“I’m going for a walk,” he said to a grizzled old Norwegian who answered to Sig and was the closest thing to a coach the team currently had.
Sig nodded. “They’re good guys, you know?”
“Sure. Probably great cops and firefighters, too.” But any fool with functioning eyesight could see that getting this ragged bunch of men into shape as a team was going to take time, not to mention hard work and coaching skills Jarrad doubted he possessed. He wasn’t sure there was enough time before the big league play-offs to get them into shape.
He stuffed his hands in his jeans and wandered. He’d spent so much of his life inside hockey rinks that he probably felt more comfortable in one than anywhere else on earth. He loved everything about the rink. The way it smelled like the inside of a fridge, the sound of skate blades scraping across ice, putting the first groove into the perfect surface right after the Zamboni finished. The guys. The team.
But there weren’t skates on his feet now. And it wasn’t him on the ice.
His sneakers were soundless as he headed down the hallway. At the next rink over he stopped to peer through the glass doors, and what he saw made him smile, genuinely smile, for the first time in months.
Without thinking, he opened the door and slipped inside.
On the ice was a group of women, ranging, he guessed from their twenties to their forties, all clad in mismatched hockey gear and helmets. This group made his firefighters seem like the hottest team in the NHL.
“You’ve got a breakaway. Sierra. Go!”
And he watched as a puck made its lazy way up the ice, at about the speed of a curling rock, and a slim young woman skated straight over to the boards and started up the rink.
She had to guess the direction of the puck, since she never took her eyes off her skates.
He moved closer. Put a foot up on a bench to watch. The breakaway got way past the cutie near the boards, and the goalie managed to stop it.
A whistle blew.
“Okay. Great work, ladies. See you all on Thursday.”
And they all headed off the rink.
Except the woman with the breakaway. None of the other women had noticed she was now clinging to the boards like a burr to a dog. He got the feeling she was scared.
He gave her a minute and when she still hadn’t budged, he stepped onto the ice.
Walked over to her.
“Hi,” he said. “You need a hand?”
When her face turned up he felt a kind of shock travel through his system. He was so used to tanned bombshells that he’d forgotten how soft and pretty a woman could look. Beneath the helmet she had big blue eyes and pale skin. Blond hair that had picked up some static from the cold and was levitating in places.
“I don’t think hockey’s for me,” she said.
He took the stick out of her hand and shot it across the ice toward the exit gate.
“Then you should probably get off the ice.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
He held out his hands, palms up. “Come on. Take my hand. I’ll get you out of here.”
She looked up at him. “What if we both fall?”
“I won’t let you fall.”
After thinking about it for a second, she gave him one hand.
“Your glove is too big,” he said, feeling the smallness of her hands inside the huge mitt.
“I know. I borrowed all this stuff from my brother. Except for the skates.”
“May I?” and without waiting for an answer, he pulled off her glove. And took her hand. Which was as small and soft as the rest of her seemed to be.
Once she knew he had her and he wasn’t about to take her down, she held out her other hand. He pulled off the other glove, sent the pair skidding to join the stick, and then while she hung on with a death grip, walked slowly backward, sliding her along with him. “That’s it.”
Her cheeks were pink with cold and he sensed that, like her hands in those gloves, her body inside the padding was much smaller. “You need some equipment that fits you.”
“No, I don’t. I am done with hockey.”
He laughed easily. Something he hadn’t done in so long he’d almost forgotten the sound.
“I’m a coach. I could help you.”
“That’s sweet of you, but—”
“And here’s your first lesson. Stop looking at your feet.”
“But—”
“It’s like dancing. You have to trust your body.”
She glanced up, took a deep breath and skated forward a little bit. He let go of one hand and stepped to the side. “Now, relax and think about how good that cup of coffee’s going to taste.”
“What cup of coffee?”
“The one I’m going to buy you when we get off the ice.”
She had dimples, he noticed when she smiled. “I don’t even know your name.”
He hesitated. It didn’t seem like she’d recognized him. Now he was going to give her his name and that would ruin the fun vibe between them. “Jarrad.”
She glanced up, and there wasn’t the slightest recognition. “Hi, Jarrad. I’m Sierra.”
“Pretty name. You’re doing great, Sierra.”
“It’s easier when you hold me up.”
“All you need is practice.” As they reached the edge of the rink he was almost sorry. “And here we are.” He helped her step off the ice, then went back to collect the gloves and stick.
When he returned, she was unlacing skates that in his opinion should be in the garbage. “Well? Can I buy you a coffee?”
She glanced at him, as though trying to divine his intention, which would be tough since he didn’t know what his intentions were himself. Only that he liked the look of this woman and didn’t want to say goodbye quite yet.
“All right.”
Once she had her street shoes back on and the padding off, he realized he’d been correct. She had a sweet little body.
The coffee shop in the ice sports complex was quiet. He got them both a coffee and brought the steaming cups to the small table in the corner where he figured no hockey fans would spot him right away. Especially since he made sure to sit with his back to the room.
“You’re
