by Kim Findlay
Bridget wasn’t so sure, but she appreciated the sentiment.
It was Wednesday, February 14th, time for the date. By seven, she was ready. Karen had done her makeup, and done a great job. Her hair had highlights, and had been cut to look like it just fell into place naturally, although Bridget knew from experience that it never did fall into place anything like this. She kept giving it a shake to see if it would still look good. It did, so she decided it was worth what the hairdresser had charged her.
Bridget admitted to herself that she didn’t usually try too hard to look good because she was afraid she’d fail. But maybe, maybe, she’d give it a try more often.
There was a knock on the door. Deep breath, adrenaline rushing, but no outlet. The beginning of a race. Showtime.
She opened the door, and Mike was there.
She forgot to breathe for a moment. He was wearing a dark suit under an overcoat that fit him beautifully, accentuating his broad shoulders and tall build. He looked so good.
“Hi,” she said, pushing the air out of her lungs.
“Hello.” He smiled at her, and she felt better. This was Mike. The Mike she knew. “For you,” he said, passing over a bouquet. It was full of golden-yellow roses—more than a dozen, maybe more than two.
She was shocked. “Thanks. They’re beautiful. You didn’t have to—”
Mike smiled again. “I wanted to.”
“Thank you,” she repeated. “I’d better do something with these...” She turned and looked for something to put them in. She found an empty jar under the sink and decided it would have to do. She noticed he was still standing in the doorway.
“Oh, come on in.”
Bridget turned to the tiny kitchen and set the flowers down beside the sink. She started filling the jar with water. “You won the bet. Enjoy!”
She carefully arranged the flowers inside. It was a tight fit. They were beautiful, and she took a moment to smell them before turning around to place them on the table. Mike had stepped in far enough to drop a bag—chocolates?—on the counter.
“Beautiful,” he said.
Bridget looked around at her place. It was looking much better, and her sisters-in-law had added a couple of touches to give the room color and character, but it was still pretty basic. She looked back at Mike, and saw him staring at her, roses still in her hands. She colored as she realized he wasn’t talking about her apartment.
“Thanks,” she said gruffly, looking determinedly at the roses and cautiously moving to set them down on the table before she dropped them.
Mike wandered around the dining/living space. She didn’t have a lot of furniture—the table and chairs, a couch facing a TV. One door led to her small bathroom. He glanced in there, and then into the bedroom.
“So, you really do have your own apartment.”
“It’s still in my parents’ house. But it’s nice to know someone keeps an eye on the place when I’m traveling. And I don’t disturb anyone when I have to leave early or get back late.”
“No Turchenko poster?”
“Jee wouldn’t let me.”
Mike laughed. “I thought you’d do it anyway.”
Bridget smiled, relaxing a bit. “The problem was that I’d then be stuck with a poster of Turchenko, and I decided it wasn’t worth it.”
“That reminds me. I have something else for you.”
He crossed back to the bag he’d brought with him, reached in and pulled out two jerseys: one home, one away.
They weren’t generic jerseys, and they weren’t the ones cut to fit female figures. They were large, and not crisp and new. They had “Reimer” on the back.
Bridget flew over and pulled one up in front of her.
She looked up at Mike, eyes sparkling. “Are these yours—like, game jerseys?”
He nodded.
“But I lost the bet,” she protested.
“Yes, but it wounds my ego to have you wearing an old Giguère jersey around.”
Bridget went to try one of them on, then remembered she was dressed up and stopped abruptly.
“I will definitely wear these. They are awesome. Let me put these in my closet and I’ll be right back.”
When she returned, Mike had his bag in his hands. “Do you have a garbage for this?”
Bridget asked. “No more goodies in there?”
Mike looked down at the bag. “You were looking for something else?”
“Not really, I thought maybe you had chocolates.”
“Er—no. Was I supposed to? I thought it was a little too clichéd.”
Bridget agreed. “It would have been. But you did bring flowers.”
“True. As long as it’s not chocolates I’m okay?”
“And no jewelry,” she noted.
Mike laughed. “I’ve got to hear more about these dates you’ve had. I think jewelry would have been pushing it, don’t you?”
“On top of two jerseys? Yes, definitely. So, have you seen enough?”
Mike gave another glance around and nodded.
“Hope you feel like you got something out of this,” Bridget said, following his gaze. “There’s not much to this place. I warned you.”
“You can learn a lot about a person from where they live. You’ve seen my place.”
Bridget shook her head. She thought about the cold hotel room, with no personal touches beyond Mike’s workout equipment. “I don’t think a hotel suite really gives you much insight. And I’m not sure what you can learn here. You can learn that I can’t decorate, I guess, but that’s about the best this place is offering you. You might be mistaken into thinking I can clean, but that would be wrong. I had help.”
Mike smiled. “I learned that there aren’t any pink ruffles or boy bands, or even a Turchenko poster.”
“I’m sure that was a shock.”
Mike merely nodded. “Are you ready? I made reservations.”
Bridget felt nervous again. She wanted to ask him if he knew it was Valentine’s Day, and if he’d picked the day on purpose. She wanted to know how seriously he was taking this date. But he smiled at her, so warmly that she almost forgot to breathe again, and she stopped thinking.
He took a step toward the door. She followed and opened the closet door for Jill’s coat. Mike took it from her and held it up for her. His fingers brushed her neck, and she shivered.
“Cold?”
“I’ll be fine.”
But she wasn’t sure she would be. She’d fallen head over heels for this guy, and she was sure she’d never be the same again.
* * *
MIKE DROVE THEM to a tiny place that Bridget had never heard of. It was a family-owned Italian restaurant, warm and intimate. The place was full, except for one table for two that the owner led them to. Surprisingly enough, the place seemed empty of hockey fans; no one gave them a second look. Their waiter was happy to call them by name, but had no apparent idea as to who Mike was.
The waiter took a drink order and then left them to study the menu. Bridget glanced at it, and decided on tortellini, mostly because she could eat it with little chance of spilling on the new dress.
“I hope you like Italian,” Mike said.
“Who doesn’t?” Bridget answered, picking up a piece of bread. Then she thought maybe she shouldn’t, and set it back down without eating a bite. She took a drink of water, and wobbled the glass as she put it down.
“You seem a little nervous,” Mike noted.
“You’re wrong. I’m not a little nervous, I’m a lot nervous.”
The waiter returned with the wine. After the usual wine ritual, he asked if they were ready to order, and left, after subtly indicating they’d selected the best items on offer.
Mike asked for details on the City Championship meet. Bridget had texted him the results, but they hadn’t had much cha
nce to talk. Bridget was still thrilled with how the kids had done.
The club as a whole had done better than they ever had previously. Half the kids had personal bests. Her A-team had won their races in their age group, and four of the kids would be going to the provincial championships. As Bridget went through the details, her words began to tumble over each other, and she scarcely noticed when the waiter brought their salads.
Mike asked, “When are Provincials? Are they here in Toronto?”
Bridget suddenly stopped talking. “I’m sorry. I’m monopolizing the conversation. You must be bored.”
“Bridget, it’s okay. I’m not bored. How could I be when you’re so enthusiastic?”
Bridget looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Mike, but it’s our first date—”
“Our first real date,” he interrupted, with a smile.
Bridget didn’t smile back. “Exactly. I’m talking nonstop about swimming, and it’s Valentine’s Day, I don’t know if you know, and you brought roses and jerseys and we’re at this beautiful restaurant and I don’t want to do something stupid again. You’re right, I’m not good at casual.”
Mike reached over with his hand and covered one of hers. It was big, strong and calloused. It felt wonderful. She looked down, afraid to meet his gaze because of what hers could be revealing.
“I know it’s Valentine’s Day. And I want to be here with you, today, and it’s not casual for me,” he spoke in a warm tone, reassuring her.
She looked up from their hands, and he nodded.
“To be honest, I don’t know what we’re doing. I told you about Amber. I don’t know how to be with someone while I’m playing. I’d made up my mind that I wasn’t going to get seriously involved with anyone till I was done with hockey.”
The waiter returned with their main course. Mike let her hand go, and Bridget felt bereft. The waiter fussed over their plates and napkins and wine, and finally left.
Bridget took a bite of her food. She hoped she could swallow it, since her throat was so tight she wasn’t sure she could speak right now.
Mike took a bite, and considered before he continued. “After Amber’s death, I threw myself into hockey. At first, it kept me busy enough that I didn’t grieve too much, and tired enough that I could sleep. And then everything was going great, and as long as I kept that focus on hockey, I could stay on top. I saw a few women, but hockey always came first.”
He looked at her, and she nodded. He sounded like he was going somewhere with this, and she desperately needed to know where that was.
“Then last spring something happened to my game. That led to the trade, the playoffs, it was all a disaster. For the first time, I had to actually consider life after hockey, and I was lost. I had no idea what to do. I was terrified.”
Mike moved some food around on his plate with his fork. Bridget set her own fork down, since her fingers were unsteady.
“I went to see my college coach. We broached the subject of retirement, but it was still something I couldn’t handle. He suggested that even if I could play well again, I needed a more rounded life. But how was I going to do that living as a pariah in Toronto for the next year?”
Bridget twisted her hands in her lap, concentrating on what Mike was saying. This was going to make all the difference to her.
Mike looked at her with a warm smile. “And then, last fall, this redhead dived into the pool beside me and beat me soundly. She kidnapped me and I ended up playing a road ball game with a clan of crazy hockey fans. She helped me work out when I was injured, and I ended up talking to her about things I’d never shared with anyone. I realized she was strong, smart and funny, and I never knew what she’d do next. But maybe most important, she was an athlete, like me. She understood how that worked.”
Bridget was afraid to move. Was there a “but” coming? The waiter reappeared, looking in distress at their almost untouched plates. Mike waved him away.
Mike said, “Bridget, what I’d like to do is start spending as much time with you as we can manage with our crazy schedules. But I don’t know if that’s what you want, and if it is, I want to be fair to you. And I think there’s a problem we have to look at.”
Bridget froze. Here was the “but.” She made her stiff muscles work. “Okay, if I’m on board, what’s the problem?” Did she need to be more careful about how she spoke to his teammates? Sign some kind of nondisclosure agreement about the Blaze? Get a new wardrobe for fancy events?
Mike leaned forward. “After I’d talked to Jee that night and found out that I was under some misapprehensions about you, I didn’t think things through. I’m not normally impulsive. But I wanted to see you, so I just came to find you at the club.”
Bridget had already given him a hard time about the whole gay misunderstanding when he’d finally confessed, and had let Wally know exactly how out of line he had been. “Mike, I think I can understand that hockey is your priority right now. It’s the same for me with my coaching.”
“I know. I understand that your swimmers need you. That will make things difficult, but if that was all we had to contend with, I wouldn’t have any reservations.”
Would he ever explain the “but”? She was almost vibrating with tension.
“I can’t guarantee that the club is making the playoffs, and if they don’t, that removes most of the problem. The team had a chat with my agent. I’m not being traded and they hope to make at least one round of the postseason. I think that’s a realistic forecast. I think we can make the playoffs, but that’s only if I play my best.”
Bridget nodded. She’d had no concerns that he’d be traded anymore. The whole city was tracking how close the Toronto teams were to qualifying for the playoffs. She was pretty sure that chart was on the front page of every sports website. With the way Mike was playing, any rumors about a trade would start a riot. “After that... I don’t know if this team can pull together, but we’re going places only if I’m doing well, which means I get lots of attention from the press. Lots,” he reiterated. “That first playoff series back in Quebec—Amber’s death came up over and over. I was under a microscope.
“If I flake out again, I’m going to be the most despised person in this city. I remember the feeling. And that will spread out to anyone I’m connected to. It’s not much better when I do well, to be honest. I’ve been through one brief playoff series here, after several in Quebec. The pressure in Toronto is greater. It will be a constant spotlight. On me, and on anyone around me.”
Bridget thought she was getting the picture.
“I want you to know what you’re getting into. You’ve seen what it’s like when we’ve been out together. People recognize me. They want autographs. They want pictures. They want to tell me what I’m doing right, and they’ll ream me out for anything they think I’m doing wrong. You’ll quite possibly come in for some of that. If you needed to break things off, the press would hound you for how it might affect the team. I don’t know how much it might spill over to your family, and your swim team.”
Bridget had long dropped all pretense of eating. She hadn’t thought beyond being with Mike. That reality still hadn’t sunk in, so she hadn’t considered what the future would look like. But Mike was looking ahead, and she needed to do the same. Mike wasn’t a regular guy, and dating him would be something different as well.
Mike had paused, making sure she was with him. She took a breath.
“And so?” she asked.
“And so the safe play would be to wait till the season’s over, but I have no idea when that will be, or what’s going to happen then. If it goes wrong, I may have to leave town for a bit. It won’t be pretty.” Mike’s mouth was set grimly, probably remembering last season’s ending. He reached for her hand again. Bridget welcomed it, and intertwined her fingers with his.
“So, what do you think, Bridget? Do we take a gamble on this? Do we play it safe an
d see what happens later? Selfishly, I’d rather have someone going through this with me.”
Bridget looked at Mike. His hand was gripping hers, his gaze intense, and she thought, He’s really worried that I might turn him down.
“So, you’re not worried that I might lose my temper and blurt out something I shouldn’t?”
Mike shook his head. “I’m not asking you to change who you are. From my perspective, if people don’t like what you say, that’s their problem. It might even be fun to see you ream out Green or Turchenko to the press. Shake them up a bit.”
“That wouldn’t help the mood in the dressing room,” Bridget noted.
“That ship has sailed. I’m not sure what it would take to make this team gel, but I’m not worrying about that. I’ll do my job and they can take care of themselves.”
The waiter came out to check again on their main courses, looking anxious.
Bridget withdrew her hand reluctantly and picked up her fork, contemplating her food. She couldn’t help but be moved by his concern for her, but she also understood how his guilt about Amber was coloring his viewpoint.
She looked up at Mike. He was concentrating on his dinner. His face was familiar to her now: the gray eyes, the crook in his nose, the firm jaw.
He looked up. Those beautiful eyes were asking a question, and she knew she couldn’t say no. How bad could it be, really? If she had Mike with her...
“I bet the Blaze go a lot further than you think. If I’m hanging out with you, think I’d get some good seats?”
His eyes crinkled. “What are we betting?”
Everything, Bridget thought.
CHAPTER NINE
BRIDGET TOOK A look in the mirror. The sisters had been right: she had needed a new dress. Here it was, two weeks later and she was already wearing it again. She thought she was looking good, and she was feeling good as well, thanks to one gray-eyed goalie. She made her way to the hotel lobby with a smile on her face.
It was the last night of the Atlanta swimming conference, with a traditional wrap-up dinner. Except for missing Mike, Bridget had enjoyed the event. She’d learned a lot, as usual, and she’d been able to spend time with the usual suspects: a group of young coaches she didn’t run into during her regular season, many of whom she’d competed with. Connor Treadwell was one of those. They were sharing the same table at the dinner.
