Nancy Warren - Game On

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I shot and missed the damn puck. A three-year-old with a plastic stick could have got that puck in the net.”

“Interesting.” She sat back and thought about what he’d told her. “What do you think you felt guilty about?”

“I don’t know. It’s like I wasn’t supposed to win the game.”

“You weren’t supposed to win the game,” she parroted. “According to whom?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Who has the power to make you play at less than your best?”

“I do!” The words exploded from him. She felt his frustration and imagined writing out the games had been a difficult exercise.

“Of course you do. But someone or something else is sending you messages. I want you to think about that. Go through your day and really listen. Whose standards are you trying to live up to? A coach’s? A teacher’s? A parent’s? A boss’s? Some kind of authority figure, probably from your childhood, has buried these land mines in your subconscious. It’s up to you to find them and disarm them before they do any more damage.”

“What am I listening for?”

“When have you heard these messages before? You can go back to childhood and listen to the past. Replay conversations you can remember, particularly if they were around winning and success. See what comes up for you.”

“How will I know when I find it?”

She loved how focused he was, how he gave her every scintilla of his attention. She had another momentary flash of being naked with him and shivered. Found her own focus—on the damned topic at hand.

“I remember working with a woman once who could not communicate anger. She was the worst doormat you’ve ever seen. Everyone in her life took advantage of her and she let them. It was making her ill. Actually ill. She got migraines and more colds and flu bugs than anyone I’d ever met. When she did this exercise, she started hearing her mother’s voice saying, ‘Good girls never show their temper.’ When she was young, if she yelled, she was punished. So she learned never to show her anger. Always to show a smiling face to the world and do whatever anyone asked of her. Once she recognized that she’d taken those messages inside and gone completely overboard, she was able to work on expressing her feelings.”

“Wow.” He looked genuinely impressed.

“There’s a kind of resonance when you see the pattern. An ‘aha’ moment. Chills down the back of your neck. You’ll know it when you experience it.”

She watched him polish off the last of the largest plate of enchiladas she’d ever seen.

“What was it for you?” he asked when he’d swallowed. “Your ‘aha’ moment.”

She smiled at him. “One day I’ll tell you. But today we’re focusing on you.”

“One day I hope you’ll tell me a lot of things.” His voice was warm, intimate. She felt the pull of attraction so strongly she knew she was lost.

There was a beat of silence. Their gazes stayed locked. Then she forced herself to pull them back to the reason for their lunch. “Why do you play hockey?” she asked him.

He looked at her as though this were some kind of test question. “Because it’s fun.”

“Good. That’s excellent. That’s exactly why you should play a game. What do you like best about it?”

He reached for the basket of tortilla chips and chose one. “I like the game itself. Strategy, when a play works, scoring a goal, but most of all I like the camaraderie. After a game we’ll have a beer in the dressing room and talk about stuff. Joke around.” He put the chip in his mouth. Crunched down.

“Male bonding.”

“Yeah.”

He chomped more chips. She got the feeling that if he’d known her better, he’d have reached for the half of her salad that she hadn’t been able to finish.

“All right. Here’s your homework for next week.”

“Will it give me writer’s cramp?”

“No. I want you to listen for those messages we were talking about earlier. If you can find the source, then we’re going to be close to improving your performance.”

“Okay.” He scooped the last three chips out of the basket, swooped them through the remains of the salsa.

“And I’m going to give you a couple of mantras.”

“Couple of what?” A bright red drop of sauce sploshed on the table as he halted the chips a couple of inches from his mouth.

“Mantras. Affirmations. Statements you repeat many times throughout the day, especially right before you play. She pulled a notebook and pen from her bag. Spoke aloud as she wrote.

“First one—it’s okay to win. Second—I am allowed to win. Third—hockey is fun. I love it and don’t take it, or myself, too seriously.”

“Oh, the guys are going to love hearing me mutter that crap before every game.”

“You can repeat it silently.” She watched him fiddle with the ceramic donkey salt and pepper shakers. “Adam.” She waited until he met her gaze. “You have to trust me.”

“I do or we wouldn’t be here.” His eyes continued to stare into hers and she felt warmth kindle in her belly. She saw his desire for her, felt her own reflected. To her consternation, she dropped her gaze first. “Good,” she said briskly.

When they emerged into the parking lot, he walked her to her car. It was kind of sweet and old-fashioned and she loved it.

As soon as she’d unlocked her car, he opened the door for her. She glanced up. “Thanks.” Found him far closer than she’d imagined he’d be. So close she could see the stubble forming on his skin, the intense expression in his eyes.

“Serena,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I’ve had an ‘aha’ moment.”

“Really? What is it?”

“I don’t think this is going to be a strictly-business relationship.” Before she could respond, he’d closed the tiny distance between them, pulled her to him and closed his mouth on hers. Hot, determined, possessive, his lips covered hers. He gave her a moment to accept or reject his caress and she used that moment to angle her body closer, to open her lips in mute invitation.

He took her mouth then, licking into her, giving her a taste of his power and hunger. Which, naturally, incited her own. And, oh, she was hungry. He reminded her of how long it had been since she’d lost herself in a man.

A tiny sound came out of her throat, half moan, half purr. He took that as encouragement and pulled her even closer, kissing her deeply and thoroughly. She felt his arousal as he held her tight against his body, felt her own arousal blast through her.

A car with all the windows open blasting music roared into the parking lot and he quickly pulled away, shielding her with his body.

“Aha,” he said.

She gazed up at him, stunned at the strength of her own response. “I don’t date my clients,” she reminded them both.

“I don’t recall asking you for a date,” he said, all sexy and pleased with himself.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I hope so.”

She still had the shivers down the back of her neck as she got into her car and drove away.

6

ADAM COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time a kiss had knocked his socks off like that. That woman was something, he decided, as he thought about the previous day. He’d have her in his bed sooner rather than later. He was already enjoying the anticipation.

His partner, Joey Sorento, wasn’t sharing Adam’s good mood. In fact, Joey seemed to grow more pessimistic with each passing day. He had a dream of moving back to his family’s ancient vineyard on Sicily where Sorentos had been making some of the best extra-virgin olive oil in the world for centuries. But he needed money to buy the place from his aging grandparents. He watched the stock markets the way fishermen watch the weather. Based on observation, Adam didn’t think his partner was much of a stock picker.