But Turchenko was playing today, and doing well. So Mike “overheard” a lot of comments about how good the kid was doing, and he had to bite his tongue. Nothing was going to change unless he, Mike, went out and played like a top goalie, and there were still a couple of games before he’d be back in net. So, he grabbed the hats he’d picked up for the kids and took them over to see how things were going.
The redheaded instructor was there, this time in jeans and a jersey (not his of course) looking a little frazzled. He felt some satisfaction from that. It still smarted that she’d beat him in swimming.
“Everyone having fun?” he asked.
Bridget turned to the row of kids and asked, “Having fun?”
The response was positive. Mike passed down the red-yellow-and-black hats, which each kid immediately put on. Good, Mike thought. He was making progress with someone.
Bridget turned to her charges. “What would you like to say to Mr. Reimer?” she asked.
A chorus of thank-yous came back, with something that sounded like “bad swimmer.” Mike thought that was a little unfair. He reserved his talents for frozen water.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Reimer,” Bridget added.
He blinked. Bridget turned back to the kids, dismissing him. This was a new low.
Before he could ask what her problem was, he heard a cough behind him.
“Mike Reimer? Could I take a picture?”
Mike turned. Part of being on the team was public relations, and he’d always honored that. So he signed what was put in front of him, smiled for pictures, ignored the comments made behind his back and left as the third period started without speaking further to the swimming class.
* * *
BRIDGET HADN’T PLANNED on kidnapping anyone. She’d dropped off the eight kids, with sticky faces, stories and hats, in front of their local school. Parents and caregivers were waiting, and Bridget thought, after reviewing the outing, that there wasn’t much in the stories that would worry any responsible adult.
Of course, with Tony, all bets were off.
She drove back to the club and dropped Tad at the front door. After parking the van, she’d taken the keys in and filled out the form that Wally the Weasel required. She made sure to note that there was no damage, since Wally seemed to expect these kids to act like wild animals. She’d stopped by her desk (a cubby off the pool room) to catch up her notes on the swim team, and then, finally, had been ready to head home.
She was still a little irritable, but she was free, and was looking forward to a relaxing evening. Now that the hockey preseason had begun, there were sure to be some of her brothers and friends at the house to watch a hockey game, and her mother would have prepared an incredible amount of food. Bridget rented the apartment in the basement of her parents’ place, so she decided she might as well join them. She sent a text to see who was around.
She slipped out the back door to get her car from the parking lot, and beside her fifteen-year-old Mazda was a man leaning on a car.
Not just any man, and not just any car.
* * *
MIKE SAW THE back door open, and then the red hair. He crossed his arms and waited. He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d come back to the athletic facility. He didn’t have friends here to make plans with on a Saturday night. He could have gone to a bar or club. He knew he’d have heard some insults, but a well-known athlete whose salary was published in the media could find companionship.
He’d grown tired of that scenario long ago, though. Puck-bunnies and sycophants weren’t what he wanted. He just wanted to hang with someone.
The redhead—Bridget—had been a little testy at the game, but he wasn’t sure if that was the kids, or him, or maybe she just didn’t like hockey. He decided he was going to find out.
He’d heard of love at first sight, but this was the first time he’d seen it happen, right in front of him. Bridget had come out, checking her phone, not even noticing him. Then when she’d looked up, she seemed annoyed. But as he’d waited, her expression softened, a small smile turned up the corners of her mouth and she moved forward as if drawn by an irresistible force.
Mike watched as she closed in on him...and then passed him...staring at his car. She brought one hand up, as if to touch it, then dropped it again.
She shook her head, and looked back at him. “A P1?”
Mike raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Yes.”
He watched as she completed her circuit of his car. Not everyone would recognize a McLaren, or know which one he had. He’d impressed people with this car, mostly when they realized what it cost, but he’d never been ignored for it. He didn’t like that. It was a nice car, even a beautiful one, but still it was just a car. Maybe he’d been spoiled. People noticed him. They might think he was slime crawling out from under a rock, or they might think he was a hockey god, but they didn’t ignore him.
With a sigh, she finally tore her gaze away, and saw him standing there, waiting.
“If I won a lottery...” she said dreamily. “Brian wants an Aston Martin, and Patrick a Ferrari, but this—she’s exactly what I’d choose.”
Mike didn’t know who Brian and Patrick were, and he didn’t much care. He’d decided this had been a mistake, so he’d ask about the kids and the game and get out of there. If he wanted his ego stepped on further, he could just walk down Yonge Street.
“So, the kids all got home safely?” he asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she answered tersely.
What was her problem?
“I hope everyone enjoyed it,” he persisted.
“I think the kids enjoyed the hats and the popcorn more than the game. There weren’t that many players they knew.” She paused for just a moment. “Turchenko seemed to be doing well.”
Mike was tired of hearing how well Turchenko was doing. The guy had played well for the half of the game he’d been in. He also hadn’t been challenged that much. Mike knew, though, that a lot of people, including most of his teammates and the fans in Toronto, hoped he’d win the starting job and leave Mike to warm the bench.
He was determined that wasn’t going to happen. So his response was not very diplomatic.
“Of course, everyone likes Turchenko. He’s blond and blue-eyed and flirts with—”
“Right, because I care only about the way he looks. I couldn’t possibly understand hockey with my poor female brain,” Bridget spit out.
Mike hadn’t meant that. He’d been raised by a strong woman who’d used her brains and hard work to deal with being pregnant and stranded at sixteen. He’d been going to say that Turchenko flirted with the press, not women, but Bridget had reacted like an angry cat. Her eyes were flashing, her freckles almost obscured by her heated cheeks, and he could swear her very hair was vibrating with anger. It was fascinating.
Walter had said she had a temper, and Mike was obviously getting a look at it. He was tired and irritated, and glad he wasn’t the only one out of sorts. Instead of answering diplomatically, he decided to poke the bear.
“A lot of people think they understand hockey, but it’s different when you’re actually playing it.”
Yep, Mike thought. Her hair is vibrating.
“Okay, come with me,” she snarled.