Kim Findlay - Crossing The Goal Line

“Hold on, Bridge! We’ll join you in a minute,” said the red-haired man.

He jogged up to the house and went in the front door. The two non-redheads were pulling gear out of their trunk. Bridget sighed and turned to Mike.

“Sorry, that’s my brother Patrick.”

“I’d guessed that.”

“And two of Cormack’s friends.” She gestured toward the other men who had now opened the garage and were grabbing another net.

“Cormack must have told them we were playing. They think they’re joining us. If you want to get in the car, I’ll throw this stuff in the garage and we can get you out of here.”

The sound of the front door closing interrupted her. “Three on three?” Patrick hollered. “Who’s your guy, anyway?”

“Put your mask back down. I’ll tell them we’re done and get rid of them.”

Mike thought for a moment. He had no place to go except his hotel, and he’d seen more than enough of that. Maybe it would be fun.

“Or we could play. Think we can take them?” he offered.

Bridget whipped back to face him, eyes sparkling. “Really? You have no idea how much I would like to take them down a notch, or ten.”

Mike had to smile at the way her face lit up. “Sure. I’m having fun. Are you going to tell them who I am?”

“Are you nuts?” she asked and waved at his mask.

Mike put the face guard back down. He had no idea where this was going, but it was certainly more interesting than watching hockey on TV alone at the hotel. Playing on the road, no stakes beyond pride: this was what it was like growing up, when he always played goalie because he was the smallest. He wasn’t the smallest anymore. He thought he had at least four inches on any of the others, but that flash of joy he’d felt back then was here.

* * *

CORMACK, ANOTHER REDHEAD, came out the front door dressed up in goalie pads while his two buddies set up the second net. Mike wondered what the family was like when all the redheads’ tempers flared.

Bridget crossed her arms as the four men came down the driveway. “You know, we were just having a bit of fun here. I don’t think Mike wants to play anymore.”

Mike stood, arms resting on his goalie stick, waiting to see what was coming next. Had she changed her mind?

“Ah, come on, Bridgie. I’m sure Mike won’t mind a few more minutes. Just a bit of fun,” said the older redhead, Patrick.

Patrick smiled at Mike. It was a charming smile, meant to sell: either Patrick himself or whatever goods he had on hand. Mike had seen smiles like that, and it put him on his guard. Behind the smile, the eyes were assessing. Assessing him as a player, or as someone spending time with his sister?

Mike shrugged, leaving Bridget to take the initiative.

“I’m kind of tired,” she said.

“I thought you were at the game today?” Cormack asked, a note of resentment in his voice.

“I was at the game with eight kids,” Bridget corrected him. “That’s not exactly a day at the spa. And no, before you ask, I didn’t get much chance to watch the new guys.”

“Well, Bridgie—” Patrick began.

“Don’t call me Bridgie,” she interrupted.

“We could make it interesting.”

“Interesting how?” she asked, head tilted oh, so, casually. Mike thought he’d be wary if he were Patrick. Surely he knew his sister by now.

“A little wager. I’ve got some leaves that need raking.”

Bridget considered. “My car could use a cleaning.”

“First to five?”

“Or whoever is ahead after half an hour. Are you okay with that, Mike?” she asked, turning to look at him.

Mike nodded.

“So who’s playing with Mike and me?”

One of Cormack’s friends, Bernie, was chosen.

Patrick stopped near Mike and asked casually, “So where did you two meet?”

Mike looked at Cormack and saw that he was waiting for that answer as well. Bernie also seemed pretty interested. So, the assessment was from a brother, not a player.

“He’s the guy who got the tickets for the game today,” Bridget answered.

She was either unaware of the proprietary attitude of her brothers or so used to it that she didn’t react. Mike was a little surprised. He’d expected her to get upset about that, and he wanted to see her hair vibrate again.

“Oh, you’re the lane swimmer. Bridget yell at you about that yet?”

Apparently Bridget hadn’t known who he was then, so neither did these men. That would explain the odd expression on her face when he’d shown up at the game. He filed that away for future consideration.

“It turns out it isn’t Mike’s fault. It’s Wally the Weasel,” Bridget answered.

Mike bit his lip. The name was perfect. Maybe that was Wally’s problem with Bridget: he’d heard that nickname.

“Are we playing or talking?” Cormack asked.

Mike wasn’t sure how this would go. He didn’t doubt that he was going to be better than Cormack, but Patrick was a big guy, and Bridget was a woman, and his sister. Then there was Bernie on their team, and his improbably named friend Bert: two unknowns. Mike was competitive, and he assessed the men’s potential as players. Would the guys be chivalrous with Bridget, or did the redheads all have that same need to win?

Patrick, it turned out, was competitive but fair. He had size and speed, and he didn’t have the whiffing issue his sister did. But he didn’t have that same drive Mike had, and again, Mike was better. Bert and Bernie were competent at most. Cormack was willing to cut corners, but gave his sister no slack. Bridget didn’t back down from anything, which was what he’d come to expect from her. She took and gave hits, and talked as much smack as the guys.

And Mike was finding the sheer enjoyment of playing this game, whether on ice with his team or on a street with a woman he barely knew, was still the best feeling he’d known.

The game was called when another car arrived and pulled into the driveway. Bridget and Mike (and Bernie) were up three to zip. An older man stepped out of the car, red hair threaded with gray. Obviously the father. He paused for a minute, then headed to the street. Mike wondered how many redheads were going to end up playing. Then an older woman, red hair making it obvious she was the matriarch of the clan, leaned out the door.

“Dinner’s ready! And no, we’re not waiting on the end of your game.”

“Okay, Mom! We’ll just clean up,” Patrick answered.

Mom apparently had clout. The others started gathering balls and the nets. Mike stood up from his defensive stance, not sure what to do now. It was time for him to leave, but he had no vehicle. He’d been kidnapped, so was Bridget planning to take him back? Should he call a cab?

The others were talking about the game. Bridget was stressing how very clean she needed her car to be, since she’d won the bet, thanks to Mike. Mike moved slowly to remove his pads, waiting for Bridget to remember him...

“Nice game, Mike. You’ve got some good moves there. Do you play much?” asked Patrick.

“Stop it, Patrick,” said Bridget.

Mike looked from Patrick to Bridget.

“I just said...” Patrick had that selling smile going again.

“I know, but you’re not going to recruit Mike for your beer league team.”

“Bridgie, it’s not up to you. If he wants to play, he could. He’s pretty good.”

Mike was glad someone was finally happy with his performance. But he guessed from Cormack’s frown that the other man didn’t like being shown up. He wasn’t sure if knowing who had outplayed him would make it better or worse.

Cormack grumbled. “Maybe the Blaze should recruit him. He’s as good as that overpriced—”

“Shut up, Cormack,” Bridget interrupted.