Crossing The Goal Line

Bridget understood it was from the lap swimmer, and even for a preseason game, these hockey tickets were hard to come by. She cynically thought that money could solve a lot of problems. The lap swimmer must have a lot of cash. He was probably some business type, of which the club had many.

She’d never been to the new arena built for the expansion team ten years ago, and had never seen a professional game live in her life, even though her whole family had been hockey fans from birth.

Canadians loved hockey, so the new team, the Toronto Blaze, had quickly gained fans and sold out the same as the sister team. Her brothers would be very envious. That was the good part.

Taking eight kids along would certainly limit how intently she could watch the game. Or maybe prevent her from watching it at all. Bridget had nephews and nieces so she knew what she was in for.

The club had a van to take the swim team to meets, and Bridget was able to book it for Saturday. Tad was happy to come along when there was an opportunity to see a hockey game.

As expected, the outing wasn’t a walk in the park. The kids weren’t really bad. Tony of course had to question everything Bridget told him, but eight kids were a handful. She and Tad finally corralled them in their seats. Then Bridget had to prevent Tony from finding a better view by climbing over the seats in front of him. Seats that were occupied.

Bridget would have gladly watched the play on the ice, even if it was mostly prospects playing, but the kids started to get bored. Popcorn and drinks helped distract them for a bit, and then the trips to the bathroom began.

During the break between the first and second periods, Bridget and Tad split the children up and took them around the arena. Bridget started to wonder if this had been worthwhile. It would be nice to have the chance to explore the arena but these kids didn’t want to look at hockey memorabilia; they wanted to run.

Then, at the end of the second period, someone appeared at the end of their row.

Bridget had taken the aisle seat so that no one—Tony—could get out without her knowledge. Because of that she was the first to realize he was there, and she recognized him at once. The man was tall, six-four according to the newspapers, and Bridget thought that looked right. He was wearing a suit, minus the jacket, and wasn’t bad looking, especially for a hockey player. He had all his own teeth and hair, for starters. His nose had a distinctive bend from a previous break, but he wore it well. His hair was dark, his eyes a light gray.

This was Mike Reimer, the expensive goalie Toronto had acquired in a trade last year from Quebec City. The goalie who’d won three Cups in Quebec and then bombed out in Toronto.

He was standing at the end of the row, holding a handful of team hats. For a moment Bridget stared, wondering why he was there. Had their benefactor set up a meeting with a member of the team? Or...but no...

Then Tony said, “It’s that rotten swimmer from the pool!” And Bridget closed her eyes, wanting to strangle Tony.

Now she understood the preferential treatment her lane swimmer had been given by the management committee at the club, and the tickets for her class. She felt stupid. Anyone but a blind swimmer would have realized...but she had to open her eyes and deal with this. As briefly as possible.

* * *

MIKE HAD NOT been enjoying the hockey game.

He was in the luxury box with the rest of the players who weren’t playing that afternoon, but no one from the team had been talking to him. He got it. He really did. He knew he’d let them down during the last playoffs, and he hadn’t been forgiven. He was naturally a reserved guy, and had spent his entire career with one team. Learning to make nice with new guys wasn’t his forte.

It didn’t help that Mike’s backup was a popular guy. When the team’s starting goalie had retired after an injury last year, many thought that Turchenko would get his chance. Turchenko thought so, too. He was a gregarious guy who spoke in fractured English, and his mangled phrases were often quoted. He was blond and blue-eyed and looked good in photos. He was also undisciplined and lazy, not making the most of his natural talent. Mike found him immature.

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. She stomped over to the Mazda. She unlocked the door and looked back. “Get in, hot shot.”

“In that?” Mike responded, looking from his pride and joy to the car Bridget was halfway into.

“Afraid of a girl?”

The bear was well and fully poked. Those eyes were almost lasering through him. With a shrug, he swung himself around the car and opened the passenger door. He’d barely folded himself in when a blast of rap music assailed his ears and Bridget tore out of the parking lot.

Mike propped his hand against the roof of the little car to keep from falling on Bridget as she down shifted for the turn. He should have known that anyone who fell for his car the way she had would drive a stick. And skillfully, too, though she was going a little too fast for safety.

“Okay, now that you’ve got me, where are we going?” he yelled over the music.

“To play hockey!”

Mike wedged himself against the door. He didn’t know what she had in mind, but this was more fun than he’d had in a while.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE OBVIOUSLY KNEW the way well, and as she took another side street, he realized he was lost. But they finally pulled up in front of a brick two-story on a dead-end street. Bridget pulled out the keys, and Mike welcomed the sudden silence as the “music” stopped in mid-phrase. She slammed out of the car and stalked up the driveway before unlocking the garage door and sliding it open.

Inside was hockey gear. A moment passed. Then he realized that when she said they were going to play hockey, she hadn’t meant on a screen or table. She wanted to play road hockey. He almost laughed. Sure, she was a good swimmer, but did she really think she could take on a professional hockey player?

Apparently, she did. She was dragging a net down the driveway. Mike opened the door and got out of the car. As she set up the net on the street, he noticed that the block was perfect for playing road ball. Originally, the plan must have been for the street to extend further; the pavement stretched out another fifty feet then dead-ended at a chain-link fence and an abandoned parking lot. There were pink and blue lines marked in chalk. This was a well-used space for road hockey. He’d have loved access to something like this when he was growing up.

“Go get some gear on,” she ordered.

“Seriously?”

“Chicken?” she asked.

Mike laughed. He felt like a seven-year-old being dared.

“So what position am I supposed to play?”

“I thought you were a goalie,” she taunted.

Challenge accepted, Mike thought. He wasn’t sure what she thought she was trying to prove, but he could handle a girl in road ball, even if his game had been off lately. He’d better be able to...

He followed her back to the garage where there was an impressive amount of gear for both road and ice hockey. She pointed to a pile of goalie equipment, and he picked through for the largest pads he could find, then tested a couple of sticks before settling on one. She tossed him a helmet, and he put it on. It wasn’t anything like his own, but if she managed to fire a ball at his face, he was sure there’d be a lot of force behind it.

Bridget was holding a couple of tennis balls and what was obviously her own helmet and stick. Both showed signs of wear. Mike wasn’t surprised. While he was confident he was better than she was, she was obviously athletic, practiced at road hockey and highly motivated. So was he.

“So what are the rules?” he asked once they were back on the road. He knocked the sidebars of the net with the stick to check its size and stability. Then he tapped the stick on the road a couple of times and turned to see what she was planning. He could see her focus through the thick glasses.

“I’m going to score. You’re going to try to stop me. Play to five?”

“We’ll need to stop before that. You’re not going to score.”

Eyes blazing, she started.

* * *

SHE WAS GOOD. He had to give her that. Much better than he’d expected. She occasionally whiffed completely, but she was fast, smart and very determined. She could place the ball exactly where she wanted, and with a lot of force.

Mike, however, was better than good. He was one of the best. He’d grown up playing road hockey and it wasn’t a difficult transition from the ice back to the pavement. He had lightning-fast reflexes and could read a player’s intentions from their body language and expression. He was soon in his zone, watching her every move and glance. She didn’t score. She did come close, tested him pretty well, but he was just as determined as she was, and this time, it was his element, not hers.

After fifteen furious minutes, Bridget called time. Pulling up her face guard, she looked at Mike. He stood up to his full height, shoving up his face guard as well.

“I guess I owe you an apology,” Bridget said after a pause, her previous anger clearly dissipated.

Mike looked down at her. “It’s okay. I admit to provoking you. And this was actually a lot of fun. You’re not bad—for a girl.” He grinned at her.

“You’re not bad, either—for a...for a guy from Quebec,” she countered. “But I should probably get you back now—”

A car had pulled up on the street behind hers. She turned, and stiffened. A man got out of the car. He was older than Mike and had flaming red hair that matched Bridget’s. Not old enough to be her father—a brother? Uncle? Another car followed, and two more guys got out, neither with the red hair.

“Hold on, Bridge! We’ll join you in a minute,” said the red-haired man.

He jogged up to the house and went in the front door. The two non-redheads were pulling gear out of their trunk. Bridget sighed and turned to Mike.

“Sorry, that’s my brother Patrick.”

“I’d guessed that.”

“And two of Cormack’s friends.” She gestured toward the other men who had now opened the garage and were grabbing another net.

“Cormack must have told them we were playing. They think they’re joining us. If you want to get in the car, I’ll throw this stuff in the garage and we can get you out of here.”

The sound of the front door closing interrupted her. “Three on three?” Patrick hollered. “Who’s your guy, anyway?”

“Put your mask back down. I’ll tell them we’re done and get rid of them.”

Mike thought for a moment. He had no place to go except his hotel, and he’d seen more than enough of that. Maybe it would be fun.

“Or we could play. Think we can take them?” he offered.

Bridget whipped back to face him, eyes sparkling. “Really? You have no idea how much I would like to take them down a notch, or ten.”

Mike had to smile at the way her face lit up. “Sure. I’m having fun. Are you going to tell them who I am?”

“Are you nuts?” she asked and waved at his mask.

Mike put the face guard back down. He had no idea where this was going, but it was certainly more interesting than watching hockey on TV alone at the hotel. Playing on the road, no stakes beyond pride: this was what it was like growing up, when he always played goalie because he was the smallest. He wasn’t the smallest anymore. He thought he had at least four inches on any of the others, but that flash of joy he’d felt back then was here.

* * *

CORMACK, ANOTHER REDHEAD, came out the front door dressed up in goalie pads while his two buddies set up the second net. Mike wondered what the family was like when all the redheads’ tempers flared.

Bridget crossed her arms as the four men came down the driveway. “You know, we were just having a bit of fun here. I don’t think Mike wants to play anymore.”

Mike stood, arms resting on his goalie stick, waiting to see what was coming next. Had she changed her mind?

“Ah, come on, Bridgie. I’m sure Mike won’t mind a few more minutes. Just a bit of fun,” said the older redhead, Patrick.

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.