Face-Off (2 page)

“C
OME ON, IT'LL BE FUN,”
Tamson insisted as Sierra Janssen hesitated on the brink of the ice rink.

“Fun for you, watching me fall on my butt in the cold. It's seven in the morning on a Saturday, my day off. I should be sleeping in.”

“None of us are great skaters. Who cares? We get some exercise, laugh a lot and it turns out that there's a team of firefighters and cops practicing in the next rink. Being here is much better than sitting around feeling sorry for yourself.”

But Sierra wasn't sure that sitting around feeling sorry for herself wouldn't, in fact, be more fun than attempting to play hockey when she hadn't skated in years. It was cold in here and smelled like old sweat socks. Colorful pennants hung from the impossibly high rafters boasting of wins and league championships. She'd passed a glass case of trophies telling similar stories. For some reason the word
league
only reminded her of Michael, who had been so far out of her league she'd never had a chance. What had a successful, handsome brain surgeon wanted with a grade-two schoolteacher who, on her best days, could only be termed
cute.
A good day at work for Michael was
bringing someone out of a coma, cutting tumors out of brains. Her idea of success was getting seven-year-olds to put up their hands before asking a question.

No wonder he'd left her for an intern. In her bitter moments she thought it would have been nice if he'd had the courtesy to dump her first and not leave her to find out he was cheating in the most humiliating way. He'd sent her the hottest email. A sexual scorcher that left her eyes bugged open, it was so unlike him. He'd even used a pet name he'd never called her before. It wasn't until she'd read the email through a second time that she realized Jamie wasn't a pet name. It was the actual name of another woman. Who was clearly a lot wilder in bed than she would ever be.

The woman was training to be a doctor, scorching-hot in bed, a much better match for Michael.

She gritted her teeth. Okay, so her heart was broken. Tamson was right. She had to get out and embrace life, not sit around watching it happen to other people.

She'd loved skating when she was a kid. This would be fine. A fun league for women, no stress, she'd pick up her skating skills. Learn to play hockey. She'd played field hockey in high school and she'd been pretty darn good. What could be better?

She stepped a skate gingerly onto the ice. Hung on to the boards, stepped the other skate down.

Had the ice been this slippery when she was a child? Her ankles wobbled alarmingly in her rented skates and the padding she'd borrowed from her brother made her feel like the Michelin Man. On skates.

When she wobbled her way down the ice, holding her brother's old hockey stick, since he wouldn't trust her with his good one, joining the other women who were warming
up, she realized that even here, in this fun hockey team for women, she was outclassed.

She was the only one who had to look at her skates to stay on the ice. And what she saw was that her legs were wide apart and she couldn't help but hold her arms out wide to stop herself from falling.

Somebody blew a whistle. “Okay, girls. Gather round.”

 

J
ARRAD STOOD AT THE EDGE
of the ice and realized his old buddy hadn't lied about the team. These guys were all over the place. Sure, some of them could skate, and the men were all fit, but there was no sense of teamwork, no idea how to sense where the puck was headed and what to do about it.

Not for the first time, he wondered what he was even doing here.

He was observing, he reminded himself, only observing. And what he observed didn't fill him with confidence in the team. He hadn't agreed to coach yet, maybe he'd take a pass.

“I'm going for a walk,” he said to a grizzled old Norwegian who answered to Sig and was the closest thing to a coach the team currently had.

Sig nodded. “They're good guys, you know?”

“Sure. Probably great cops and firefighters, too.” But any fool with functioning eyesight could see that getting this ragged bunch of men into shape as a team was going to take time, not to mention hard work and coaching skills Jarrad doubted he possessed. He wasn't sure there was enough time before the big league play-offs to get them into shape.

He stuffed his hands in his jeans and wandered. He'd spent so much of his life inside hockey rinks that he
probably felt more comfortable in one than anywhere else on earth. He loved everything about the rink. The way it smelled like the inside of a fridge, the sound of skate blades scraping across ice, putting the first groove into the perfect surface right after the Zamboni finished. The guys. The team.

But there weren't skates on his feet now. And it wasn't him on the ice.

His sneakers were soundless as he headed down the hallway. At the next rink over he stopped to peer through the glass doors, and what he saw made him smile, genuinely smile, for the first time in months.

Without thinking, he opened the door and slipped inside.

On the ice was a group of women, ranging, he guessed from their twenties to their forties, all clad in mismatched hockey gear and helmets. This group made his firefighters seem like the hottest team in the NHL.

“You've got a breakaway. Sierra. Go!”

And he watched as a puck made its lazy way up the ice, at about the speed of a curling rock, and a slim young woman skated straight over to the boards and started up the rink.

She had to guess the direction of the puck, since she never took her eyes off her skates.

He moved closer. Put a foot up on a bench to watch. The breakaway got way past the cutie near the boards, and the goalie managed to stop it.

A whistle blew.

“Okay. Great work, ladies. See you all on Thursday.”

And they all headed off the rink.

Except the woman with the breakaway. None of the other women had noticed she was now clinging to the
boards like a burr to a dog. He got the feeling she was scared.

He gave her a minute and when she still hadn't budged, he stepped onto the ice.

Walked over to her.

“Hi,” he said. “You need a hand?”

When her face turned up he felt a kind of shock travel through his system. He was so used to tanned bombshells that he'd forgotten how soft and pretty a woman could look. Beneath the helmet she had big blue eyes and pale skin. Blond hair that had picked up some static from the cold and was levitating in places.

“I don't think hockey's for me,” she said.

He took the stick out of her hand and shot it across the ice toward the exit gate.

“Then you should probably get off the ice.”

“I'm thinking about it.”

He held out his hands, palms up. “Come on. Take my hand. I'll get you out of here.”

She looked up at him. “What if we both fall?”

“I won't let you fall.”

After thinking about it for a second, she gave him one hand.

“Your glove is too big,” he said, feeling the smallness of her hands inside the huge mitt.

“I know. I borrowed all this stuff from my brother. Except for the skates.”

“May I?” and without waiting for an answer, he pulled off her glove. And took her hand. Which was as small and soft as the rest of her seemed to be.

Once she knew he had her and he wasn't about to take her down, she held out her other hand. He pulled off the other glove, sent the pair skidding to join the stick, and
then while she hung on with a death grip, walked slowly backward, sliding her along with him. “That's it.”

Her cheeks were pink with cold and he sensed that, like her hands in those gloves, her body inside the padding was much smaller. “You need some equipment that fits you.”

“No, I don't. I am done with hockey.”

He laughed easily. Something he hadn't done in so long he'd almost forgotten the sound.

“I'm a coach. I could help you.”

“That's sweet of you, but—”

“And here's your first lesson. Stop looking at your feet.”

“But—”

“It's like dancing. You have to trust your body.”

She glanced up, took a deep breath and skated forward a little bit. He let go of one hand and stepped to the side. “Now, relax and think about how good that cup of coffee's going to taste.”

“What cup of coffee?”

“The one I'm going to buy you when we get off the ice.”

She had dimples, he noticed when she smiled. “I don't even know your name.”

He hesitated. It didn't seem like she'd recognized him. Now he was going to give her his name and that would ruin the fun vibe between them. “Jarrad.”

She glanced up, and there wasn't the slightest recognition. “Hi, Jarrad. I'm Sierra.”

“Pretty name. You're doing great, Sierra.”

“It's easier when you hold me up.”

“All you need is practice.” As they reached the edge of the rink he was almost sorry. “And here we are.” He
helped her step off the ice, then went back to collect the gloves and stick.

When he returned, she was unlacing skates that in his opinion should be in the garbage. “Well? Can I buy you a coffee?”

She glanced at him, as though trying to divine his intention, which would be tough since he didn't know what his intentions were himself. Only that he liked the look of this woman and didn't want to say goodbye quite yet.

“All right.”

Once she had her street shoes back on and the padding off, he realized he'd been correct. She had a sweet little body.

The coffee shop in the ice sports complex was quiet. He got them both a coffee and brought the steaming cups to the small table in the corner where he figured no hockey fans would spot him right away. Especially since he made sure to sit with his back to the room.

“You're tanned,” she said. “Did you just get back from Hawaii or something?”

“California.”

“Nice.”

They sipped coffee and he realized he didn't have much practice anymore in talking to regular women who weren't either famous themselves or involved with celebrities.

While he racked his brain for something to say, she said, “What team do you coach?”

“Honestly, I'm not sure I'm going to coach them. It's the fire and police team, but I came here today as an observer and what I observed is there's no teamwork. No sense of a common goal. They're like a bunch of little kids, all trying to grab the glory.”

A smile lit up her face. “Ah, maybe I can help. I know a lot about organizing little kids.”

H
E WAS SO CUTE,
S
IERRA
thought, gazing at the earnest expression in the green eyes across from her. He had sun-streaked brown hair and a craggy face that was more appealing because it was so imperfect.

His nose had obviously been broken at least once and there was a toughness to his body that she liked. He had a scar that started at his left cheekbone, a little too close to the eye for her comfort in imagining what injury might have caused it, that jagged its way down an inch or so into his cheek. When he smiled, the scar creased like an overenthusiastic laugh line. She found it fascinating.

She'd never felt so comfortable with a man so quickly. It was as though she already knew him.

“I teach grade two. When the boys aren't getting along on the playing field, or aren't working together, you know what I do?”

He seemed absolutely fascinated. He leaned forward and cupped his chin in his hand. “What do you do?”

“You see, boys are very visual, and they're competitive. It's simply in their nature. So I tell them to imagine they are building a big fort. If each of them only looks out for himself, then there will be a bunch of little forts, none of
them strong enough. But if they work together, they can build something stronger and better.”

“And does it work?”

“Pretty well.”

“Would it work with a bunch of overgrown boys? The kind who fight crime and put out fires?”

“I have no idea. But I've sometimes thought that when it comes to competition and games, big boys have a lot in common with little boys.”

The man across from her laughed. “You know a lot about men.”

“No,” she said sadly. “I don't think I do.”

He gazed at her quizzically for a moment, but instead of calling her on possibly the stupidest remark she'd ever made to an attractive stranger, he said, “I have an idea.”

“What?”

“You help me with my overgrown kids and I'll teach you to skate well enough to be able to play hockey.”

“I'm not sure I'm cut out for hockey,” but to her own ears it sounded as if she was saying, “persuade me.” And so he did.

“It's a fun sport, and if you want the respect of your young male pupils, tell them you play hockey. They'll think you rock.”

She couldn't help a slightly smug smile from blooming. “My male students already think I rock.”

When he smiled his whole face lit with charm. “That I can believe. I think my first love was my grade-two teacher. You know, those boys will still get dreamy-eyed about you decades from now. So, play hockey to push your boundaries.”

“I'm not sure I want my boundaries pushed.”

“All right, then. You and me, on the ice, right now, for thirty minutes. If, at the end of half an hour you don't
want to continue, what have you lost? Half an hour of your time.”

“Why would you want to teach me how to skate?”

“The truth is, I've never coached before. I think if I can get you interested in hockey, then maybe there's a chance I could actually be a coach.” He drained the last of his coffee. “Besides, I like you. I want to spend more time with you.”

She couldn't believe it. He announced interest in her as a woman as though it was a perfectly normal, everyday thing, not a big deal. And because he saw it that way, she was able to keep her own perspective.

She was pretty sure after half an hour dragging around the klutziest woman who had ever donned skates he'd be ready to call off his idea to teach her about hockey. But for half an hour, this interesting man was hers.

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Great. Now, first thing we need to do is get you some skates.”

“I have skates,” she reminded him.

“Please. Wayne Gretzky couldn't skate in those things. They're trashed.”

And he reached over and picked the dingy white boots up and strode out of the coffee shop with her trailing in his wake.

He received a flattering degree of attention from the rental place compared to how she'd fared. He must be a regular. And before long she was wearing a pair of proper hockey skates that definitely supported her ankles better. This time, when she stepped onto the ice, she felt more confident.

Jarrad ran back to the rink where the cops and firefighters were still practicing, returning with a sports bag. He
pulled out his own skates. Mean-looking black things, which he laced up with incredible speed.

When they hit the ice, he took her hand. She couldn't believe how much she liked this, the holding hands, gliding across the frozen surface. Already she was feeling better.

“The first thing you have to do,” he said, “is stop being so scared. You've got padding. So what if you fall? You'll slide. Get over it. The ice is your personal highway. Make friends with it.”

Make friends with the ice?

She thought she might manage a nodding acquaintance, but at the end of half an hour she was skating. By herself. Without looking at her feet. He didn't call a halt and neither did she. Instead, he worked with her on a drill. He'd skate alongside her passing the puck, which she was able to retrieve most of the time.

She was having so much fun, she forgot to be scared. And that's when she fell. And slid.

She glanced up to find Jarrad gazing down at her.

She laughed. “You're right. It didn't hurt at all.”

He held a hand down for her and helped her to her feet.

“So? You coming back for more?”

His hands rested on her shoulders and she felt some kind of sizzle run through all the layers of padding right to her skin. Coming back for more? Oh, yes, please.

She had no idea if he'd read her mind or was feeling the same sizzling attraction, but after looking at her for a moment, he said, “Have dinner with me tonight?”

“Dinner?” she said stupidly, as though she'd never heard the word.

“With me. Tonight.”

She thought about refusing. For a nanosecond. There
was something about him, some confidence that suggested he might be one of those guys who was simply out of her league.

Then she thought of the way she'd spent the last hour. If she'd learned anything it was that sometimes when you fell it didn't hurt.

“I'd love to.”

 

O
NCE SHE GOT HOME,
Sierra was determined to find something more flattering to wear than her brother's too-big hockey padding. She still couldn't believe that cute coach had asked her out. Or that she'd said yes.

She'd never been a spontaneous woman, and yet here she was—going out with a virtual stranger. In fact, she realized in horror, she didn't even know his last name.

But then she wasn't a complete fool. He didn't have hers either. They were meeting at the restaurant he'd named. One of the best restaurants in Vancouver, a west-coast seafood bistro in Yaletown that she only knew about because it had been written up so much. Not that she'd ever been there.

Of course, a restaurant like that demanded a certain amount of primping. If she'd had time she'd have bought a new dress, but she didn't have time for that, or a makeover. Or a six-week boot camp to get her body into peak shape. No, make that a fifty-six-week boot camp.

What she did have was a favorite little black dress, a new bottle of nail varnish in a hot designer color and a pair of Jimmy Choos she'd bought on sale because they were irresistible, though they were pricey even at fifty-percent off. Never had she been so happy that she hadn't listened to her sensible, frugal self on the day she'd spotted the green-and-black stilettos.

While she painted her nails, she flipped on the
television. She was channel surfing when she saw Jarrad. On her TV screen. For a second she thought she'd conjured him simply from thinking about him, but no, that really was Jarrad grinning out at her from her flat screen, with shaving cream all over his face.

She watched the entire commercial, a sick feeling spreading through her. The final image was of Jarrad with a woman who looked like a young Catherine Zeta Jones—all sex appeal and attitude—heading out on the town. She was as different from Sierra as Saks is from Wal-Mart. Nothing on that woman's body had come from the sales rack.

With a low moan of horror, Sierra realized that Jarrad was some kind of fancy hockey star. A couple of minutes on Google confirmed her worst fears.

This guy was so far out of her league they weren't even on the same planet.

An NHL superstar, he'd helped lead his team to Stanley Cup triumph three years ago. He'd taken a body blow to the head in an early-season game that had left him with some vision problems that meant he couldn't play professionally any more.

But far harder for her to stomach were the endless photographs of him with a stunning swimsuit model.

A swimsuit model, for heaven's sake. The kind of woman put on this earth to make Sierra forever feel like the forgettable girl next door.

What had she been thinking?

An aura of success had clung to him, she now realized. Everything from his tan to his easy charm to his uber-trendy jeans had screamed money. And look at the way they'd knocked themselves out at the skate-rental place.

How blind she'd been. How foolish. And why did she
keep setting herself up for failure with these men who were altogether too much for her?

But she hadn't done anything except cling to the boards like a motherless chimp to a tree. Why had he asked her out?

If only she had some way to get hold of him, she'd cancel their date.

Only she didn't.

So she simply wouldn't show up for their date. She'd call the restaurant and leave a message telling him she wasn't coming. Big deal. A superstar like that? He'd have a dinner companion five minutes after he sat himself down at the bar.

She looked up the restaurant's phone number. Picked up the phone. Put it down. Picked it up, put it down. A third time she picked the receiver up and then slammed the thing down. Sometimes Sierra cursed her mother for the manners she'd instilled in her daughter. No matter that Jarrad was way, way out of her league and was no doubt taking out a very ordinary primary-school teacher for obscure reasons of his own, she could not stand the man up on their first date.

It simply wasn't in her too-polite nature.

So, she tortured herself for a few more minutes by gazing at the perfect bikini-clad body of his professional-model former wife.

Not even her sexiest dress and the high heels could disguise the fact that Sierra's curves were modest at best, and her height no more than average.

She could argue that her face and body were entirely natural and kept in shape with regular yoga practice and sporadic jogging rather than discreet visits to a plastic surgeon, but pictures didn't lie. The former Mrs. McBride's nips and tucks and the vats of collagen Sierra suspected
were responsible for that amazingly sexy pout were definitely doing their job.

Sierra picked up her evening bag and paused to glance in the mirror. One thing she was certain of—Jarrad McBride wouldn't be seeing her naked.