Face-Off (6 page)

“C
AN YOU NEVER ADMIT
to being wrong?” Millicent Parker demanded of Samantha McBride.

Sam smiled the smile of a lawyer who knows she's about to settle out of court. “Not when I'm being paid a lot of money to be right.”

Opposing counsel shook her head and unclipped her pen. “Okay. My client wants to stay out of court. He's given me a certain amount of leeway. Let's get this deal done. You're asking way too much for a wrongful dismissal suit and you know it. Your client's position was made redundant and he was given a fair exit package.”

“He's fifty-nine years old and showing early signs of dementia. We both know that's why he was made redundant. He'll never find another job and
you
know it.”

Millicent sighed. “All right, what's your bottom line?”

Sam settled her computer closer and did what she did best. Argued her position.

Samantha had been blessed—or cursed depending on how you looked at it—with no ability to see the so-called gray areas of an argument. Something was right or it was wrong. For her there was no middle ground. It made her
a fierce lawyer, but sometimes in her personal life, her implacability caused a certain friction.

She'd be married by now if she had a different personality. For a second she allowed her thoughts to stray to the man she'd loved so long ago, but she'd become an expert at steering her mind away from painful thoughts of the past.

Back to business.
Always business, where rules were clear and if there was any doubt, a judge would always decide. There were no gray areas, no “if onlys” in her practice, and that was exactly how she liked things.

She was feeling pretty damned pleased with herself when she got home from work later that day. As she was changing for her run, the phone rang. Normally, she didn't deviate from her routine, but when she saw it was her older brother calling, she grabbed the phone, one leg in her running tights.

“Hi, Jarrad. How's the coaching going?” If there was ever a good news/bad news scenario it had to be recently learning that her big brother was coming home to Vancouver where he belonged. That was the good news. Naturally, she'd assumed that he'd finally listened to her excellent arguments on the reasons for returning home and not wasting his life in Hollywood.

However, the bad news part of the equation was that he was here not because he'd heeded her superior advice, but because Greg Olsen had asked him to coach the amateur firefighters and police league. Greg Olsen. Of all people.

She'd wanted her big brother to come home and figure out what he wanted from life. He had a boatload of money and he'd enjoyed a decade of success in pro hockey. Now he could do anything. Go back to school, open a business,
travel the world. Instead he'd informed her he was coming to coach.

“You're coaching? Seriously?” Sam could not believe her ears, and she'd heard some improbable stories in her seven years as a practicing lawyer. “Hockey?” she wanted to clarify to make sure she hadn't misunderstood. Perhaps her older brother had completely lost his mind and was coaching synchronized swimming or something. Though, based on his marriage to the swimsuit model, she doubted he wanted to get close to that many women in tank suits anytime soon.

“Yes. Hockey.” Jarrad had sound vaguely irritated. “Of course, hockey.”

And now, weeks into the coaching thing, he was calling her. “Can I come up?”

“You're here?”

“Right outside your building.”

She rapidly considered her options. She could say no. Not an option with a big bro who had always been there for her and had so rarely asked for help. She could make him come running with her. Also probably not an option since he'd go at his athlete's pace and then she'd get competitive and run too fast for conversation.

So, she'd run later. She yanked her tights off. “Yeah, sure you can come up.” And then she scrambled into a clean pair of jeans and a blue shirt.

When Jarrad arrived, he said, “I need your help.”

“Trouble with Sierra?” She hoped that wasn't it. She really liked Sierra and to see Jarrad with a sweet, normal woman was like seeing him grow up. She didn't want to find out that he'd regressed again.

He waved her words aside. “Nothing, but Sierra doesn't understand hockey the way you do.”

“I think we both need a beer to have this conversation,”
she said, crossing into her galley kitchen to the fridge and pulling out two cold Granville Island lagers. She didn't bother to offer him a glass, and, having grown up with brothers, she didn't take one herself. They twisted off the tops and both drank.

“So, is the problem hockey or Sierra?” She really needed clarification.

Her big brother looked at her as though she might have drunk twelve beers instead of taking one sip. “What are you talking about? I love Sierra. It's the coaching gig that's the problem.”

She crowed with delight and launched herself at him. “I knew it. I knew she was the one.” She squeezed her arms around his all-muscle middle. “This time it's real love, isn't it?”

A crooked smile dawned, “Yeah. The forever kind.”

“Ooh, I can't wait to be an auntie.”

“Sam, stop being a girl,” he ordered her sternly. “We're talking hockey here.”

“Right.” She pulled out of his arms, but nothing could stop the happy feeling inside her. At least one of them looked as though they had a solid romantic future ahead of them. “So, hockey.”

“Yeah. I'm coaching Greg's team.”

“I know.”

His long legs ate up the polished concrete floor of her Yaletown loft. Eight hundred and sixty two square feet had never felt so tiny. She was growing dizzy from watching him.

“You don't seem very happy about it.” Sometimes, she'd discovered, stating the obvious was the best way to get people talking. This time was no different.

“Happy?” He swung round and actually stopped in his
tracks long enough to make eye contact. “How can I be happy about it?”

She thought about how it must feel to be an NHL heavyweight benched forever and the only coaching gig around was for a bunch of fire and police geezers. “Maybe this will be a stepping-stone to other coaching opportunities.”

He shook his head at her, as though she'd said something incredibly dumb. Which couldn't be possible. “I don't know how to coach.”

Ah, so it wasn't the humiliation of the team, but fear of his own shortcomings that was stopping him.

She walked forward, laid a hand on his shoulder. “How did you learn to play hockey?”

“You were there. You saw me.”

“Only if I hung out at the rink. You were always at the rink.”

“Yeah. Exactly. That's how I learned to play.”

“Right. You practiced. Hour after hour. Maybe coaching is the same. You practice.”

“I don't know. These guys are seriously messed up. It's so bad I'm taking advice from an elementary school teacher.”

She bit back a smile. Coaching wasn't the only thing he was learning from Sierra Janssen.

“Here's the thing, Sam, you have a good eye. Remember when you figured out way back in high school that moving Tom Delaney from right wing to left would improve the team? And we moved him and it was amazing?”

“I remember. But it was easy to spot from the bench. He couldn't shoot left worth a damn. But if he shot right, he had a killer aim.”

“Not everyone can spot those things. You've got an
instinct. And you know hockey so I don't have to explain anything.”

“I don't know.”

“Come on, you've been complaining since I got to town that we hardly see each other.”

“I was referring to having dinner together or hanging out, not me helping you coach a bunch of over-the-hill amateurs.”

“Look. Come down to the rink on Saturday morning. You've got good judgment, let me know what you think.”

Her hand came off her brother's shoulder and clenched involuntarily at her side. “Is Greg going to be there?”

Jarrad's eyes narrowed in irritation. “Of course he's going to be there. He's on the team. Come on. You guys are ancient history. I'm sure you could be in the same hockey rink without killing each other.”

She wasn't so sure about that.

Talk about complicated.

“I know you don't understand, but—”

“You're right. I don't. No one does. So, you guys went out all through high school, then you went away to college and you broke up. Big deal. Happens all the time.”

“Well, there was a little more to it than that.” She still experienced a weird ache in her chest at the thought of all the history that was between her and Greg Olsen. They hadn't only been boyfriend and girlfriend in high school. Looking back she realized now they'd been truly in love. They were probably the only two high-school sophomores who
got
Romeo and Juliet, who really deep-down understood the kind of teenaged passionate love that would cause you to die for each other rather than live alone.

And yet she'd killed that love more completely than Romeo and Juliet had perished.

In the most mundane manner. When Greg asked her to marry him, right before she'd left to go to law school in Toronto, she'd seen the gesture as an attempt to control her. As though he didn't trust her to stay faithful to him.

Oh, they'd seen each other in the intervening years since she'd been back in Vancouver. Ironically enough, usually at the wedding of an old friend from high school.

They were polite, like distant acquaintances, the kind where you recognize a face but can't recall the person's name. Before, he'd been the first person she thought of when she woke in the morning, the last one she talked to at night.

Jarrad was right. What was the big deal? Her brother was coaching the team. So what if her old boyfriend was part of the group? He was an old flame who'd sputtered out long ago.

“Sure,” she said. “I'll swing by on Saturday.”

Maybe it was time to make peace with the past.

T
HE MULTI-RINK COMPLEX
housed everything from kids' amateur teams to the Vancouver Canucks training. The place was hopping on a Saturday morning. Even though Samantha had given up precious sleep to be here at 7:00 a.m. she knew many of the players would have started while it was still dark outside.

She passed a yawning pair of parents carrying coffee in refillable containers that sported a kids' hockey-team logo. Acquired in a team fundraiser no doubt.

Before entering the rink where Jarrad was coaching, she stopped to fix her scarf in the neck of the absurdly expensive black woolen jacket she'd never even worn before. Even as she'd cursed herself for doing it, she'd taken extra time with her hair and makeup this morning, as though she were preparing for an important day in court, not to sit in on an amateur hockey practice at a ridiculously early hour.

She slipped into the rink where the cops and fire fighters were practicing. There was Jarrad, one foot up on a bench, watching as the men practiced a scoring drill. They were passing the puck down the ice once, twice and then the third guy shot for the net.

Twenty or so men skated around the rink, but only one drew her attention. The way he always had.

She moved closer, greeted Jarrad and passed him the takeout coffee she'd brought him.

“Thanks,” he said absently, his eyes never leaving the rink.

Her gaze was fixed too, but on a more specific object. He looked so familiar and yet so new. The flop of dark hair she'd loved to play with was shorter now, but still thick and dark and her fingers itched to feel it. He'd grown into his face and it was harder, stronger than in his youth. His body had filled out, too. He wasn't the tallest guy on the team, but he was solid and commanding.

As though he felt her gaze on him, she saw Greg's head lift, and he scanned the benches. She wanted to glance away, not be caught staring at him, but somehow she was powerless to move her gaze until it connected with his and the impact was like a charge of electricity zapping her. For a long moment they stayed like that, gazes connecting, all the intimate past roaring back to her in a rush.

“Hey, Olsen. Wake up.”

He turned his head, caught the puck and the practice continued. He didn't again glance her way. She knew because she never let him out of her sight.

Jarrad had clearly overcome his reticence about his coaching abilities. He hollered, hooted and occasionally walked onto the ice to explain a move in detail. Sometimes borrowing a player's stick to demonstrate. She knew he'd had a great career, but still she felt a pang for all he'd had to give up.

She'd intended to watch for a bit and then slip out, but, in spite of herself, she got pulled in. Enjoyed watching her brother explore skills she doubted he'd known he possessed.

Once she left the rink to fetch herself and Jarrad another coffee, otherwise she remained glued to the action. Fascinated.

“Well? What do you think?” he asked her at one point.

She thought he was an amazing coach and she felt so proud of him that she wanted to kiss him. But, of course, he was her big brother and she'd always shown her toughest side around him, so she said, “I think the young guy on defense should be up front. He's got great instincts and did you see the speed he put behind that puck?”

Her brother's brow crinkled in a frown. “I know. But he's a rookie on the force. The guys aren't going to want to see a rookie up front. It's like getting a private to lead a platoon.”

“Is this a game of hockey or politics?”

He didn't say anything. But ten minutes later, he went down to the ice and tried a new formation, with the kid as center forward. She could feel the ripple of annoyance go through the team, but after they started practicing again, there was no doubt that their front line was stronger.

Jarrad was right, she thought, smiling to herself. She did have an instinct.

When at last the players were done for the day she rose, gathering her things, planning to leave before the guys came off the ice.

She was certain Greg would find a way to hang back, coming off the ice last, giving her time to vacate the premises. To her surprise, she'd barely made it five feet when that oh-so-familiar voice hailed her. “Hey, Sam, hold up.”

The fact that Greg Olsen was calling her name was astonishing. That he'd obviously pushed his way off the ice first to do so was almost beyond belief.

She turned. He hadn't had time to remove his skates so he wobbled as he hiked up toward her. “What is it?” Not the most intelligent question, maybe, but all she could think of to say. He hadn't sought her out in years.

He was sweating, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. There was a shadow of stubble on his cheeks and chin. “I saw you sitting up there with Big J and thought it's been a while since we caught up. I know it's early, but what say I take you for a White Spot burger platter and a chocolate shake?”

In spite of herself she smiled. If he'd offered her coffee at a fancy coffee shop, cocktails at a funky bar on Granville Island she'd have said no. But the meal he outlined had been their favorite back when they'd been together. They'd plowed through a lot of burgers and downed a lot of chocolate shakes in their time as a couple.

Maybe it was the wash of memory, or the shock that he'd actually gone out of his way to speak to her, but even as her smart, rational brain was saying,
No, don't do it!
Her lizard brain was licking its dry little lips at the idea of sitting across from him at their old haunt once more.

“Okay.”

A grin cracked his face. “Great. Give me fifteen minutes to shower. Be right back.”

But the thought of hanging around waiting for him, having Jarrad and whoever else was still around see her and Greg leave the rink together was too much. She shook her head. “I'll meet you there.”

He nodded once. Then turned and headed for the showers.

She had some emails and calls to catch up on. The wonder of modern technology meant she could do it from her iPhone in the parking lot of the restaurant.

It didn't seem like she'd done much of anything when a battered 4X4 drew up and Greg jumped out.

She stepped out of her car and greeted him with the casual familiarity of old friends. Except that her heart didn't usually trip so fast for old friends.

“Hungry?” he asked as he held the door open for her to pass into the restaurant.

“I haven't had a burger in forever.”

“Then today is your lucky day.”

As soon as they were settled into a booth, awkwardness descended. She opened the menu for something to do, then felt ridiculous since the whole point of coming here was to recreate their old ritual. And why she'd agreed, she couldn't imagine.

“They've got a lot of new menu choices,” she said. “Lots of lighter, healthier fare.”

“Yeah. And they still serve burgers and shakes. Because some things never change.”

“Don't they?” she asked. Her gaze rose from the menu to connect with his. For a guy with a Swedish name he was very dark. She knew why, of course. His Swedish sailor grandfather had married a woman from the Squamish nation. Greg had always been ridiculously proud of his native blood. With his dark hair and eyes, high cheekbones and warrior's body, he'd been a good-looking boy. A dangerously good-looking, if skinny, teen and as a young adult he'd shown the promise of being a gorgeous man.

Now, at thirty-two, he'd fulfilled that promise. His body had filled out, and even if she hadn't known he was a cop she'd have guessed he worked out. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him. He looked fit, lean and dangerous.

Familiar and strange all at once.

“It was the craziest thing this morning. I looked over at you in the stands and I felt like I was back in high school,
with my girlfriend there to cheer on the team.” He grinned at her. “Even if she did usually have more opinions than a good girlfriend should.”

She wasn't a liar. Wasn't going to start now. She knew exactly what he was referring to. She'd felt that old familiar tug herself, and the years had dropped away.

She looked at him, and even across the table, she felt the heat coming off him, coming off her.

“Yeah, I remember,” she said.

The silence was thicker than the chocolate shakes she knew they'd both order and she had no idea what to say to him. How to break the strange atmosphere? Fortunately, the waitress came and they ordered. It didn't take long because neither of them were the, “hold the tomato, I want my pickle on the side, can I substitute salad for fries?” types. They ordered what was on the menu. Simple. Straightforward. Like their relationship used to be.

He drank water, sucked one of the ice cubes into his mouth and chewed it. The gesture mesmerized her. How could he be so gorgeous and so familiar and not hers? She imagined his lips on hers right now, they'd be cold to the touch, his tongue would be icy.

She swallowed and turned her attention to her cutlery, rearranging it just so.

“So, you going to Amanda and Pete's wedding?”

Naturally she'd known he'd be invited since Amanda had been a close friend of both of them in high school. She'd met Pete when she was teaching English in Korea and now they were getting married.

“Yes. I am.”

“You taking anyone to the wedding?” he asked around another ice cube. She wanted to lean over and lick the cube rolling around his mouth. She couldn't believe the way her body was playing tricks on her mind like this.

And why was he asking her a question like this? Was he suddenly interested in her again? Going to ask her to be his date for the wedding? A little spurt of something—maybe hope, maybe dread, maybe panic, maybe a little of all three—went through her. “I don't think so.”

He nodded, not seeming all that surprised. “Maybe you can save me a dance.”

That was it? A dance?

“Sure.” Obviously he wasn't looking for a date. Perhaps he was simply making casual conversation. She could play it just as casual.

When their food came, he chowed down with obvious hunger, having practiced for several hours, while she found her appetite less hearty than usual. It was so funny to be with him, doing things they'd done as teens and yet to be across the table from a man who had become a stranger to her in the years since they'd broken up.

“Do you like being a cop as much as you thought you would?” she asked him, partly to make conversation but also because she was genuinely curious. They'd both been so sure of what they wanted—had their childish dreams worked out?

“Absolutely,” he answered. “I love it. The work's obviously stressful at times, but I feel like I do some good. Keep the city a little safer.” He sipped his chocolate milk shake, reminding her that she'd yet to touch hers. The taste was so familiar, so sweet, that she licked her lips and sucked up more. She glanced up and found his eyes on her mouth with an expression that she recognized.

Lust. Pure lust.

One thing she knew. Maybe they'd parted badly, maybe they hadn't spent any time together in more than ten years, but the heat between them was still there.

He dropped his gaze to his plate. Dragged a French fry
through ketchup. “How about you? Being a lawyer suit you?”

“Absolutely,” she said, echoing his earlier answer. “You know how I love a good argument. And I find the work interesting. I'm involved in a lot of different cases so I never get bored.”

“That's good,” he said. “Boredom will kill you.”

She felt as if there was a hidden meaning there. Was he trying to tell her he was bored? Maybe one part of his life was boring, like his love life? Or perhaps he thought her work sounded boring.

Who knew?

She used to be so close to him she could almost read his mind. Now he was a stranger to her. A gorgeous, half-familiar stranger.

“So, what do you think about my brother as a coach?” she asked to get them back to a neutral subject.

“He's a good guy. He works us hard, doesn't put up with any bull. Used to be nobody had time to practice, we'd show up at games and hope to hell nobody got hurt since we don't heal as fast as we all used to. Now, he's getting us working more as a team which is obviously critical if we want to do well at the tournament. He got us thinking about building a team being like building a fort. Frankly, I think we all thought that head injury had done him in. But a few drills that stressed team-building and it started to come together.”

“Maybe I'll come and cheer you guys on in Portland,” she said. Portland was where the big tournament would be held.

His gaze caught hers and she felt the strength of him, the stunning connection she still felt to him. “That would be great.”

They chatted about the team's chances and then the last
of her milk shake was sucked dry, and Greg had eaten both his burger and half of hers. There was nothing to keep them here any longer. But how she hated to let him go.

In the parking lot, there was a moment of hideous awkwardness. Did she hug him? Shake his hand? Kiss him on the cheek?

He seemed equally stuck in uncertainty. Finally, when the moment stretched a little too long, she gave a nervous giggle and opened her arms to hug him.

He took her in, squeezed her to his big body. Then pulled away quickly. “See you around,” he said.

She felt as though she could barely breathe. “Yeah,” she managed. “See you around.”

She drove home.
See you around?
What kind of crap thing was that to say to a person.
See you around.

She did a few Saturday errands, picked up some things at the organic grocer in her neighborhood. And then went for a run along the path that edged the beach. The air was cool and bracing. The water was gray, the seabirds gray, the distant mountains a darker gray. When rain began to fall she didn't stop. She'd grown up in Vancouver so she was used to it. Besides, the drops were cooling. The exercise helped calm her a bit, but the truth was that since she'd seen Greg this morning she'd felt on edge.