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The smile on the young woman’s lips took some of the steam from her firm tone. “You be good, or we won’t watch movies and eat popcorn when your mom leaves.”
Too busy to listen, Max tore to the kitchen table, where his brother and sister were playing a board game. A chorus of moans filtered back to the living room.
The young woman glanced over her shoulder before turning back and extending her hand. “You must be Brett. Hi, I’m Hannah Woods, the baby-sitter.”
“Good to meet you.” As Brett shook her tiny hand, he wondered if she would be strong enough to handle the three Williams kids. But then he remembered that their mother was far smaller than this woman.
“Tricia will be out in a minute.”
“Great.”
He scanned the living room where a sofa, a television and an easy chair shared space with a smattering of framed family photos and snapshots on side tables and walls. All but the most recent shots featured a rusty-haired man with a friendly smile. Brett tried to keep a cool, mental distance from the pictures, only observing that he’d found the origin of the boys’ hair color. But he couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.
“That was my daddy. He died,” Lani said, pointing out the obvious, as she showed up beside him wearing fuzzy pink pajamas and smelling of baby shampoo.
“They’re nice pictures.” He hoped it was enough because he could find nothing better to say.
It must have been because the child then skipped around the partial wall that separated the living room from the eat-in kitchen, and rolled the die for her turn, adding a leg to her bug’s body in the game. Next to her, Rusty, Jr. pointedly refused to glance at the guest in the living room.
Out of the corner of his eye, Brett saw movement from the hall, and when he would have expected a petite brunette, he saw only an even tinier Cindy Lou Who look-alike with blond ponytails and huge, dramatic green eyes.
Something in his gut clenched. Four? He was having a hard enough time reconciling the idea of going out with a woman who had three kids. But four?
“She’s mine,” Hannah said quickly. “That’s Rebecca.” The child looked up at her name being spoken but scrambled off to play under the kitchen table.
“Oh.”
He wondered how he could have missed the resemblance now that she’d clarified it. Relief must have registered in his expression because Hannah smiled. He would have taken time to study the young woman, who couldn’t have been old enough to be that child’s mother, if not for the second person who appeared in the hallway.
Tricia wasn’t dressed particularly fancy, just a pair of fitted jeans and a prim, turquoise sweater set. It pleased him that she had taken extra effort with her makeup—which she didn’t need—and had clipped her hair back at her nape. Her hairstyle revealed a long expanse of perfect, fair skin on her neck.
Brett’s mouth went dry. Until she shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, he wasn’t even aware he’d been staring. What was he doing, acting like an infatuated teenager? He was neither, so he’d better get a grip before people started making mistaken assumptions.
She cleared her throat and glanced at the children playing in the kitchen before turning back to him. “Am I dressed okay? I’ve never been to a hockey game.”
Okay enough to turn every male head at Joe Louis Arena, he figured. But he only said, “Sure, that’s fine, unless you have a Steve Yzerman or Gordie Howe jersey.”
He glanced down at his jeans and navy cardigan over a white turtleneck, trying not to grin at how long it had taken him to pick his outfit. “I left my jersey at home.”
“You two had better get going,” Hannah said as she rushed them toward the door. “Traffic’s going to be terrible on the Lodge.” The young woman didn’t look at either of them, but a small smile appeared on her lips when she handed Tricia her coat.
Because Hannah was probably right about traffic on the John C. Lodge freeway, he hurried Tricia toward his SUV. He was relieved when she didn’t comment on his luxury transportation, a concession to his former life.
He closed her door and crossed to the driver’s seat. “Do you feel like we’ve just been dismissed?”
Tricia shot a glance at the closed curtains of the picture window and then turned to stare out the windshield. “Hannah just didn’t want us to be late.” As they pulled away from the curb, she sneaked another peek back, using the side-view mirror. “She’s a great sitter. The kids will be fine. They’ll have a great time, especially since she and Rebecca are spending the night.”
Was she trying to convince him or her? He was tempted to reach over and squeeze her hand to reassure her, but he hesitated, worried she’d climb out of her skin if he touched her. Instead, he concentrated on merging onto Interstate 96 and tried changing the subject.
“I was surprised the little girl was hers. Hannah doesn’t look old enough to be a mom.”
“She isn’t—or wasn’t—really old enough, but she’s a wonderful mom.” Tricia settled back into the seat, finally relaxing. “Hannah was just seventeen when she got pregnant, but she’s worked so hard to make the best of her difficult situation.”
“I take it the dad isn’t in the picture?”
Tricia shook her head but turned to face him. “She refused to name the father, even under pressure from some church members. I think it was especially hard on her, being the P.K.”
“P.K.?”
“Preacher’s Kid. She’s the daughter of our minister, Reverend Bob Woods.”
“I’d bet that was a huge church scandal.” He hated it when Christians were the first to judge others. The poor girl had probably first been betrayed by a boy and then by the people in her church, the people she trusted. He knew what it was like to have the foundations of one’s life—and even faith—ripped away. It tended to jade a person. He was proof of that.
“It was scandalous at first, but the church has been so supportive of Hannah, even of her decision to keep the baby instead of giving her up for adoption.” Tricia was smiling when he glanced her way. “And you couldn’t find a more devoted grandfather than Reverend Bob.”
“Sounds like Hannah was pretty fortunate.”
“She does her part, too, working hard to get her college degree and still being a great mom to Rebecca. She’s pretty amazing.”
“Yes, she is.”
But he was no longer talking about the other young woman’s situation, and he wondered if Tricia realized it. His date might have been amazed by Hannah’s determination, but he was equally impressed with Tricia’s. How had the woman beside him faced everything that had been thrown at her? Without trying to sound too interested, he’d plied Jenny for details about Tricia this week. How she’d survived her horrible loss two years before astounded him. His own injuries seemed trivial when compared to hers.
As if she, too, wondered where his thoughts had traveled, Tricia changed the subject again. “So you’re Brett Lancaster. Are you any relation to the old movie star Burt Lancaster?”
Brett looked at the dash clock. “That’s seventeen minutes. I wondered how long it would take you to ask.”
“Was my time good or bad?”
“Pretty good. For the record, I’m not related to Burt Lancaster, and I’ve never seen From Here to Eternity beginning to end.”
Tricia’s laugh was so sweet and musical that he wanted to come up with a comic monologue to make her do it again.
“I’m glad you made that clear.” She paused. “Hmm, next subject. How’d you manage to get these tickets, anyway? I’d always heard it was impossible to get Detroit Red Wings tickets.”
“Ever heard of Lancaster Cadillac-Pontiac-GMC in Bloomfield Hills? I am related to that Lancaster. He’s my dad.”
“I think I’ve heard of it.”
Her answer sounded noncommittal, as if she were neither impressed nor put off by the fact that his family had money. Well, she couldn’t be that driven by money if she’d agreed to go out with a police officer.
“Dad has season tickets through his work that he mostly uses to take out clients.”
She turned to face him. “Do you go to games often?”
“Rarely. And don’t get too excited about these tickets. This is one of the last regular-season games and attendance is sometimes low. If this were the end of next week during the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs, we’d be out of luck in getting tickets.”
When he glanced at her again in his peripheral vision, she nodded. “I get it. I’m not supposed to be impressed, but can’t I be, just a little? This is my first hockey game, ever, and it happens to be the Detroit Red Wings.”
“Okay, just a little.” He peeked at the tickets he’d stuck in the visor, glad he’d gone against his recent habit of declining his father’s gifts for the strings that went with them. As he pulled behind the long line of cars taking the exit for Joe Louis Arena, he resigned himself to dealing with those strings later.
“Okay, be impressed now. Here’s the Joe. Welcome to ‘Hockeytown.’”
Chapter Three
Applause, cheers of “Hey, hey, Hockeytown” and the bass beat of some sixties rock anthem pounded in her ears as Tricia watched two players battle against the boards for the puck. Though air whooshed from a forward’s lungs as he hit the glass barrier, he pushed away and skated behind the goal to recapture the loose puck.
The Detroit team was playing one of those new expansion teams with a name about as forgettable, at least according to Tricia’s date, who doubled as her hockey interpreter. From their fifth-row seats, she could see, hear and feel every exciting bit of it.
“Let’s go Red Wings,” the crowd chanted, with Tricia and Brett joining in the chorus.
The exhilarating game—that had to be the reason for the way her pulse tripped and all of her nerve endings tingled, as if she’d suddenly awakened from an overlong nap. Taking another big bite of her Coney dog and wiping her mouth on her napkin, she shivered from the arena’s refrigeration and wished she’d worn a heavier sweater.
“Cold?” As he asked, Brett draped her coat over her shoulders.
“Better. Thanks.” Her shoulders warmed all over, but especially where his hands had brushed. She shook the sensation away, inhaling another breath of that strange, stale scent Brett had explained was the ice itself.
The buzzer sounded to mark the end of the second period. Fans scooted past them on their way up to the concession stands, but Brett and Tricia remained seated.
“Are you having a good time?” He turned in the cramped seats until his knees brushed hers. Amber specks like dots of confetti danced in his light brown eyes—the spots only noticeable from this close up.
“I am.” She didn’t want to lie. Tonight was the most fun she’d had on a date since…well, since she’d started dating again. It was so much better than those dreadful dinner dates she’d subjected herself to in the last year, with stilted conversations and self-conscious dining. Miserable in every way.
Strange, she could barely remember what it was like when she and Rusty had dated. It had been so long ago, and they’d both been so young and broke. This situation was different, so she should just enjoy it instead of making useless comparisons. Why compare what she couldn’t have?
Tonight wasn’t a serious date, anyway. Maybe that’s why she was enjoying herself. While some of the men she’d been out with had been so nervous and intense that she’d worried they would propose before the waiter brought the main course, Brett seemed relaxed. In his element, even.
He didn’t appear to expect more from her than to enjoy the game and, maybe, to learn the definitions of “face-off,” “blue line” and “icing.” The last term he insisted wasn’t what went on a fudge cake, either. He’d told her there would be a quiz later, which she fully intended to ace.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” he asked as the Zamboni made its first wet pass around the ice. “Does hockey pass the muster?”
“Absolutely.” So did the company, though she didn’t mention that. “I’ll never be able to flip past a hockey game on TV again without stopping and comparing it to this. Hockey’s different in person.”
“It’s also a different experience in the nosebleed seats, but I’d just as soon skip that joy, if you don’t mind. Especially the racing pulse and lack of breath.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Afraid of heights?”
“Not afraid, exactly. I just prefer to keep my feet on God’s green earth is all.”
A chuckle bubbled low in her belly, and Tricia couldn’t stop it from frothing over. She felt guilty enjoying herself this much—almost too much. Were widows allowed to smile this often? Brett made a nasty face at her but finally laughed.
He shrugged. “Really, I like to watch the game better from up close, even if it’s harder to see the strategies, the cool passes and great screens.”
She shook her head at his funny bravado. Typical guy, he wouldn’t admit to being anything but fearless. “The game’s probably harder to see when you’re breathing into a brown paper bag or hanging your head between your knees.”
“There’s that, too,” Brett agreed. But something farther across the lower bowl of fan seats must have caught his attention because he looked away.
A videotape started playing on the four-sided scoreboard high above center ice, with Red Wings players scoring goals against various teams. Cheers and whoops erupted each time the tape showed the players in red and white firing the puck past an opposing goalie.
The next squeal Tricia heard came from her own lips, surprising her. Attending this game had been so much easier than she’d expected when Brett had first suggested it. At least this professional sport was hockey, rather than football and Rusty’s beloved Detroit Lions. Rusty had always said he would take the children to a Lions’ game when they were a little older. Just something else in a long list of things that would never happen now.
The temptation to grow maudlin filled her until she glanced at Brett. Turning back from whatever he’d been studying before, he patted her hand on the armrest and then lifted his soda from the seat’s drink holder. “I don’t know about you, but I’m having a great time.”
“Me, too,” she answered, trying not to react to what had been only a friendly touch. A buddy touch, nothing for her neck to get all warm about. She ought to feel lucky he hadn’t slapped her on the back the way men were wont to do with their friends to act chummy.
“And I think we should go out again.”
She wished he’d slapped her on the back instead of saying that. It had knocked the wind out of her, anyway. Her cheeks grew as heated as her neck, so Tricia took the coward’s way out and turned to sip her own cola.
“We’ll have to do something besides watch hockey, though. We’d never get playoff tickets.” He paused as if waiting for her to answer before he spoke again. “But if you don’t think that’s a good idea…”
As he allowed his words to trail away, letting her off the hook, her mind raced. Did she want an escape? This dating thing had no future, but they were having fun together, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed herself so much in adult company. And she really did need to get out more. They could probably even grow to be great pals, like some of the men attending this game together, if she only gave them a chance.
She was still convincing herself when Brett shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pressure—”
“I’d like that.”
Brett stared at her a few seconds and then grinned. “Well, good. That’ll be great.” He touched her hand again, and she had the strange feeling the brief caress wasn’t one a couple of hockey buddies might share. Their gazes met, and an awareness unfolded inside of her, until she forced herself to look away.
Obviously, she hadn’t explained the parameters of their new friendship to him, and he’d probably misunderstood her interest. With a quick brush to expel the tickle on her hand, she turned to him to clear up the misunderstanding.
However, whatever had caught her date’s attention near the Red Wings’ team box earlier had grabbed it again. The way his body tensed, he appeared at a strange full-alert. Tricia saw them then, several men, swilling tall plastic cups of beer and wearing jerseys for teams that weren’t playing. They crowded close around the tunnel through which hockey players were emerging from their locker rooms.
Someone must have alerted security guards to a possible disturbance because they were making their way across the stands. Before the guards reached the tunnel, though, one of the men upended his cup, narrowly missing a player.
At once, fists started flying—not from the players, who were being ushered by their teammates toward the ice, but from fans who took exception to the treatment of their hometown heroes. A huddle of bodies appeared from nowhere as reinforcements leaped into the fray and other fans stood to catch the action.
Brett came out of his seat just as quickly, but his movements were automatic—fast glances toward the exits and a hand reaching reflexively for his right hip. Coming away with nothing. A gun? A shiver clambered up Tricia’s spine, and bile backed up in her throat. Had he been reaching for a holster? Only after he patted his sweater-covered hip a few times did Brett lower into his seat again.
Further down the stands, security guards removed the instigators from the arena, but Tricia barely noticed. Brett shoved both hands back through his hair and shook his head as he turned back to her.
“Now that was embarrassing,” he said.
He seemed to want her to say something, but she could only stare, her blood now as cold in her veins as her cheeks from the arena’s refrigerated chill. Her pulse raced, and an icy sweat covered her hands. When she started to speak, she choked.
Brett’s eyes widened, and he reached over to pat her back, but she jerked away from his touch. The situation that had felt so comfortable before became awkward, and his nearness, suffocating.
Finally, she found her voice. “I need you to tell me something. Are you a cop?”
“I can’t believe no one ever told you I was a trooper,” Brett said with an exasperated sigh as he pulled out of the parking structure nearly an hour later. What he wanted to say was I can’t believe it matters so much that I’m a cop, but from her stiff posture and wringing hands, he’d be a fool not to see that it did.
She sat still in the car seat next to him, the same way she’d been for most of the game’s third period and even during the walk through the tunnel that connected the arena to the parking garage. Jubilant fans had packed in all around them, still cheering and making the cattle sounds of the exit ritual, but Tricia had been eerily silent. Her strange reaction cut him a lot deeper than it should have, like history coming back to bite him on the backside. But he wouldn’t sit back and wait for it to happen this time.
“No one mentioned my job at all?” he asked, still incredulous. “Nothing about me moving to Livingston County so I could be close to work at the Brighton Post?”
She released a long, slow breath. “Charity didn’t tell me anything about what you did.”
What Tricia didn’t say, what she couldn’t possibly have known, made more difference to him than what she’d said. Had Jenny mentioned that he worked for the Michigan State Police, her friend would have passed that along to Tricia when they’d arranged the date.
