Game On

by Nancy Warren

  Magic. They were magic on ice. This year that championship was theirs, and nothing was getting in the way.

  After the backslaps and congratulations, the shaking hands when the game was over, the teams headed for the change room. Max said, “Adam, hold up a second.” Dylan hung back, too.

  He listened in growing irritation as Max told him about the great “favor” he’d arranged.

  “There is no damn way I am letting some bossy do-gooder inside my head,” Adam snapped, sending puffs of white breath into the freezing air inside the rink.

  “She’s a performance coach. The woman’s amazing.”

  “I don’t need a performance coach. How many goals did I score this season?” He turned to glare at his two best friends.

  “How about in play-offs last year?” Dylan asked.

  The familiar churn began in his gut as it did whenever he thought about play-offs. “I had a stomach bug or something last year. That’s why I was off my game.”

  “And the year before?”

  His scowl deepened. “Maybe a case messed up my concentration. I forget.”

  “Dude, my grandma could have made the shot you missed last year. The net was open and you missed it! You choked,” Dylan said. “It happens. But we want to win the championship this year. We all want it real bad.”

  “So do I!” What did they think? He was the team captain, center. Of course he wanted to win. All he needed to do was focus more. Somehow he’d lost his edge in the last two championship games. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

  “Then at least meet with Serena Long,” Max said. “She’s eager to work with you.”

  He scowled. Glared at both of them. “She’d better be hot.”

  2

  SERENA SNUGGLED INTO her black wool jacket, wishing she’d thought to throw a parka into her car when she’d headed out into the early-morning darkness. Except that she didn’t own a parka.

  Or skis.

  Or snowshoes.

  Or a sled.

  Or skates.

  She didn’t do winter if she could help it. And she certainly didn’t get up at 4:45 in the morning in order to turn up at a freezing-cold rink by 5:30 a.m. to watch a bunch of grown men practice sliding around on the ice chasing a disk. And beating up on each other when they didn’t get it.

  The heels on her black boots clacked as she made her way to rink 6. Amazingly, all the rinks in the sportsplex seemed to be full. Sleepy parents with takeout coffees watched kids of all sizes slide around. It was amazing, an entire life that went on while she slept.

  When she entered the practice rink Max had directed her to, there weren’t any parents pressed up against the plexiglass looking sleep deprived. In fact, there were only players on the ice and players on the bench. The small seating area was empty.

  She wasn’t a hockey fan by any means, but she’d played field hockey in school and figured the basic rules ought to be similar. Max had told her he played right wing, and yep, there he was, one of the smaller players on the ice. The big guy in the middle would be Adam Shawnigan.

  She watched him. They seemed to be working on some kind of passing drill. She could feel the concentration of the guys on the ice. With no crowd the sounds were magnified—the scratch of skates, the smack of stick to puck, the groaned obscenities when some guy missed the puck completely.

  * * *

  WHEN THE TEAM came off the ice, she stayed where she was, interested in studying the dynamics between the players. It was clear immediately that Adam was the leader. Most everyone took the time to comment or joke as they passed him. He had a good word, a laugh or a pat on the back for all the guys. Max and he and a third man she assumed was Dylan, the left wing, remained standing after the rest of the team had ambled away.

  She rose and walked down the steps to join the group of three, all of whom turned to watch her approach.

  But she was aware of only one of them. The tallest one in the middle.

  Max had told her plenty about Adam Shawnigan. His hockey record, his work experience—highlighting some of the more dramatic cases he’d solved—even their childhood exploits.

  What Max had neglected to tell her was that Adam Shawnigan was like something out of mythology. Thor, maybe, she thought, recalling the movie her nieces had dragged her to. Gorgeous, tough, larger-than-life. Even sweaty and unshaven, still breathing heavily from the last play, the man exuded sex appeal. When his eyes rested on her, she felt as though he could see all her secrets. It was both intriguing and a little uncomfortable. She preferred to keep her secrets until she felt like sharing them.

  His eyes were an intense blue, not the twinkling happy kind but a hard blue that spoke of experiences and memories she was glad she didn’t share. Even if she hadn’t known he was a cop, she’d have guessed either law enforcement or military. Those eyes were watchful, checking her out while giving nothing away. His face was tough and rugged and needed a shave. He had a groove in his chin deep enough to rest a pencil in.

  All of which made his mouth the most incredible surprise. Full lips that looked soft and sensitive. He held them in a rigid line, but it didn’t help. Those lips were poutier than a supermodel’s. And if she didn’t stop staring at them, she was going to make a fool of herself.

  She shifted her gaze to Max—sweet, comfortable Max—who immediately made introductions. “Adam Shawnigan, meet Serena Long. Serena’s agreed to give you a few coaching sessions.”

  Adam opened his mouth, and she could see the words forming, something like I don’t need no stinkin’ performance coach, but then he glanced at Max and she could see they’d been down this road already. He paused, thumped one glove against the other and said, “Yeah. So I heard.”

  And this was the guy who was dying to work with her?

  She glared at her old friend, got a slight shrug in return.

  “When do you want to begin?” Max asked.

  “Maybe in a couple of weeks,” Adam said. “Closer—”

  She interrupted immediately. He might be king of the rink, but he wasn’t going to rule her. “I got up at 4:45 a.m. and drove all the way out here. I suggest we start now,” she said. She was already giving up her time. She didn’t intend to be dictated to by her charity case.

  The charity case spluttered, “I’ve got work. I have to be in the office—”

  “I’d really like thirty minutes of your time.” She turned and began gathering her stuff.

  Behind her she heard Max speak in a low voice, but not so low she couldn’t hear—which, knowing Max, would be deliberate. “If you screw this up, we’ll be changing the lines for the big game.”

  “Says who?”

  “The whole team. We talked about it.”

  “Dylan?”

  She imagined those big lips hanging open in shock.

  Dylan said, “It’s about the team. We all want to win this year. At least give her a try.”

  There was a pause so pregnant it must have contained triplets.

  “Fine,” Adam snapped. “Thirty minutes.”

  Dylan banged him on the upper arm as he left. “Looks like you got your wish, buddy.”

  Adam grunted.

  * * *

  “OKAY,” ADAM SAID to Serena Long, feeling sweaty and unkempt in the presence of this woman who exuded control. She reminded him uncannily of a woman he’d once arrested. A renowned dominatrix who went by the name of Madame D. It didn’t help that she was wearing all black—including boots. No doubt it was stylin’, but he had the uncomfortable notion that what was in her briefcase—also black—might be a selection of leather-and-stud instruments.

  “Okay?”

  “Thirty minutes. I’m all yours.”

  “I was thinking—”

  “Starbucks around the corner,” he said. “G
ive me ten minutes to change.”

  She regarded him coolly, then nodded.

  He headed for the change room, grabbed a fast shower, dragged a razor over his face and was back out, feeling a lot more in control, in fifteen minutes.

  Serena Long was where he’d left her, more or less. She had a tablet computer on her lap, her cell phone wired to her head. When she saw him, she said into the mouthpiece, “I have a meeting with a client now. I have to go.” Keeping her eyes on Adam’s, she added, “I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  Ouch.

  She put her gadgets away and rose. He followed her out the door. Even the way she walked reminded him of Madame D. That long, easy gait, the subtle sway of her hips. There’d been nothing outlandish about Madame D in her street clothes, either. She’d simply appeared to be a very sexy, beautiful woman. It wasn’t until you got behind the facade that you got spanked.

  He had no intention of letting that happen with this woman. Once a man let himself get vulnerable with her type, the next thing he knew she was using his cojones as dashboard ornaments.

  He insisted on buying the coffees, which gave him a chance to check out the coffee shop as he did every public place. It was an instinct honed by years of policing. Nothing remotely suspicious seemed to be going on. Most of the clientele consisted of business types grabbing a java on the way to the office. A couple of joggers ahead of him ordered green tea. A few singles sat at tables with computers or newspapers in front of them.

  When they were sitting down at a table that was too small for him, as most café tables and chairs were, she said, “So are we going to keep fighting for control?”

  Only years of training stopped him from choking on his coffee. How had she read his mind like this? Her cool gaze assessed him. He felt a pull of attraction so strong he could barely focus.

  He swallowed the hot, bitter brew slowly. Instead of answering her directly, he said, “I don’t think I need a performance coach.”

  “I’ve known Max for a decade. He’s probably the smartest person I’ve ever met. And he’s known you since you all played together in the sandbox. He seems to think you do.”

  “Max’s trouble is he’s always the smartest guy in the room. Makes him arrogant.”

  She let the words hang for a second, then said, “And your friend Dylan?”

  His discomfort with this conversation grew by the second. He fidgeted in the too-small chair, ordered himself to relax. She must read body language as well as or better than he did. He put his elbows on the table. Leaned in. She leaned back slightly in response. Good. Her long hair caught the light and he realized it wasn’t simply black, as he’d thought, but a shifting mix of brown and black. “I didn’t play at the top of my game in the play-offs last year. It happens. Check out the NHL sometime. Best team going into the play-offs loses in the first round. Most expensive player on the team falls on his ass. Like I said, it happens.”

  “Your friends seem to think that you didn’t simply have a bad couple of days in both of the last two play-off seasons. They think you choked.”

  He was getting more irritated by the second. He wondered how he’d managed to stay friends with such a pair of meddlers for the past three decades. “You should know that if you start putting ideas in a player’s head about choking and performance anxiety, you’re sowing the seeds for trouble.”

  “That’s an interesting phrase you use. Performance anxiety. Do you think you suffer from it?”

  “No. You’re putting words in my mouth. I—”

  “They were your words, Adam.”

  “Look, it’s an amateur tournament. We raise money for charity. It’s not the Stanley Cup.”

  “Then why are you getting so worked up about this? Maybe I can help you. Maybe I can’t. The best thing that can happen is that I help you improve your playing ability during the play-off rounds. The worst thing that can happen is that nothing changes. Either way, my services are free and all you’re giving up is some time.”

  “What about you? What’s in this for you?”

  Her fingernails were longer than strictly necessary. He had a momentary vision of her dragging them down his back in the height of passion. He had to blink the crazy mental image away.

  “Max is a good friend who’s done a lot to help me build my business. If he asks a favor, I’ll do it. No questions asked.”

  It was stupid to feel a pang of jealousy. Max was a great guy and very successful with women. If he and the dominatrix performance coach had a past, it was nothing to do with him. Still, some devil prompted him to ask, “And Max? Would he do anything for you?”

  Her gaze stayed level on his. “I like to think so.”

  He took another sip of coffee. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s up to you. If you’re not willing to work with me, to do any exercises I give you, then we’re both wasting our time.”

  “And if I do? If I promise to do your exercises and whatever else you ask of me? Can you guarantee my team will win Badges on Ice?”

  When she laughed, her whole face lightened. She had even white teeth, a little wrinkle at the top of her nose that crinkled when she smiled. “If I had that kind of power, I think we’d be sitting here bartering for your soul. At least.” She set her cup down. “Here’s what I can guarantee. If you work with me, you’ll know that your performance is the best it can be on that day. That you’re not getting in your own way.”

  There was an uncomfortable ring of truth to those words. Getting in your own way. Did he do that?

  “Give an example of one of these exercises.”

  “I’ll give you one right now. And I want it completed next time we meet.” She pulled a well-worn leather planner out of her bag. Interesting that for all her gadgets she still relied on paper. “I think we should get right on this. How’s tomorrow at lunch for you? You can pick the place.”

  “Yeah. I can do that. What’s the exercise?”

  “I want you to go through the plays you messed up on last year’s play-off game. In visual detail, and reimagine them as successful plays.”

  “I’ve played dozens of hockey games since last year. I can barely remember the championship game.”

  She drilled him with her eyes. “You remember every second of those games. And you’ve tortured yourself over and over again reliving your mistakes.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t. We both know the truth.”

  She was right, damn it, and the uncomfortable silence only confirmed her words. He’d spent sleepless nights going over every second of play, every moment when he should have been on top of his game, and instead he’d felt a big weight on his chest and a strange feeling of panic. He didn’t want to go back there and experience that panic again, not even in the privacy of his home. He wanted to get out there and prove he had the guts and skill to lead his team as he did all year long. To be a winner.

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Let’s work on a different verb. Not try.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it!”

  “Good.” She put her planner away and glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist that was so expensive he bet a lover gave it to her. His mind sped to Max, who could afford to buy every watch, watchmaker and watch factory in Switzerland if he so desired. “Well, our thirty minutes are up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He rose as well, mostly because his mother would smack him on the back of the head if she caught him slouching while a woman was leaving.

  She held out her hand and as he clasped it, he thought that her long fingers and those red-tipped nails would look just right wrapped around the handle of a whip. Uncomfortable heat coursed through him.

  As she released her grip, she said, “By the way, what was your wish? The one Dylan said you got?”

  He stared at
her for a moment, debating with himself, then decided, what the hell. She’d asked. He leaned a little closer, the way he would if he were at a party wanting to get to know a woman better. “I told Max that if I had to work with a female performance coach, she’d better be hot.”

  She didn’t sputter or blush or act coy. She said, “Well, it’s nice to know your friend thinks I’m hot.”

  “Oh, he’s not the only one.”

  3

  WHEN SHE ARRIVED home at the end of a long day, Serena was so tired she wanted to throw a frozen dinner into the microwave, pour herself a huge glass of wine and flop on the couch.

  But her blog waited.

  She could hear her inner saboteur muttering, I don’t want to blog tonight. I’m too tired.

  Negative thinking, she reminded herself. Negative thinking got you exactly nowhere. Her success was the product of hard work as well as talent and she never let herself forget it. She was a big believer in the saying that success was 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration.

  She updated her blog every Monday. In a perfect world she’d update more often, but she tried to use her time as wisely as possible and once a week was a reasonable compromise.

  As was a glass of wine, she decided.

  She unzipped her boots, put her clothes neatly away and dragged on her oldest, most comfortable pair of jeans and a favorite pink sweater.

  Then she poured herself that glass of wine. Instead of the microwave dinner, she took the extra few minutes to put brown rice in the steamer and a chicken breast in the oven and throw together a salad.

  She sipped her wine while dinner was cooking and settled herself in front of the computer. In forty minutes she’d have the blog post written and dinner would be ready. She could do this.