Breakaway. Nancy WarrenЧитать онлайн книгу.
bell on the door jangled, pulling them both sharply back to reality. What was he thinking? He didn’t make business decisions based on a pair of big hazel eyes and the sweetest lips he’d ever kissed. He needed to get a grip.
They both greeted Will, also headed for the coffee machine. Claire gave Max his schedule for the day. He was doing a food-and-supply drop-off for a group of hikers. He understood that she was giving him the least challenging runs until she felt confident that he could handle more.
It was a funny thing to realize he wanted to prove to her that he could handle more.
How long had it been since he’d been forced to prove himself?
Max wondered if he’d grown soft, too accustomed to having people agree with him and suck up to him because of his wealth. He suspected the experience of showing Claire and the rest of the Polar Air team that he was good enough to fly their toughest routes would be good for him.
Whatever ended up happening with Polar Air he knew one thing.
He was no longer bored.
5
WHEN TUESDAY EVENING arrived, Max pulled together his hockey bag, threw it in the back of his new truck and headed for the town rink. He was early, so he had a few minutes to watch the tail end of a figure skating class. The eight girls and two boys were at all ages and levels but he watched a few moves that impressed the hell out of him. He supposed in a town where winter dominated, ice sports were the best way to keep kids out of trouble.
After the skaters left the ice the Zamboni rolled onto the surface and he headed to the men’s change room to get suited up.
When he emerged onto the empty rink, he wondered how the Hunter Hurricanes were doing without him. He knew he was going to have to get back for a few games or he’d lose his spot on the team. Much as Dylan, Adam and he were the best front line the Hurricanes had ever had, he knew they’d replace him if he didn’t get down there regularly.
He decided right then what he needed to do, and before he could forget or change his mind, he pulled out his cell phone and sent a text to Dylan and Adam. Need you guys to come practice with me in Spruce Bay. See if you can work it into your schedules. You know you’ll never win BOI without me.
He sent the text and wondered if they’d come. Knew he had to entice them with more than a rink in Alaska. Sent a second text. Really hot women here. He thought of Claire and smiled.
He stepped onto the ice, warmed up a little and then practiced power skating. He turned to his left, turned to his right. He was stronger on his right side, could shoot much tighter.
He could buttonhook around on the right, but going to the left took thought and effort so he practiced both. He practiced crossovers. He’d start on the goal line, skate to the blue line, back to goal then past blue to center, then back to the goal line in figure eights that grew increasingly fast. He slowed down when he became aware of another person entering the rink.
He slowed and glanced up, wondering who the other guy was and if they’d be able to practice together. Then he realized it was a woman. And she was wearing a pink helmet. Ted Lowenbrau had made him think he’d be practicing with another guy.
She stilled when she saw him. He noticed her compact, curvy body and as she began coming toward him he realized it was a very familiar shape.
“Claire?” he said when she skated closer. “What are you doing here?”
“I was going to ask you the same question. I always practice at this time.”
“Ted Lowenbrau, the guy who runs the rink, told me I could practice Tuesdays and Thursdays. He said there’d be somebody else to do drills with. He didn’t mention it was you.”
She made a frustrated sound. “You’d think you were the only man in Spruce Bay and I was a desperate spinster,” she snapped. “In fact, there are far more men here than women. I happen to be particular, that’s all.”
Since she’d seen fit to have dinner with him and do some seriously nice kissing and fondling, he decided that this was a compliment.
* * *
SHE NEVER SHOULD have had dinner with him, Claire thought. She’d known it the moment Max asked her out, but the combination of her bad afternoon with Frank, and the chance to get to know her new impulse hire, had won out against common sense. Also, as she couldn’t help noticing, he was hot.
So, she’d dressed up and gone to dinner.
And this was the result. Guys like Ted, who’d be too busy come ice-fishing season to give her a thought, had decided to do a little matchmaking.
For all she knew, her darling grandmother had put Ted up to it.
There were times that Claire longed to live in a nice big anonymous town like New York where nine million people didn’t know your name and didn’t care about your business. No, she thought, Mumbai, that’s where she’d go. The weather was better and most of the nineteen million inhabitants didn’t speak English, making it more difficult for her neighbors to interfere in her personal life.
She adjusted her helmet.
Apparently the people of her town were right since Max hadn’t made a single attempt to get close and personal with her after that one steamy kiss—when was it, two weeks ago? She said, “Probably a prank.”
Max rested his chin on the top of his stick. Regarded her. “You any good?”
She kept her features schooled. She’d gone to college on a hockey scholarship. Been scouted for the women’s Olympic team. She could kick his ass on the ice from here to Sunday. But he didn’t have to know that.
She toggled her hand back and forth. “Not bad for a girl. You?”
“I’ve never played hockey with a woman. I don’t want to hurt you.”
She knew it was foolish of her to care that he hadn’t asked her out again or tried to increase the intimacy after that one steamy kiss. A kiss that had been so unforgettable she had trouble thinking about anything else when he was around. While he seemed to have completely forgotten the experience.
So, she was foolish. Max wanted to play it cool. That was fine by her. But here they were on a rink, which, second to sitting in a cockpit in midair, was the place she felt most at ease. Was she good enough? Hah! She decided she was going to enjoy herself.
In Moscow at an international college championship she’d shot a puck that had been clocked at 80 mph. She said, “Let’s take it slow. I’ll try to keep up.”
Normally, she shot left, but she transferred her stick to the other hand, knowing that he was the one most likely to get hurt if she didn’t watch herself.
“Sure. What do you want to practice?”
“Let’s try some passing.”
“Okay.”
They started slowly with some soft passes, then they tried passing on the move and soon they were into hard passes, back passes, open-ice passes.
He wasn’t bad, she admitted to herself as she watched him move. He had the natural grace of a born athlete, was quick on his feet, with good skills and an easy way with the stick.
In spite of herself, she was impressed.
* * *
SHE WAS GOOD for a girl, Max thought, impressed in spite of himself. She skated smoothly, as though she’d been born on skates. Which, considering she’d grown up in Spruce Bay, was probably true. She was a little tentative shooting the puck and she sometimes stopped to scan the ice as though trying to figure out where he was and where the net was, but those were things that improved with practice.
And clearly, she liked to practice.
“What are you practicing for?” he asked, when they took a quick water break.