Rachel Gibson: See Jane Score

Her view suddenly blocked, Jane glanced up into the battered face of enforcer Rob “the Hammer” Sutter. Bent over to accommodate the low ceiling, he appeared scarier than usual. She didn’t have the faces of all the Chinooks memorized yet, but Rob was one of those guys who was easy to remember. He was six-foot-three, two hundred and fifty pounds of intimidating muscle. At the moment, he sported a fuzzy goatee on his chin and a brilliant shiner beneath one of his green eyes. He’d taken off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and loosened his tie. His brown hair needed cutting and he had a piece of white tape across the bridge of his nose. He glanced at the briefcase on the seat next to her.

“Do you mind if I sit down for a few?”

Jane hated to admit it, but she’d always been a bit unnerved by big guys. They took up so much space and made her feel small and a little vulnerable. “Ahh, no.” She grabbed the leather handles and shoved the briefcase on the floor by her feet.

Rob crammed his big body in the seat next to her and pointed to the newspaper in her hands. “Did you read the article I wrote? It’s on page six.”

“Not yet.” Feeling a bit boxed in, Jane thumbed to page six and looked at a game photo of Rob Sutter. He had some guy in a headlock and was punching his face.

“That’s me feeding Rasmussen his lunch in his rookie season.”

She glanced sideways at Rob, taking in his black eye and broken nose. “Why?”

“Scored a hat trick.”

“Isn’t that his job?”

“Sure, but it’s my job to make things rough for him.” Rob shrugged. “Make him a little nervous when he sees me coming.”

Jane thought it prudent to keep her opinion of his job to herself. “What happened to your nose?”

“Got too close to a stick.” He pointed to the paper. “What do you think?”

She skimmed the article, which seemed to be well enough written.

“Do you think I hooked the reader in the first graph?”

“Graph?”

“That’s journalist talk for paragraph.”

She knew what graph meant. “ I am more than a punching bag,‘” she read out loud. “That got my attention.”

Rob smiled, showing a row of beautiful white teeth. Jane wondered how many times they’d been knocked out and replaced. “I had a lot of fun writing that,” he said. “When I retire, I’m thinking maybe I’ll write articles full-time. Maybe you could give me some pointers.”

Getting a foot in the door was a lot easier said than done. Her own resume was less than stellar, but she didn’t want to rain on Rob’s parade by telling him the truth. “I’ll help you, if I can.”

“Thanks.” He half rose and pulled a wallet from his back pocket. When he sat down again, he flipped it open and pulled out a photograph. “This is Amelia,” he said as he handed her a picture of a baby girl resting on his chest.

“She’s so tiny. How old is she?”

“One month. Isn’t she the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen?”

Jane wasn’t about to argue with the Hammer. “She’s gorgeous.”

“Are we showing baby pictures again?”

Jane looked up and into a pair of brown eyes watching her over the seat in front of them. The man handed back a photo. “That’s Taylor Lee,” he said. “She’s two.”

Jane looked at the photo of a toddler as bald as the guy who’d handed it over, and she wondered what it was about people assuming everyone wanted to see their baby’s pictures. She didn’t recognize the eyes staring at her over the seat until Rob gave her a clue.

“She’s awfully bald, Fishy. When she gonna get some hair?”

Bruce Fish, second-string winger, half rose and took back his photograph. The light shone on his bald scalp while a scruffy beard covered the lower half of his face. “I was bald until I was five, and I turned out cute.”

Jane managed to keep a straight face. Bruce Fish might be a skilled puck handler, but he was not an attractive man.

“Do you have any kids?” he asked her.

“No, I’ve never been married,” she answered, and the conversation turned to which Chinook was married and who had how many children. Not exactly stimulating conversation, but it alleviated her worry that the players would shut her out.

She handed Rob his photograph and decided to get down to business. To dazzle them with her research, or to at least show them that she wasn’t completely clueless. “Given the age and lack of franchise players, the Coyotes are playing better than expected this year,” she said, reciting what she’d just read. “What are your biggest concerns going into Wednesday’s game?”

They both stared at her as if she’d just spoken a language they didn’t understand. Latin, perhaps.

Bruce Fish turned around and disappeared behind his seat. Rob shoved the baby photo in his wallet. “Here comes breakfast,” he said as he stood. The Hammer quickly departed, making it quite clear that while she was good enough to talk with about journalism and babies, he wasn’t going to talk with her about hockey. And as the flight progressed, it became even more clear to Jane that the players were ignoring her now. Except for her brief conversation with Bruce and Rob, no one spoke to her. Well, they couldn’t ignore her forever. They had to allow her locker room access and answer her questions. They had to talk to her then or face a discrimination lawsuit.

She refused a muffin and orange juice and raised the arm between the chairs. She scooted to the aisle seat, spread out her articles and books, then took off her gray wool blazer. She got down to the business of trying to figure out what points were as opposed to goals. What penalty was awarded for which infraction, and the ever-confusing icing call. She grabbed a brick of Post-Its out of her briefcase, scribbled notes, and stuck them inside the book.

Keeping track of her work and life via sticky notes wasn’t the most efficient way to run things, and she had tried more organized methods. She’d tried a software program on her laptop, but she’d ended up scribbling notes about what to write in it. She’d bought the day planner she currently used, but only to stick notes on the calendar pages. Last year, she’d bought a Palm Pilot, but she’d never gotten comfortable with it. Without her sticky notes she’d had an anxiety attack and had ended up selling the handheld device to a friend.

She scribbled notes about hockey terminology she didn’t know, stuck them in the book, then glanced down a row at Luc. His hand rested beside a glass of orange juice on the tray table. His long fingers tore at a cocktail napkin, and he rubbed bits of paper between his fingers and thumb.

Someone called Luc’s name and he leaned forward and glanced toward the back. His blue gaze landed somewhere behind Jane, and he laughed at some joke she didn’t get. His teeth were white and straight, and he had a smile that could make a woman think of hot sinful things. Then he lowered his gaze to her and she forgot about his teeth. He simply looked at her as if he couldn’t quite figure out how she’d gotten there-like a spot on his tie-then his scrutiny slid down her face and neck to the middle of her plain white blouse. For some disturbing reason, her breath caught in her chest, right where his gaze rested. The moment became suspended. Prolonged. Hanging between them until his brows pulled into a straight line. Then, without looking up, he turned away. She finally let out her breath, and once again she had the feeling she’d been judged and found lacking by Luc Martineau.

By the time the aircraft touched down in Phoenix, the weather was fifty-three degrees and sunny. The hockey players straightened their ties, put on their jackets, and filed out toward the bus.