Rachel Gibson: See Jane Score

Luc moved to the ice machine and lifted the lid. “She was my cousin, twice removed.” She didn’t look like she believed him, but he really didn’t care. She’d believe what she wanted and write what sold papers.

“What’s with the ice? Your knees bothering you?”

“Nope.” She was too damn smart for her own good.

“Who’s Gump Worsley?” she asked.

Gump was a hockey great who’d played more games than any goalie in history. Luc admired his record and his dedication. Years ago, he’d taken Gump’s number for luck. It was no big deal. No big secret either.

“Have you been reading up on me again?” he asked as he scooped ice with his bucket. “I’m flattered,” he said, but he didn’t bother to make it sound convincing.

“Don’t be. It’s my job.” She popped an M &M into her mouth, and when he didn’t say anything she lifted a brow. “You’re not going to answer my question?”

“Nope.” She’d soon learn that none of the guys were going to cooperate either. They’d all talked about it and come up with a plan to confuse and bug the hell out of her. Maybe get her to go home. Outside the locker room, they’d show her baby pictures and talk about anything other than what she was dying to talk about. Hockey. Inside the locker room they’d cooperate just enough to avoid a discrimination suit, but that was it. Luc didn’t think much of the scheme. Sure it would bug her, but not enough to make her go home. No, after talking to her a few times, he figured there wasn’t much that could knock Ms. Alcott off her pumps.

“Tell you what, though.” Luc shut the lid to the ice machine and said close to her ear as he walked past, “Keep digging, ‘cause that Gump thing’s a real interesting story.”

“Digging is also my job, but don’t worry, I’m not interested in your dirty little secrets,” she called after him.

Luc didn’t have any dirty secrets. Not anymore. There were parts of his personal life he’d rather not read about in the papers, though. He’d rather it wasn’t known that he had several different women friends in several different cities, although that piece of information in itself wouldn’t make banner headlines. Most people wouldn’t care. He wasn’t married and neither were his friends.

He opened the door to his room and shut himself inside. There was only one secret he didn’t want anyone to know. One secret that woke him up in a cold sweat.

Each time he played, he played with the possibility that one good hit would cripple him for life, and worse, end his career.

Luc dumped the ice into a hand towel and stripped to his white boxers. He scratched his belly, then sat on the bed with his knee elevated over a pillow, the ice packed around it.

His whole life, all he’d ever wanted was to play hockey and win the Stanley Cup. He’d lived and breathed it for so long, that’s all he knew. Unlike some guys who got drafted out of college, he’d been drafted into the NHL at the age of nineteen, a bright future ahead of him.

For a while, his future had gotten off track. He’d slid into a vicious cycle of pain and addiction and prescription drugs. Of recovery and hard work. And now finally a chance to return to the game that made him feel alive. But the sport that had given him a Conn Smythe the year before his injury now looked at him sideways and wondered if he still had what it took. There were those, some within the Chinook management, who wondered if they’d payed too much for their premier goalie, if Luc could still deliver on his once-promising career.

Whatever it took, no matter how much pain he had to play through, he’d be damned if he’d let anything stand between him and his shot at the cup.

Right now, he was hot. Saw every play, got a piece of every puck. He was in his zone, but he knew how fast his hot streak could turn cold and unforgiving. He could lose focus. Let in a few soft goals. Misjudge the speed of the puck, let too many get past, and get pulled from the net. Having an off night and getting yanked from the pipes happened to all goalies, but that didn’t make it any less appalling.

A bad game didn’t mean a bad season. Most of the time. But Luc could not afford most of the time.

Paraphernalia: Between a Player’s Legs

The telephone next to Jane’s laptop rang and she stared at it for a moment before she picked up.

“Hello.” But there was no one on the other end. There hadn’t been the last seven times it had rung either. She dialed the front desk and was told they didn’t know where the calls originated. Jane had a pretty good idea the calls were coming from men with fish on their jerseys.

She left the receiver off the hook and glanced at the clock on the bedside stand. She had five hours before the game. Five hours to finish her Single Girl in the City column. She should have started her column for the Times last night, but she’d been exhausted and jet-lagged and all she’d wanted was to lie in bed, read her research books, and eat chocolate. If Luc hadn’t snuck up on her at the vending machine the night before, she would have bought a Milky Way too. Having been caught in her cow PJs had been bad enough. She hadn’t wanted him to think her a pig, but really, why should she care what he thought of her?

She didn’t know, except she supposed it was in a woman’s genetic makeup to care what handsome men thought. If Luc was ugly, she probably wouldn’t have cared. If he didn’t have those clear blue eyes, long lashes, and a body to make a nun weep, she would have grabbed that Milky Way and maybe chased it with a Hershey’s Big Block. If it weren’t for his evil grin that had her thinking sinful thoughts and remembering the sight of his naked butt, she might not have heard herself babbling about stewardesses like a jealous puck bunny.

She could not afford for any of the players to see her as anything other than a professional. Their reception of her had warmed little since they’d arrived. They spoke to her about recipes and babies, as if by virtue of having a uterus she was naturally interested. But if she brought up hockey, their mouths shut tight as clams.

Jane reread the first part of her column and made a few changes:

Single Girl in the City

Tired of talking about hair care products and men with commitment issues, I tuned out my friends and concentrated on my margarita and corn chips. As I sat looking around at the parrot and sombrero decor, I wondered if men were the only ones with commitment phobias. I mean, here we sat, four thirty-year-old women who’d never been married, and except for Tina’s one attempt at living with her ex-boss, none of us had ever had a real committed relationship. So was it them, or was it us?

There is a saying that goes something like, “If you put two neurotics in a room of one hundred people, they’d find each other.” So was there something else? Something deeper than a lack of available men without issues?

Had the four of us “found” each other? Were we friends because we truly enjoyed each other’s company? Or were we all neurotic?

Five hours and fifteen minutes after she’d started her column, she finally pushed send on her laptop. She shoved her notebook into her big purse, then raced to the door. She ran down the hall to the elevators and practically had to wrestle an elderly couple from a cab. When she walked into the America West Arena, the Phoenix Coyotes were just being introduced. The crowd went crazy cheering for their team.

She’d been given a pass to the press box, but Jane wanted to be as close as possible to the action. She’d finagled a seat three rows up from the boards, wanting to see and feel as much as she could of her first hockey game. She really didn’t know what to expect, she just hoped to God the Chinooks didn’t lose and blame it on her.