Kim Findlay - Crossing The Goal Line

With a sigh, she finally tore her gaze away, and saw him standing there, waiting.

“If I won a lottery...” she said dreamily. “Brian wants an Aston Martin, and Patrick a Ferrari, but this—she’s exactly what I’d choose.”

Mike didn’t know who Brian and Patrick were, and he didn’t much care. He’d decided this had been a mistake, so he’d ask about the kids and the game and get out of there. If he wanted his ego stepped on further, he could just walk down Yonge Street.

“So, the kids all got home safely?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she answered tersely.

What was her problem?

“I hope everyone enjoyed it,” he persisted.

“I think the kids enjoyed the hats and the popcorn more than the game. There weren’t that many players they knew.” She paused for just a moment. “Turchenko seemed to be doing well.”

Mike was tired of hearing how well Turchenko was doing. The guy had played well for the half of the game he’d been in. He also hadn’t been challenged that much. Mike knew, though, that a lot of people, including most of his teammates and the fans in Toronto, hoped he’d win the starting job and leave Mike to warm the bench.

He was determined that wasn’t going to happen. So his response was not very diplomatic.

“Of course, everyone likes Turchenko. He’s blond and blue-eyed and flirts with—”

“Right, because I care only about the way he looks. I couldn’t possibly understand hockey with my poor female brain,” Bridget spit out.

Mike hadn’t meant that. He’d been raised by a strong woman who’d used her brains and hard work to deal with being pregnant and stranded at sixteen. He’d been going to say that Turchenko flirted with the press, not women, but Bridget had reacted like an angry cat. Her eyes were flashing, her freckles almost obscured by her heated cheeks, and he could swear her very hair was vibrating with anger. It was fascinating.

Walter had said she had a temper, and Mike was obviously getting a look at it. He was tired and irritated, and glad he wasn’t the only one out of sorts. Instead of answering diplomatically, he decided to poke the bear.

“A lot of people think they understand hockey, but it’s different when you’re actually playing it.”

Yep, Mike thought. Her hair is vibrating.

“Okay, come with me,” she snarled. She stomped over to the Mazda. She unlocked the door and looked back. “Get in, hot shot.”

“In that?” Mike responded, looking from his pride and joy to the car Bridget was halfway into.

“Afraid of a girl?”

The bear was well and fully poked. Those eyes were almost lasering through him. With a shrug, he swung himself around the car and opened the passenger door. He’d barely folded himself in when a blast of rap music assailed his ears and Bridget tore out of the parking lot.

Mike propped his hand against the roof of the little car to keep from falling on Bridget as she down shifted for the turn. He should have known that anyone who fell for his car the way she had would drive a stick. And skillfully, too, though she was going a little too fast for safety.

“Okay, now that you’ve got me, where are we going?” he yelled over the music.

“To play hockey!”

Mike wedged himself against the door. He didn’t know what she had in mind, but this was more fun than he’d had in a while.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE OBVIOUSLY KNEW the way well, and as she took another side street, he realized he was lost. But they finally pulled up in front of a brick two-story on a dead-end street. Bridget pulled out the keys, and Mike welcomed the sudden silence as the “music” stopped in mid-phrase. She slammed out of the car and stalked up the driveway before unlocking the garage door and sliding it open.

Inside was hockey gear. A moment passed. Then he realized that when she said they were going to play hockey, she hadn’t meant on a screen or table. She wanted to play road hockey. He almost laughed. Sure, she was a good swimmer, but did she really think she could take on a professional hockey player?

Apparently, she did. She was dragging a net down the driveway. Mike opened the door and got out of the car. As she set up the net on the street, he noticed that the block was perfect for playing road ball. Originally, the plan must have been for the street to extend further; the pavement stretched out another fifty feet then dead-ended at a chain-link fence and an abandoned parking lot. There were pink and blue lines marked in chalk. This was a well-used space for road hockey. He’d have loved access to something like this when he was growing up.

“Go get some gear on,” she ordered.

“Seriously?”

“Chicken?” she asked.

Mike laughed. He felt like a seven-year-old being dared.

“So what position am I supposed to play?”

“I thought you were a goalie,” she taunted.

Challenge accepted, Mike thought. He wasn’t sure what she thought she was trying to prove, but he could handle a girl in road ball, even if his game had been off lately. He’d better be able to...

He followed her back to the garage where there was an impressive amount of gear for both road and ice hockey. She pointed to a pile of goalie equipment, and he picked through for the largest pads he could find, then tested a couple of sticks before settling on one. She tossed him a helmet, and he put it on. It wasn’t anything like his own, but if she managed to fire a ball at his face, he was sure there’d be a lot of force behind it.

Bridget was holding a couple of tennis balls and what was obviously her own helmet and stick. Both showed signs of wear. Mike wasn’t surprised. While he was confident he was better than she was, she was obviously athletic, practiced at road hockey and highly motivated. So was he.

“So what are the rules?” he asked once they were back on the road. He knocked the sidebars of the net with the stick to check its size and stability. Then he tapped the stick on the road a couple of times and turned to see what she was planning. He could see her focus through the thick glasses.

“I’m going to score. You’re going to try to stop me. Play to five?”

“We’ll need to stop before that. You’re not going to score.”

Eyes blazing, she started.

* * *

SHE WAS GOOD. He had to give her that. Much better than he’d expected. She occasionally whiffed completely, but she was fast, smart and very determined. She could place the ball exactly where she wanted, and with a lot of force.

Mike, however, was better than good. He was one of the best. He’d grown up playing road hockey and it wasn’t a difficult transition from the ice back to the pavement. He had lightning-fast reflexes and could read a player’s intentions from their body language and expression. He was soon in his zone, watching her every move and glance. She didn’t score. She did come close, tested him pretty well, but he was just as determined as she was, and this time, it was his element, not hers.

After fifteen furious minutes, Bridget called time. Pulling up her face guard, she looked at Mike. He stood up to his full height, shoving up his face guard as well.

“I guess I owe you an apology,” Bridget said after a pause, her previous anger clearly dissipated.

Mike looked down at her. “It’s okay. I admit to provoking you. And this was actually a lot of fun. You’re not bad—for a girl.” He grinned at her.

“You’re not bad, either—for a...for a guy from Quebec,” she countered. “But I should probably get you back now—”

A car had pulled up on the street behind hers. She turned, and stiffened. A man got out of the car. He was older than Mike and had flaming red hair that matched Bridget’s. Not old enough to be her father—a brother? Uncle? Another car followed, and two more guys got out, neither with the red hair.