thinking about Tom and remembering the years I spent here. I didn’t have anything else going on, so…” He shrugged. “Whoever said you can’t go back home was right.”
“Did you ever really think of Wichita as your home?”
“Naw. It was just another stopping point along the way to fame and fortune on ice.”
“Where is home? Des Moines?” she pressed.
“It used to be.” He sounded sad. “But my parents are both gone and my sisters moved away after they got out of college. There’s nothing there now to call me back.”
“So Tampa’s home?”
He shook his head and folded his arms across his chest again. “It’s just another of the stopping points. It’s no more special than anywhere else.”
Rootless in Tampa. Not only was it a lousy movie title, it had to be a miserable way to exist. She was about to point that out when the door of the Coliseum opened and the first of the players followed the shaft of light into the parking lot.
Off the hook, Cat stepped away from the car. “Hi, Matt,” she called out, recognizing the shorter than average shape heading her way.
Matt Hyerstrom barely managed a smile and shifted the weight of the bag on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s over,” Cat said kindly. “You have to shrug it off and go on to the next one.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Cat could tell that he didn’t believe a word of it. She pivoted as he went past and then called after him, “We’re going to modify the lines, you know.”
He stopped and turned back. “Really?” he asked. “When?”
“Tomorrow morning at practice sound good to you?”
With a huge grin, he turned back toward the bus, saying, “Sounds perfect, Mizz Talbott.”
“We’re changing up the lines?”
She looked back to find Jason Dody coming her way. “Yes, Jace, we are,” she assured him, hoping that they were indeed talking about the same thing. “I figure it couldn’t hurt. Which line do you want to play on?”
“Anyone’s except Wheatley’s,” he answered quietly as he walked past her.
“Well, we’ll just see what we can do about that. Give your dream line some thought tonight and we’ll see how it works.”
He lifted his sticks and called back, “Will do, ma’am.”
Two for two. Hey, she was on a roll. She greeted the third player crossing the lot. “Georgie, if that lip of yours gets any lower, you’re going to step on it. There’s no reason to add injury to insult tonight.” He lifted his head and grinned. “Ah, that’s much better,” Cat said. “You’re so good-looking when you smile. Girls can’t resist a smile, you know.”
“Yeah?” He stopped in front of her and planted the tips of his sticks in the gravel between their feet. “What are you doing later?”
Cat laughed outright. “I’m old enough to be your mother, Georgie. Get on the bus.”
His grin even brighter than before, he did as he was told, leaving her to watch the next man heading for the bus. Her smile faded as the team’s Goliath came near enough for her to see the contours of his face. “Oh, damn, Ryan,” she said softly, taking his arm and stopping him. She angled his face into the orange glow of the bus’s running lights. A line of black stitches held together a jagged tear that ran over a huge lump above his right eye. “That has to hurt. What did Doc Mallory say?”
“That he had one helluva time getting the needle through the scar tissue, ma’am.”
As always, the gentle voice coming from such a burly body melted her heart. “Maybe we need to think about fighting a lot less and playing a little more, huh?”
He gave her a weary smile. “Coach says I need to get better at the fighting.”
“Consider his directive countermanded.”
“Huh?” His attempt to cock a brow ended in a wince.
“I own the team, Ryan,” she said, “so I get to make the rules. I say less fighting, and I’ll make sure Carl understands that’s what I expect. When you get home, put some ice on that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he promised as she released him and gave him a little pat in the center of the back. She had to reach up to do it.
There wasn’t anyone else right behind him. Cat sighed in relief and stuffed her hands back into her pockets. Four for four. Now all she had to do was make good on her promises.
“You’re good.”
She smiled at the man leaning against her car, both amazed that she’d forgotten he was there and pleased by his approval. “Thanks. Wait until you see me behind the bench.”
“That’s a whole different world,” he countered. “You’re good at parking lot cheerleading. You’d be smart to leave it at that and not push your luck.”
Yeah, well, she’d spent way too many years of her life not pushing and, with one notable exception, she had nothing to show for it but regrets. “Hold on to that thought, I’ll be back to it in a few,” she said, eyeing the round, decidedly bald silhouette coming through the arena door. She went to meet him halfway, calling out, “Carl! If I could have a minute with you, please.”
He paused, barely, turning sideways as though he would walk off at any moment. His smile was the one he always gave her. The I’m-tolerating-you-only-because-you-sign-the-checks smile. The one that set her teeth on edge every time she saw it.
“It’ll have to be quick, Mrs. Talbott,” he informed her as players moved around them. “The bus is waiting.”
“And it’ll sit right there until you get aboard,” she pointed out. “I’d like for you to change the lines starting with tomorrow morning’s practice. Obviously they’re not working as they are now.”
“It won’t make any difference. You can’t make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear.”
Sow’s ear, she silently corrected. “I don’t care. I want the lines changed, Carl. And while we’re making changes, I’ve never been a fan of either boxing or professional wrestling. I’m tired of our games being more a contest of fists than finesse. The fighting needs to be stopped.”
He gave a thumbs-up sign to one of the players walking past while telling her, “Fights are what the fans come to see.”
“Yeah, all six of them,” she countered dryly. “Maybe if we actually played hockey a few more people might be interested in coming to the games and helping to pay the rent.” At his snort, she put her hands on her hips and looked him square in the eye. “And your salary, Carl.”
He stopped smiling. He leaned close. “Look, Little Lady. With the exception of Wheatley, this team doesn’t have the talent to play the grand and glorious kind of hockey you’ve been watching on ESPN. Those
