by Nancy Warren
The few people she didn’t recognize had to be Max’s fancy friends from down south. Two men, almost as good-looking as Max himself, and sandwiched between them an elegant-looking woman who immediately made Claire feel bulky and sweaty in her hockey uniform.
When she caught the woman’s eye, she could have sworn the woman winked at her. No doubt it was a trick of the light.
“And now,” the announcer boomed, “the man who is here tonight to battle for the right to buy our own, homegrown airline, Polar Air. Max Varo.”
If the applause for Max wasn’t the thunderstorm Claire had experienced, it was fairly respectable. She’d almost expected hissing and booing but it seemed folks were willing to give him a chance. Or they were unwilling to piss off the guy who might soon own the only airline that could fly them in and out of town.
When he stepped onto the ice, her foolish heart skipped a beat. Max also did a circle, acknowledging the crowd. Ted reminded the crowd that Max had been working and living among them as a bush pilot for Polar Air. “But he’s also a fine hockey player who plays for the Hunter Hurricanes in Hunter, Washington. The Hurricanes have won silver two years in a row at the Badges on Ice tournament, a charity tourney for the emergency-services leagues.”
Max wore his Hunter Hurricanes uniform. She wondered how they’d come to the point where they were facing off on two very different teams.
* * *
SHE WAS KEYED UP, ready to play, when the announcer said, “And now, please rise for our national anthem, performed by the Spruce Bay High School band with vocalist Tamsin Milner.”
What the...?
She glanced at Max and found him grinning with amusement. The Spruce Bay High School band had never seen an audience this big. Usually it was tough to get their own parents to suffer through their twice-yearly concerts in the high-school auditorium.
But the applause was loud, and even though the band wasn’t ever going to amount to much, Tamsin Milner had a voice on her. The soprano was no stranger to the people of Spruce Bay. She often sang at weddings and birthday parties and her sweet voice had coaxed more than one sinner into the Spruce Bay Baptist church on a Sunday morning.
Baseball caps came off and everyone stood silently and respectfully as Tamsin sang the anthem, accompanied—not very well—by the band.
When the applause had died down, Ted’s voice boomed, “And now, our referee, Ms. Lynette Lundstrom.”
“She’s not exactly impartial,” somebody yelled.
“You keep your mouth shut, Bruce Parker, or I’ll bang one of those hockey sticks over your head,” yelled back Jerry Hodgkins, who then sipped something out of a silver flask.
“All righty, let’s get this game under way.”
And then, to her utter shock, a couple of high-school boys carried some kind of electronic equipment onto the ice.
“I’m sure many of you were wondering how these two people could play a decent game of hockey with only two of them.” Ted Lowenbrau chuckled, a big hah, hah, hah that half the audience seemed to enjoy so much they joined in.
“We solved the problem by providing them with ready-made teams. In fact, Claire and Max will be backed up by their choice of NHL teams. They’ll be playing Wii hockey.”
Claire dropped her stick. She didn’t mean to, but her fingers went slack.
She turned to Lynette, who seemed to be trying to hold back a grin. “Did you know about this?”
“They got my permission.”
“But I’ve never played Wii hockey.”
“I know. Max says he never has, either.”
She snorted. “And you trust him?” She glared at him. He’d probably invented the game.
Lynette came forward, walking carefully on the slick surface. “Why don’t you have fun with this? The only man I can think of who’d have made a gesture this romantic is your grandfather. I bet he’s laughing himself silly right now.”
Ted continued while the tech kids set up. “Now, neither of these players have ever played Wii hockey before, so they each get a personal coach to help them with the game. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Guillaume and Leo to the ice.” The clapping intensified when two young boys came out wearing jeans, colorful sneakers and T-shirts with their favorite NHL teams on them.
“The boys are nine years old and they are both experts at the game. I know because one of them’s my son and he pretty much only stops playing to go to school and to eat.”
“Hi, Dad,” one of the boys called out, waving.
Claire and Max had to stand side by side to play the game. When he approached, his eyes were so dark, so serious and sexy that she had to glance away. Why did she have to be in love with him? Why was she even here? This was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever done.
She glanced at the packed arena and couldn’t help but recall all the times she’d played on this very ice in front of these very people. Her competitive instinct fired in spite of the absurdity of the situation.
“What were you thinking?” she whispered to her opponent.
“I wanted to sweep you off your feet.”
She was genuinely shocked. “By making me play a video game in front of the whole town?”
He shrugged. “I’m a work in progress.”
One of the boys handed her a controller that was shaped like a short hockey stick. Her coach, Guillaume, explained how the buttons on the controller worked. There was one to move the player, one to pass the puck and it seemed that by shaking the stick she could bodycheck her opponents. To shoot, she would swing the Wii hockey stick.
The game was broadcast on huge TV screens around the rink. Everybody seemed to be having a wonderful time, except for her.
The boys had picked their favorite NHL teams and she found herself concentrating on a TV screen. It was pretty amazing, she thought. The players looked almost real, the boards of the rink were covered in advertising and even the seats were full of supposed spectators.
“Okay,” Guillaume said to her, as they prepared for their first face-off. “Hit the button a lot to try and get control of the puck.”
The puck dropped. It was tumbling midair, about to strike ice when a terrible scream tore through the auditorium. “Oh, my God,” a woman yelled. “The baby’s coming.”
The puck smacked the ice and neither she nor Max remembered to push the buttons.
Claire and Max both turned to where Jamie-Lynn was doubled over, being helped to her feet by her husband. Doc Bouton was standing by to take her other arm. The woman turned to the ice and yelled, “If it’s a girl I’m calling it Claire. If it’s a boy, it’ll be Max.”
Naturally, Claire turned to Max and found him looking at her with the sweetest expression a man can have while wearing a hockey jersey and holding a fake hockey stick. She started to melt, then remembered he was here to steal her company.
Lynette waited until Jamie-Lynn Burton, followed reluctantly by her husband and doctor, left the rink, and the yells of good wishes had died down. Then Lynette blew her whistle.
Game on.
She took Guillaume’s advice and pushed the button a lot. Seemed she had control of the puck, but when she tried to pass it, the thing bounced up in the air and hit the boards. Her ineptitude was magnified on huge screens around the rink.
Max wasn’t much better. He fumbled with his stick and there was chaos on the ice. The fake referee gave Max’s team an icing call.
At the end of the first period, the score was zero-all. Lynette came over and patted Claire on the back.
“I suck at this.”
“I know. So does Max. Don’t worry, honey, people haven’t had this much fun since that church group announced they were showing a film about the evils of alcohol at the civic auditorium. Do you remember that? It was The Hangover. Of course, nobody had the heart to tell them what kind of movie it was ahead of time. Mercy, that was funny.”
But Claire wasn’t interested in being the butt of a town joke. She was determined to take the game seriously,
even if Max thought this whole thing was just for laughs.
She was starting to get the hang of the short stick with the buttons on it and there was an audience to entertain after all.
When the second period began she came on strong—after a little feinting and a few incredibly feeble attempts on his part to grab the puck from her, she acceded to the advice being yelled from the stands. “Show him what you’re made of, Claire. Put that sucker in the net!”
She imagined that was her out there on the ice as she manipulated buttons and stick. She could picture Max’s stunned expression as she roared past him, sprinting toward the net. She could hear her skates scratching ice, the roar of the crowd, her own breath huffing in and out as she pushed forward toward the empty net.
She stopped with a flourish, sending a spurt of ice scrapings into the air, and took a fraction of a second to set up her shot. Then she did what she’d been doing since she’d first seen the newspaper ad. She pictured Max’s face on the puck and she smacked the black disk with all her strength, sending it flying, bang, into the net.
Somehow, her visualization got through to her hands and the remote thingy. Her little person on the screen scored.
The crowd went wild.
Actually wild. There was stomping, hollering, people got on their seats and jumped up and down, flasks were passed. Money changed hands. She hoped the Spruce Bay police force was ready for any fisticuffs that might break out.
“You go!”
And suddenly the sound system blasted out with the Vixens’ theme song. “We Will Rock You” by Queen.
And then, when that died down, an enterprising member of the high-school band did a quick riff on his trumpet. More enthusiastic than musical, but she appreciated the sentiment.
The scoreboard lit up, flashing. Home Team: 1. Visitors: 0.
In case anyone had missed what had just happened, Ted got onto his mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, the first goal of the evening goes to Claire Lundstrom and Polar Air.”
Claire took a moment to wave to the crowd—there was plenty of cheering and hollering and clapping to acknowledge.
Lynette blew her whistle. They were back with their fake sticks playing fake hockey. This time, Max grabbed the puck as soon as it touched the ice. He narrowed his gaze and for a second she saw the man who’d lost his chance at becoming an astronaut only to turn defeat into an amazing success. He hadn’t become a whining sad sack. He’d turned his incredible brain and talent to what he could do. And he’d built an amazingly successful business.
Mr. Fumblefingers seemed to have figured out his controller.
His little player bullied his way past hers, checking her, so a big blast of yellow blossomed around her player like something out of a comic book. Max’s team deftly maneuvered the puck while she stumbled in her attempt to bodycheck him.
She pushed buttons, darted around him, got in front of the puck.
His player deked around her.
Damn, that man was fast and smooth. Which shouldn’t have surprised her.
She knew he was going to go left. It was his stronger side as a player so it made sense that would be his instinct even in a video game. She plunged left to check him and steal the puck.
He deked her out and went right.
While she raced to catch him she knew she was too late. Like her, Max kept his head under pressure. He took the moment to set up his shot even as she barreled down on him. Just as her player reached him he sent the puck flying into the net. “Great shot,” she said, in spite of herself.
“Thanks. This is surprisingly tough.”
He had a few fans. There was a bit of applause. His two friends from out of town did their best to create a cheering section, but they could only do so much.
Ted made the announcement and the scoreboard changed. Home: 1. Visitors: 1.
The game continued. If the stakes hadn’t been so high she’d be having a blast. Who knew video-game hockey could be so much fun? Then, she’d suddenly remember that this wasn’t a fun challenge.
It was serious.
The man with the sexy brown eyes and the dexterous hands was trying to take away her family’s business.
After that the game turned into an intense battle as two motivated people tried to gain the upper hand with their beginner playing skills.
The second period ended, 1–1.
Both were sweating and exhausted by the time the whistle blew. She was almost as tired as she’d be if she were playing a real game of hockey.
And Max was playing to win.
While they took a short break, she visualized success, using every psychological trick she knew. She was interrupted by Laurel who’d come down to the ice to talk to her. Her friend sported glowing cheeks and a big smile.
“You are doing great,” Laurel said.
“Thanks. I hope you’ve got the words of wisdom that will send me out there like a champ.”
“Oh,” Laurel said with a wave of her hand, “I know you’ll win. You’ve got the hometown advantage.”
“I hope it helps. I will never forgive Max for making such a fool of me. Of both of us.”
“I met the chef!”
Since Claire still had her head in the game it took her a minute to respond. “What chef?”
“Felix Gerard! That chef. The one from the wilderness inn where you and Max stayed.”
“Oh, right.” She remembered now that she’d seen him.
“I decided to take the plunge. If I sit around being a polite wallflower all my life I’ll end up a sad, toothless old woman still running the Spruce Bay Inn.”
In spite of her inner heartache Claire had to smile. “I’m sure you’ll still have your teeth.”
“You know what I mean. Anyway, when I saw Max putting himself out like that for you, I figured, what the hell? During the break after first period I walked right up to him and introduced myself.” She put a hand to her chest. “Those eyes. That accent. I’m already in love.”
“Does he feel the same way?”
Her head bobbed back and forth. “Not sure. I think he’s interested. He told me he’s staying at the inn, so I’ll have a chance to get to know him better.”
“That’s fantastic. Really.”
You just never knew, Claire mused after Laurel left. Attraction, romance, love, the whole thing was such a mystery. She’d dated a reasonable number of men over the years. What made Max so special?
Why him of all men?
Even though she was angry and upset with him, even though he’d come to Spruce Bay under false pretenses to take over their company, she still couldn’t deny the pull of attraction.
They were opponents on the ice and she wanted to pull off all his clothes and take him, right there on the rink.
She needed her head examined.
She was called back to the game. Third period. Score tied.
Time to wrap this up and send Max home with his tail between his legs.
When she came back onto the ice she sensed that the crowd was expecting her to do just that. They knew her, had rooted for her for years. Max was an outsider. A usurper. Nobody wanted him to win.
Feed on that, she told herself. Home-ice advantage, as Laurel had reminded her, was powerful stuff.
Her young coach said, “Hit the button a lot, try and get the puck.” Claire nodded. She was a woman with a mission and no man, no matter how sexy he was, was going to sidetrack her. She was going to win this ridiculous game.
She flexed her fingers. Got herself into position, trying not to think about how ridiculous she must look in her hockey uniform and skates playing a video game with a short black plastic stick with buttons on it. Took the puck off him and—damn, he had it back before she’d got halfway to his net.
The battle continued. Neither one gave the other any openings. She’d pulled out her A game. Now she was reaching for an A+ game and hoping she actually had one.
Now that they were getting pretty good, the game was becoming more interesting.
>
She had her center forward pass to the left wing and back to center. When Max accidentally sent his defense in the wrong direction, the puck slid neatly into his net.
2–1.
Okay, she told herself. All she had to do was play defense from now on. Keep his shots out of her net and she’d win.
Easy peasy.
But Max had other ideas.
And, with a minute to go in regular time, he shot left when she guessed he’d go right. And tied the game up.
She was so tired and frustrated she wanted to throw something.
What were they going to do now? Sudden death?
A shoot-out?
“Cool,” said Leo. “You guys are doing okay for beginners.”
“Thanks.”
She wanted this to be over. She wanted to take her airline and go home. She wasn’t the only one who felt that way. There were groans from the audience. A bit of bad-natured booing, but she understood where it was coming from. She felt like booing herself. Or boohooing.
The announcer came on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the score is tied. And what an exciting game it’s been.” He paused for the applause. “Now, we’re going to give these players a short break and then come back for sudden-death overtime.”
“No.”
She glanced up and found it was Max who had said the word. Loud and clear. “No.”
He skated toward the announcer and gestured for the mic. With a shrug, Ted handed it to him.
“As you all know, I came here today to challenge Claire Lundstrom to a game. My company wants to buy Polar Air. Claire doesn’t want to talk to me.”
There was mostly dead silence with a couple of rude comments thrown in.
“Now, you people don’t know me or my company but we’re not corporate raiders.” He paused to wipe a bead of sweat from his temple. “We can shoot it out in sudden-death overtime and decide whether Claire’s going to hear my proposal or whether I’m going to go away. But it seems like there might be another option.”
