Patrick smiled at Mike. It was a charming smile, meant to sell: either Patrick himself or whatever goods he had on hand. Mike had seen smiles like that, and it put him on his guard. Behind the smile, the eyes were assessing. Assessing him as a player, or as someone spending time with his sister?
Mike shrugged, leaving Bridget to take the initiative.
“I’m kind of tired,” she said.
“I thought you were at the game today?” Cormack asked, a note of resentment in his voice.
“I was at the game with eight kids,” Bridget corrected him. “That’s not exactly a day at the spa. And no, before you ask, I didn’t get much chance to watch the new guys.”
“Well, Bridgie—” Patrick began.
“Don’t call me Bridgie,” she interrupted.
“We could make it interesting.”
“Interesting how?” she asked, head tilted oh, so, casually. Mike thought he’d be wary if he were Patrick. Surely he knew his sister by now.
“A little wager. I’ve got some leaves that need raking.”
Bridget considered. “My car could use a cleaning.”
“First to five?”
“Or whoever is ahead after half an hour. Are you okay with that, Mike?” she asked, turning to look at him.
Mike nodded.
“So who’s playing with Mike and me?”
One of Cormack’s friends, Bernie, was chosen.
Patrick stopped near Mike and asked casually, “So where did you two meet?”
Mike looked at Cormack and saw that he was waiting for that answer as well. Bernie also seemed pretty interested. So, the assessment was from a brother, not a player.
“He’s the guy who got the tickets for the game today,” Bridget answered.
She was either unaware of the proprietary attitude of her brothers or so used to it that she didn’t react. Mike was a little surprised. He’d expected her to get upset about that, and he wanted to see her hair vibrate again.
“Oh, you’re the lane swimmer. Bridget yell at you about that yet?”
Apparently Bridget hadn’t known who he was then, so neither did these men. That would explain the odd expression on her face when he’d shown up at the game. He filed that away for future consideration.
“It turns out it isn’t Mike’s fault. It’s Wally the Weasel,” Bridget answered.
Mike bit his lip. The name was perfect. Maybe that was Wally’s problem with Bridget: he’d heard that nickname.
“Are we playing or talking?” Cormack asked.
Mike wasn’t sure how this would go. He didn’t doubt that he was going to be better than Cormack, but Patrick was a big guy, and Bridget was a woman, and his sister. Then there was Bernie on their team, and his improbably named friend Bert: two unknowns. Mike was competitive, and he assessed the men’s potential as players. Would the guys be chivalrous with Bridget, or did the redheads all have that same need to win?
Patrick, it turned out, was competitive but fair. He had size and speed, and he didn’t have the whiffing issue his sister did. But he didn’t have that same drive Mike had, and again, Mike was better. Bert and Bernie were competent at most. Cormack was willing to cut corners, but gave his sister no slack. Bridget didn’t back down from anything, which was what he’d come to expect from her. She took and gave hits, and talked as much smack as the guys.
And Mike was finding the sheer enjoyment of playing this game, whether on ice with his team or on a street with a woman he barely knew, was still the best feeling he’d known.
The game was called when another car arrived and pulled into the driveway. Bridget and Mike (and Bernie) were up three to zip. An older man stepped out of the car, red hair threaded with gray. Obviously the father. He paused for a minute, then headed to the street. Mike wondered how many redheads were going to end up playing. Then an older woman, red hair making it obvious she was the matriarch of the clan, leaned out the door.
“Dinner’s ready! And no, we’re not waiting on the end of your game.”
“Okay, Mom! We’ll just clean up,” Patrick answered.
Mom apparently had clout. The others started gathering balls and the nets. Mike stood up from his defensive stance, not sure what to do now. It was time for him to leave, but he had no vehicle. He’d been kidnapped, so was Bridget planning to take him back? Should he call a cab?
The others were talking about the game. Bridget was stressing how very clean she needed her car to be, since she’d won the bet, thanks to Mike. Mike moved slowly to remove his pads, waiting for Bridget to remember him...
“Nice game, Mike. You’ve got some good moves there. Do you play much?” asked Patrick.
“Stop it, Patrick,” said Bridget.
Mike looked from Patrick to Bridget.
“I just said...” Patrick had that selling smile going again.
“I know, but you’re not going to recruit Mike for your beer league team.”
“Bridgie, it’s not up to you. If he wants to play, he could. He’s pretty good.”
Mike was glad someone was finally happy with his performance. But he guessed from Cormack’s frown that the other man didn’t like being shown up. He wasn’t sure if knowing who had outplayed him would make it better or worse.
Cormack grumbled. “Maybe the Blaze should recruit him. He’s as good as that overpriced—”
“Shut up, Cormack,” Bridget interrupted.
“Oh, I know, you don’t like Turchenko—”
Mike decided it was time to show himself. He pulled off his helmet and grabbed the net with one hand, ready to do his share and return it to the garage.
“—but you’re just prejudiced. Turchenko played really well today...” Cormack trailed off. He’d seen the others staring, and turned, recognizing Mike at last.
Bridget looked from her brothers to Mike. She grinned at Patrick. “I don’t think he’s going to play on your team, Patty, he’s already booked.”
Mike braced himself. Cormack was obviously a Turchenko fan, and Mike had heard from a lot of them. The whole family, apart from Bridget, might feel the same. They were obviously hockey mad, and Mike hadn’t been hearing anything good from Toronto fans.
There was a pause, and then Cormack muttered, “Sorry.” Throwing a stink eye at Bridget, he continued, “Didn’t know who you were.”
Mike tossed the net onto his shoulder. “Don’t sweat it. I’ve heard a lot worse. And not always to my face.”
* * *
PATRICK RECOVERED WELL. He grinned and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mike Reimer. I’m Patrick O’Reilly. But what happened in those playoffs last year? You cost me my hockey pool! And now I’ve got to clean Bridge’s car.”
Mike shook his hand, and the awkward moment passed. As the rest of the guys dragged the hockey gear up the driveway, Mike turned to Bridget. “Why don’t I just call a cab?” he said.
She shook her head. “No, the least I can do is take you back.”
“But if your family is having dinner now...”
“Hey, Mike,” Patrick interrupted. “Come meet my dad. He won’t believe who Bridget had playing road hockey with her.”
Mike