car. As she set up the net on the street, he noticed that the block was perfect for playing road ball. Originally, the plan must have been for the street to extend further; the pavement stretched out another fifty feet then dead-ended at a chain-link fence and an abandoned parking lot. There were pink and blue lines marked in chalk. This was a well-used space for road hockey. He’d have loved access to something like this when he was growing up.

  “Go get some gear on,” she ordered.

  “Seriously?”

  “Chicken?” she asked.

  Mike laughed. He felt like a seven-year-old being dared.

  “So what position am I supposed to play?”

  “I thought you were a goalie,” she taunted.

  Challenge accepted, Mike thought. He wasn’t sure what she thought she was trying to prove, but he could handle a girl in road ball, even if his game had been off lately. He’d better be able to...