Face-Off

by Nancy Warren

  And yet she’d killed that love more completely than Romeo and Juliet had perished.

  In the most mundane manner. When Greg asked her to marry him, right before she’d left to go to law school in Toronto, she’d seen the gesture as an attempt to control her. As though he didn’t trust her to stay faithful to him.

  Oh, they’d seen each other in the intervening years since she’d been back in Vancouver. Ironically enough, usually at the wedding of an old friend from high school.

  They were polite, like distant acquaintances, the kind where you recognize a face but can’t recall the person’s name. Before, he’d been the first person she thought of when she woke in the morning, the last one she talked to at night.

  Jarrad was right. What was the big deal? Her brother was coaching the team. So what if her old boyfriend was part of the group? He was an old flame who’d sputtered out long ago.

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll swing by on Saturday.”

  Maybe it was time to make peace with the past.

  2

  THE MULTI-RINK COMPLEX housed everything from kids’ amateur teams to the Vancouver Canucks training. The place was hopping on a Saturday morning. Even though Samantha had given up precious sleep to be here at 7:00 a.m. she knew many of the players would have started while it was still dark outside.

  She passed a yawning pair of parents carrying coffee in refillable containers that sported a kids’ hockey-team logo. Acquired in a team fundraiser no doubt.

  Before entering the rink where Jarrad was coaching, she stopped to fix her scarf in the neck of the absurdly expensive black woolen jacket she’d never even worn before. Even as she’d cursed herself for doing it, she’d taken extra time with her hair and makeup this morning, as though she were preparing for an important day in court, not to sit in on an amateur hockey practice at a ridiculously early hour.

  She slipped into the rink where the cops and fire fighters were practicing. There was Jarrad, one foot up on a bench, watching as the men practiced a scoring drill. They were passing the puck down the ice once, twice and then the third guy shot for the net.

  Twenty or so men skated around the rink, but only one drew her attention. The way he always had.

  She moved closer, greeted Jarrad and passed him the takeout coffee she’d brought him.

  “Thanks,” he said absently, his eyes never leaving the rink.

  Her gaze was fixed too, but on a more specific object. He looked so familiar and yet so new. The flop of dark hair she’d loved to play with was shorter now, but still thick and dark and her fingers itched to feel it. He’d grown into his face and it was harder, stronger than in his youth. His body had filled out, too. He wasn’t the tallest guy on the team, but he was solid and commanding.

  As though he felt her gaze on him, she saw Greg’s head lift, and he scanned the benches. She wanted to glance away, not be caught staring at him, but somehow she was powerless to move her gaze until it connected with his and the impact was like a charge of electricity zapping her. For a long moment they stayed like that, gazes connecting, all the intimate past roaring back to her in a rush.

  “Hey, Olsen. Wake up.”

  He turned his head, caught the puck and the practice continued. He didn’t again glance her way. She knew because she never let him out of her sight.

  Jarrad had clearly overcome his reticence about his coaching abilities. He hollered, hooted and occasionally walked onto the ice to explain a move in detail. Sometimes borrowing a player’s stick to demonstrate. She knew he’d had a great career, but still she felt a pang for all he’d had to give up.

  She’d intended to watch for a bit and then slip out, but, in spite of herself, she got pulled in. Enjoyed watching her brother explore skills she doubted he’d known he possessed.

  Once she left the rink to fetch herself and Jarrad another coffee, otherwise she remained glued to the action. Fascinated.

  “Well? What do you think?” he asked her at one point.

  She thought he was an amazing coach and she felt so proud of him that she wanted to kiss him. But, of course, he was her big brother and she’d always shown her toughest side around him, so she said, “I think the young guy on defense should be up front. He’s got great instincts and did you see the speed he put behind that puck?”

  Her brother’s brow crinkled in a frown. “I know. But he’s a rookie on the force. The guys aren’t going to want to see a rookie up front. It’s like getting a private to lead a platoon.”

  “Is this a game of hockey or politics?”

  He didn’t say anything. But ten minutes later, he went down to the ice and tried a new formation, with the kid as center forward. She could feel the ripple of annoyance go through the team, but after they started practicing again, there was no doubt that their front line was stronger.

  Jarrad was right, she thought, smiling to herself. She did have an instinct.

  When at last the players were done for the day she rose, gathering her things, planning to leave before the guys came off the ice.

  She was certain Greg would find a way to hang back, coming off the ice last, giving her time to vacate the premises. To her surprise, she’d barely made it five feet when that oh-so-familiar voice hailed her. “Hey, Sam, hold up.”

  The fact that Greg Olsen was calling her name was astonishing. That he’d obviously pushed his way off the ice first to do so was almost beyond belief.

  She turned. He hadn’t had time to remove his skates so he wobbled as he hiked up toward her. “What is it?” Not the most intelligent question, maybe, but all she could think of to say. He hadn’t sought her out in years.

  He was sweating, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. There was a shadow of stubble on his cheeks and chin. “I saw you sitting up there with Big J and thought it’s been a while since we caught up. I know it’s early, but what say I take you for a White Spot burger platter and a chocolate shake?”

  In spite of herself she smiled. If he’d offered her coffee at a fancy coffee shop, cocktails at a funky bar on Granville Island she’d have said no. But the meal he outlined had been their favorite back when they’d been together. They’d plowed through a lot of burgers and downed a lot of chocolate shakes in their time as a couple.

  Maybe it was the wash of memory, or the shock that he’d actually gone out of his way to speak to her, but even as her smart, rational brain was saying, No, don’t do it! Her lizard brain was licking its dry little lips at the idea of sitting across from him at their old haunt once more.

  “Okay.”

  A grin cracked his face. “Great. Give me fifteen minutes to shower. Be right back.”

  But the thought of hanging around waiting for him, having Jarrad and whoever else was still around see her and Greg leave the rink together was too much. She shook her head. “I’ll meet you there.”

  He nodded once. Then turned and headed for the showers.

  She had some emails and calls to catch up on. The wonder of modern technology meant she could do it from her iPhone in the parking lot of the restaurant.

  It didn’t seem like she’d done much of anything when a battered 4X4 drew up and Greg jumped out.

  She stepped out of her car and greeted him with the casual familiarity of old friends. Except that her heart didn’t usually trip so fast for old friends.

  “Hungry?” he asked as he held the door open for her to pass into the restaurant.

  “I haven’t had a burger in forever.”

  “Then today is your lucky day.”

  As soon as they were settled into a booth, awkwardness descended. She opened the menu for something to do, then felt ridiculous since the whole point of coming here was to recreate their old ritual. And why she’d agreed, she couldn’t imagine.

  “They’ve got a lot of new menu choices,” she said. “Lots of lighter, healthier fare.”

  “Yeah. And they still serve burgers and shakes. Because some things never change.”

  “Don’t they?” she asked. Her gaz
e rose from the menu to connect with his. For a guy with a Swedish name he was very dark. She knew why, of course. His Swedish sailor grandfather had married a woman from the Squamish nation. Greg had always been ridiculously proud of his native blood. With his dark hair and eyes, high cheekbones and warrior’s body, he’d been a good-looking boy. A dangerously good-looking, if skinny, teen and as a young adult he’d shown the promise of being a gorgeous man.

  Now, at thirty-two, he’d fulfilled that promise. His body had filled out, and even if she hadn’t known he was a cop she’d have guessed he worked out. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He looked fit, lean and dangerous.

  Familiar and strange all at once.

  “It was the craziest thing this morning. I looked over at you in the stands and I felt like I was back in high school, with my girlfriend there to cheer on the team.” He grinned at her. “Even if she did usually have more opinions than a good girlfriend should.”

  She wasn’t a liar. Wasn’t going to start now. She knew exactly what he was referring to. She’d felt that old familiar tug herself, and the years had dropped away.

  She looked at him, and even across the table, she felt the heat coming off him, coming off her.

  “Yeah, I remember,” she said.

  The silence was thicker than the chocolate shakes she knew they’d both order and she had no idea what to say to him. How to break the strange atmosphere? Fortunately, the waitress came and they ordered. It didn’t take long because neither of them were the, “hold the tomato, I want my pickle on the side, can I substitute salad for fries?” types. They ordered what was on the menu. Simple. Straightforward. Like their relationship used to be.

  He drank water, sucked one of the ice cubes into his mouth and chewed it. The gesture mesmerized her. How could he be so gorgeous and so familiar and not hers? She imagined his lips on hers right now, they’d be cold to the touch, his tongue would be icy.

  She swallowed and turned her attention to her cutlery, rearranging it just so.

  “So, you going to Amanda and Pete’s wedding?”

  Naturally she’d known he’d be invited since Amanda had been a close friend of both of them in high school. She’d met Pete when she was teaching English in Korea and now they were getting married.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “You taking anyone to the wedding?” he asked around another ice cube. She wanted to lean over and lick the cube rolling around his mouth. She couldn’t believe the way her body was playing tricks on her mind like this.

  And why was he asking her a question like this? Was he suddenly interested in her again? Going to ask her to be his date for the wedding? A little spurt of something—maybe hope, maybe dread, maybe panic, maybe a little of all three—went through her. “I don’t think so.”

  He nodded, not seeming all that surprised. “Maybe you can save me a dance.”

  That was it? A dance?

  “Sure.” Obviously he wasn’t looking for a date. Perhaps he was simply making casual conversation. She could play it just as casual.

  When their food came, he chowed down with obvious hunger, having practiced for several hours, while she found her appetite less hearty than usual. It was so funny to be with him, doing things they’d done as teens and yet to be across the table from a man who had become a stranger to her in the years since they’d broken up.

  “Do you like being a cop as much as you thought you would?” she asked him, partly to make conversation but also because she was genuinely curious. They’d both been so sure of what they wanted—had their childish dreams worked out?

  “Absolutely,” he answered. “I love it. The work’s obviously stressful at times, but I feel like I do some good. Keep the city a little safer.” He sipped his chocolate milk shake, reminding her that she’d yet to touch hers. The taste was so familiar, so sweet, that she licked her lips and sucked up more. She glanced up and found his eyes on her mouth with an expression that she recognized.

  Lust. Pure lust.

  One thing she knew. Maybe they’d parted badly, maybe they hadn’t spent any time together in more than ten years, but the heat between them was still there.

  He dropped his gaze to his plate. Dragged a French fry through ketchup. “How about you? Being a lawyer suit you?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, echoing his earlier answer. “You know how I love a good argument. And I find the work interesting. I’m involved in a lot of different cases so I never get bored.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Boredom will kill you.”

  She felt as if there was a hidden meaning there. Was he trying to tell her he was bored? Maybe one part of his life was boring, like his love life? Or perhaps he thought her work sounded boring.

  Who knew?

  She used to be so close to him she could almost read his mind. Now he was a stranger to her. A gorgeous, half-familiar stranger.

  “So, what do you think about my brother as a coach?” she asked to get them back to a neutral subject.

  “He’s a good guy. He works us hard, doesn’t put up with any bull. Used to be nobody had time to practice, we’d show up at games and hope to hell nobody got hurt since we don’t heal as fast as we all used to. Now, he’s getting us working more as a team which is obviously critical if we want to do well at the tournament. He got us thinking about building a team being like building a fort. Frankly, I think we all thought that head injury had done him in. But a few drills that stressed team-building and it started to come together.”

  “Maybe I’ll come and cheer you guys on in Portland,” she said. Portland was where the big tournament would be held.

  His gaze caught hers and she felt the strength of him, the stunning connection she still felt to him. “That would be great.”

  They chatted about the team’s chances and then the last of her milk shake was sucked dry, and Greg had eaten both his burger and half of hers. There was nothing to keep them here any longer. But how she hated to let him go.

  In the parking lot, there was a moment of hideous awkwardness. Did she hug him? Shake his hand? Kiss him on the cheek?

  He seemed equally stuck in uncertainty. Finally, when the moment stretched a little too long, she gave a nervous giggle and opened her arms to hug him.

  He took her in, squeezed her to his big body. Then pulled away quickly. “See you around,” he said.

  She felt as though she could barely breathe. “Yeah,” she managed. “See you around.”

  She drove home. See you around? What kind of crap thing was that to say to a person. See you around.

  She did a few Saturday errands, picked up some things at the organic grocer in her neighborhood. And then went for a run along the path that edged the beach. The air was cool and bracing. The water was gray, the seabirds gray, the distant mountains a darker gray. When rain began to fall she didn’t stop. She’d grown up in Vancouver so she was used to it. Besides, the drops were cooling. The exercise helped calm her a bit, but the truth was that since she’d seen Greg this morning she’d felt on edge.

  Truth was, she was sexually starved. She hadn’t had a man in her life for a while and seeing a specimen of pretty much solid testosterone was reminding all her girlie bits that they’d been starved for too long. That’s all it was.

  Running helped calm her but it couldn’t quench the restless heat coursing through her body.

  She jogged back to her apartment, took a long shower.

  While she was combing out her hair, her door buzzer went.

  She wasn’t expecting anyone. She put on her robe and answered the intercom.

  “Sam, it’s me.”

  There was only one “me” who could fire her up at the mere sound of his voice uttering a few words over an intercom.

  A sweet, familiar ache began low in her belly. “Come on up,” she said.

  3

  GREG HAD NO IDEA WHAT he was doing entering this woman’s apartment. He’d argued with himself back and forth since they’d parted in the restaurant parking lo
t.

  But she was like an addictive drug. One taste of her was never going to be enough.

  So he’d gone to her place. He knew where it was, like he knew a lot of things about her in the peripheral part of his brain. He wondered if she’d kept the same casual tabs on him over the years.

  She wasn’t home. He’d been so keyed up to see her, talk to her, something, that the disappointment felt like a blow.

  He’d been about to drive away when he saw her jogging toward him, her form still trim, though she’d become a little curvier with time.

  He gave her fifteen minutes to shower, thought that ought to be long enough for anyone. Then he called up.

  When she answered, he didn’t know what to say. Had no idea why he was there. But she didn’t seem to care. She’d invited him up, and here he was, outside her door.

  He took a deep breath. Raised a hand to knock and to his horror realized it wasn’t quite steady. He’d faced down deranged, drugged-up killers, been called to scenes of terrible tragedy, and had always kept a steady head and hand.

  Now he was going shaky over a woman? A woman who’d dumped him and pissed all over his broken heart?

  He must be losing it.

  But that didn’t stop him from rapping urgently on her door.

  She opened it. She stood before him in a silk robe that barely covered her thighs. The V-neck gave him a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. Her hair was a damp mess falling down her back.

  He stepped inside.

  She shut the door.

  For a moment they simply stared at each other, then she leaned forward, rose to her toes and put her lips on his. And just like that, lust sucker punched him.

  He had his arms around her before he could even think about stopping himself, about restraint, brains, consequences, going down this self-destructive road again with this woman who was as much a part of him and his past as his right arm. With her body rubbing up against him, damp and smelling of all those female potions, and the underlying womanly scent of her, how could he think?