Game On - Nancy Warren

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cold, clean tracks helped clear the crap out of his mind. With a stick in his hands and a puck to focus on, he had control over his destiny, even if only for a couple of hours.

      Max and Dylan played alongside him, as they had since their parents had signed them up for hockey when they were in first grade. They’d all kept up the game and now played in the same emergency-services league. Most of the players were cops and firefighters, with a few ambulance guys thrown in. Max barely qualified since he was a reserve firefighter, but he paid for the uniforms, so the Hunter Hurricanes weren’t inclined to complain.

      Normally they practiced once a week at 5:00 or 5:30 a.m. and played a weekly game, but with play-offs looming, they’d upped their practice schedule and it showed. Well into the third period against the Bend Bandits, they were ahead 3–2. Adam was center forward. With Dylan and Max as wingmen, he felt they were a dream trio. They’d come close to bagging the Badges on Ice championship not once but twice. This time, he told himself. This year that cup was theirs. All he had to do was focus.

      Max, the right wing, had the puck and stayed back while Adam and Dylan crossed paths and headed for the offensive zone in a classic forward crisscross they’d practiced hundreds of times. Max then shot a crisp pass to Dylan. They were gaining speed. Adam felt his adrenaline pump. Focus and timing were everything. Max maneuvered himself into the high slot. Dylan, under attack, passed to Adam, who flicked the puck to Max. But the goalie was right on him. Instead of taking the shot, Max tipped the puck to Dylan, who then sent the thing flying past the stumbling goalie and scored.

      Magic. They were magic on ice. This year that championship was theirs, and nothing was getting in the way.

      After the backslaps and congratulations, the shaking hands when the game was over, the teams headed for the change room. Max said, “Adam, hold up a second.” Dylan hung back, too.

      He listened in growing irritation as Max told him about the great “favor” he’d arranged.

      “There is no damn way I am letting some bossy do-gooder inside my head,” Adam snapped, sending puffs of white breath into the freezing air inside the rink.

      “She’s a performance coach. The woman’s amazing.”

      “I don’t need a performance coach. How many goals did I score this season?” He turned to glare at his two best friends.

      “How about in play-offs last year?” Dylan asked.

      The familiar churn began in his gut as it did whenever he thought about play-offs. “I had a stomach bug or something last year. That’s why I was off my game.”

      “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

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