Nancy Warren - Game On

“And the year before?”

His scowl deepened. “Maybe a case messed up my concentration. I forget.”

“Dude, my grandma could have made the shot you missed last year. The net was open and you missed it! You choked,” Dylan said. “It happens. But we want to win the championship this year. We all want it real bad.”

“So do I!” What did they think? He was the team captain, center. Of course he wanted to win. All he needed to do was focus more. Somehow he’d lost his edge in the last two championship games. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

“Then at least meet with Serena Long,” Max said. “She’s eager to work with you.”

He scowled. Glared at both of them. “She’d better be hot.”

2

SERENA SNUGGLED INTO her black wool jacket, wishing she’d thought to throw a parka into her car when she’d headed out into the early-morning darkness. Except that she didn’t own a parka.

Or skis.

Or snowshoes.

Or a sled.

Or skates.

She didn’t do winter if she could help it. And she certainly didn’t get up at 4:45 in the morning in order to turn up at a freezing-cold rink by 5:30 a.m. to watch a bunch of grown men practice sliding around on the ice chasing a disk. And beating up on each other when they didn’t get it.

The heels on her black boots clacked as she made her way to rink 6. Amazingly, all the rinks in the sportsplex seemed to be full. Sleepy parents with takeout coffees watched kids of all sizes slide around. It was amazing, an entire life that went on while she slept.

When she entered the practice rink Max had directed her to, there weren’t any parents pressed up against the plexiglass looking sleep deprived. In fact, there were only players on the ice and players on the bench. The small seating area was empty.

She wasn’t a hockey fan by any means, but she’d played field hockey in school and figured the basic rules ought to be similar. Max had told her he played right wing, and yep, there he was, one of the smaller players on the ice. The big guy in the middle would be Adam Shawnigan.

She watched him. They seemed to be working on some kind of passing drill. She could feel the concentration of the guys on the ice. With no crowd the sounds were magnified—the scratch of skates, the smack of stick to puck, the groaned obscenities when some guy missed the puck completely.

* * *

WHEN THE TEAM came off the ice, she stayed where she was, interested in studying the dynamics between the players. It was clear immediately that Adam was the leader. Most everyone took the time to comment or joke as they passed him. He had a good word, a laugh or a pat on the back for all the guys. Max and he and a third man she assumed was Dylan, the left wing, remained standing after the rest of the team had ambled away.

She rose and walked down the steps to join the group of three, all of whom turned to watch her approach.

But she was aware of only one of them. The tallest one in the middle.

Max had told her plenty about Adam Shawnigan. His hockey record, his work experience—highlighting some of the more dramatic cases he’d solved—even their childhood exploits.

What Max had neglected to tell her was that Adam Shawnigan was like something out of mythology. Thor, maybe, she thought, recalling the movie her nieces had dragged her to. Gorgeous, tough, larger-than-life. Even sweaty and unshaven, still breathing heavily from the last play, the man exuded sex appeal. When his eyes rested on her, she felt as though he could see all her secrets. It was both intriguing and a little uncomfortable. She preferred to keep her secrets until she felt like sharing them.

His eyes were an intense blue, not the twinkling happy kind but a hard blue that spoke of experiences and memories she was glad she didn’t share. Even if she hadn’t known he was a cop, she’d have guessed either law enforcement or military. Those eyes were watchful, checking her out while giving nothing away. His face was tough and rugged and needed a shave. He had a groove in his chin deep enough to rest a pencil in.

All of which made his mouth the most incredible surprise. Full lips that looked soft and sensitive. He held them in a rigid line, but it didn’t help. Those lips were poutier than a supermodel’s. And if she didn’t stop staring at them, she was going to make a fool of herself.

She shifted her gaze to Max—sweet, comfortable Max—who immediately made introductions. “Adam Shawnigan, meet Serena Long. Serena’s agreed to give you a few coaching sessions.”

Adam opened his mouth, and she could see the words forming, something like I don’t need no stinkin’ performance coach, but then he glanced at Max and she could see they’d been down this road already. He paused, thumped one glove against the other and said, “Yeah. So I heard.”

And this was the guy who was dying to work with her?

She glared at her old friend, got a slight shrug in return.

“When do you want to begin?” Max asked.

“Maybe in a couple of weeks,” Adam said. “Closer—”

She interrupted immediately. He might be king of the rink, but he wasn’t going to rule her. “I got up at 4:45 a.m. and drove all the way out here. I suggest we start now,” she said. She was already giving up her time. She didn’t intend to be dictated to by her charity case.

The charity case spluttered, “I’ve got work. I have to be in the office—”

“I’d really like thirty minutes of your time.” She turned and began gathering her stuff.

Behind her she heard Max speak in a low voice, but not so low she couldn’t hear—which, knowing Max, would be deliberate. “If you screw this up, we’ll be changing the lines for the big game.”

“Says who?”

“The whole team. We talked about it.”

“Dylan?”

She imagined those big lips hanging open in shock.

Dylan said, “It’s about the team. We all want to win this year. At least give her a try.”

There was a pause so pregnant it must have contained triplets.

“Fine,” Adam snapped. “Thirty minutes.”

Dylan banged him on the upper arm as he left. “Looks like you got your wish, buddy.”

Adam grunted.

* * *

“OKAY,” ADAM SAID to Serena Long, feeling sweaty and unkempt in the presence of this woman who exuded control. She reminded him uncannily of a woman he’d once arrested. A renowned dominatrix who went by the name of Madame D. It didn’t help that she was wearing all black—including boots. No doubt it was stylin’, but he had the uncomfortable notion that what was in her briefcase—also black—might be a selection of leather-and-stud instruments.

“Okay?”

“Thirty minutes. I’m all yours.”

“I was thinking—”

“Starbucks around the corner,” he said. “Give me ten minutes to change.”

She regarded him coolly, then nodded.

He headed for the change room, grabbed a fast shower, dragged a razor over his face and was back out, feeling a lot more in control, in fifteen minutes.

Serena Long was where he’d left her, more or less. She had a tablet computer on her lap, her cell phone wired to her head. When she saw him, she said into the mouthpiece, “I have a meeting with a client now. I have to go.” Keeping her eyes on Adam’s, she added, “I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Ouch.

She put her gadgets away and rose. He followed her out the door. Even the way she walked reminded him of Madame D. That long, easy gait, the subtle sway of her hips. There’d been nothing outlandish about Madame D in her street clothes, either. She’d simply appeared to be a very sexy, beautiful woman. It wasn’t until you got behind the facade that you got spanked.

He had no intention of letting that happen with this woman. Once a man let himself get vulnerable with her type, the next thing he knew she was using his cojones as dashboard ornaments.