See Jane Score (2 page)

Chapter 1
The Shave: Rookie Initiation

T
he locker room was thick with trash talk as Luc “Lucky” Martineau tucked himself into his cup and strapped on his gear. Most of his teammates stood around Daniel Holstrom, the rookie Swede, giving Daniel his choice of initiations. He could either let the guys shave his hair into a Mohawk or take the whole team out to dinner. Since rookie dinners cost between ten and twelve thousand dollars, Luc figured the young winger was going to end up looking like a punker for a while.

Daniel's wide blue eyes searched the locker room for a sign that the guys were kidding him. He found none. They'd all been rookies once, and every one of them had endured hazing of some sort. In Luc's rookie season, the laces in his skates disappeared on more than one occasion, and the sheets in his hotel room were often shorted.

Luc grabbed his stick and headed into the tunnel. He passed some of the guys working with blowtorches on the blades of their sticks. Near the front of the tunnel Coach Larry Nystrom and General Manager Clark Gamache stood talking to a short woman dressed completely in black. Both men had their arms folded across their chests, and they scowled down at the woman as she spoke to them. Her dark hair was scraped to the back of her head and held in one of those scrunchie things like his sister wore.

Beyond mild curiosity, Luc paid her little attention and forgot her completely as he hit the ice for practice. He listened for the crisp
shhh-shhh
that he'd come to expect from spending an hour honing the edges of his skates. Through the cage of his mask, cool air brushed his cheeks and filled his lungs as he made several warm-up laps.

Like all goalies, he was a member of the team, yet set apart by the solitary nature of his job. There was no covering for men like Luc. When they let a puck in, lights flashed like a big neon fuck-up sign, and it took more than intense determination and guts to face the pipes game after game. It took a man who was competitive and arrogant enough to believe himself invincible.

The goalie coach, Don Boclair, pushed a basket of pucks onto the ice while Luc performed the same ritual he'd been performing for the past eleven years, be it game night or practice. He circled the net clockwise three times, then he skated counterclockwise once. He took his place between the pipes and whacked his goalie stick on the poles to his left and right. Then he crossed himself like a priest as he locked his gaze on Don, who was standing at the blue line, and for the next thirty minutes the coach skated around him, shooting like a sniper at all seven holes and firing from the point.

At the age of thirty-two, Luc felt good. Good about the game, and good about his physical condition. Relatively pain-free now, he took no drugs stronger than Advil. He was having the best season of his career, and heading into the conference finals, his body was in excellent condition. His professional life couldn't be any better.

Too bad his personal life sucked.

The goalie coach fired a puck top shelf, and with a heavy
thwack,
Luc caught it in his glove. Through the thick padding, the half pound of vulcanized rubber stung his palm. He dropped to his knees on the ice as another puck flew for his five hole and slammed into his pads. He felt the familiar stitch of pain in his tendons and ligaments, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. Nothing he
wouldn't
handle, and nothing he'd ever admit to feeling out loud.

There were those who'd written him off. Put a period on his career. Two years ago while playing for the Red Wings, he'd blown out both knees. After several major reconstructive surgeries, countless hours of rehab, a stint at Betty Ford to get off pain medication, and a trade to the Seattle Chinooks, Luc was back and playing better than ever.

This season he had something to prove. To himself. To those who'd crossed him off. He'd recaptured the qualities that had always made him one of the best. Luc had an uncanny puck sense and could see a play a second before it happened, and if he couldn't stop it with his quick hands, he always had brute strength and a mean hook in reserve.

After he finished practice, Luc changed into shorts and a T-shirt and moved to the training room. He did forty-five minutes on the exercise bike before switching to the free weights. For an hour and a half, he worked his arms, chest, and abdomen. The muscles of his legs and back burned and sweat rolled down his temples as he breathed through the pain.

He took a long shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, then headed to the locker room. The rest of the guys were there, sprawled out on chairs and benches, listening to something Gamache was saying. Virgil Duffy was in the middle of the room too, and began talking about ticket sales. Luc figured ticket sales weren't his job. His concern was to make saves and win games. So far, he was doing his job.

Luc leaned one bare shoulder into the doorframe. He crossed his arms over his chest, and his gaze lowered to the short woman he'd seen earlier. She stood next to Duffy, and Luc studied her. She was one of those natural women who didn't wear a touch of makeup. The two slashes of her black brows were the only color on her pale face. Her black jacket and pants were shapeless, hiding even a hint of curves. On one shoulder hung a leather briefcase, and in her hand she held a to-go cup of Starbucks.

She wasn't ugly—just plain. Some men liked those natural kind of women. Not Luc. He liked women who wore red lipstick, smelled like powder, and shaved their legs. He liked women who made an effort to look good. This woman clearly made no effort at all.

“I'm sure you're all aware that reporter Chris Evans has taken a medical leave of absence. In his place, Jane Alcott will be covering our home games,” the owner explained. “And traveling on the road with us for the rest of the season.”

The players sat in stunned silence. No one said a word, but Luc knew what they were thinking. The same thing he was thinking, that he'd rather get puck-shot than have a reporter, let alone a woman, traveling with the team.

The players looked at the team captain, Mark “the Hitman” Bressler, then they turned their attention to the coaches, who also sat in stony silence. Waiting for someone to say something. To rescue them from the short, dark-haired nightmare about to be foisted on them.

“Well, I don't believe this is a good idea,” the Hitman began, but one look of Virgil Duffy's frosty gray eyes silenced the captain. No one dared speak out again.

No one but Luc Martineau. He respected Virgil. He even liked him a little. But Luc was having the best season of his life. The Chinooks had a real good shot at the Cup, and he'd be damned if he'd let some journalist ruin it for them. For him. This had disaster written all over it.

“With all due respect, Mr. Duffy, have you lost your friggin' mind?” he asked and pushed himself away from the wall. There were certain things that happened on the road that you just didn't want the rest of the country to read about over a bowl of Wheaties. Luc was more discreet than some of his teammates, but the last thing they needed was a reporter traveling with them.

And there was always the jinx factor to consider. Anything out of the norm could turn their good luck bad. And a woman traveling with them was definitely out of the norm.

“We understand you boys' concerns,” Virgil Duffy continued. “But after a great deal of thought and the assurance of both the
Times
and Ms. Alcott, we can guarantee you all your privacy. The reporting in no way will infringe on your personal lives.”

Bullshit,
Luc thought, but he didn't waste his breath arguing further. Seeing the determination on the owner's face, Luc knew it was pointless. Virgil Duffy paid the bills. But that didn't mean Luc had to like it.

“Well, you better prepare her for some real crude language,” he warned.

Ms. Alcott turned her attention to Luc. Her gaze was direct and unwavering. One corner of her mouth lifted as if she were slightly amused. “I'm a journalist, Mr. Martineau,” she said, her voice more subtle than her gaze, a surprising mix of soft femininity and edgy determination. “Your language won't shock me.”

He gave her a wanna-bet smile and made his way to his stall at the back of the room.

“Iz she woman who write colmunz about finding date?” asked Vlad “the Impaler” Fetisov.

“I write the
Single Girl in the City
column for the
Times,
” she answered.

“I thought that woman was Oriental,” Bruce Fish commented.

“No, just bad eyeliner,” Ms. Alcott explained.

Christ, she wasn't even a real sports reporter. Luc had read her column a few times, or at least he'd attempted to read it. She was the woman who wrote about her and her friends' trouble with men. She was one of those women who liked to talk about “relationships and issues,” as if everything needed to be analyzed to death. As if most problems between men and women weren't the direct invention of females anyway.

“Who's she gonna room with on the road?” someone asked from the left, and laughter eased the tension somewhat. The conversation moved from Ms. Alcott to the upcoming four games in an eight-day grind.

Luc dropped his towel to the floor and dug into his duffel bag. Virgil Duffy had gone senile, Luc thought, as he tossed his white briefs and T-shirt on the bench. That or the divorce he was going through was making him crazy. This woman probably didn't know a thing about hockey. She'd probably want to talk feelings and dating troubles. Well, she could ask him questions until she turned blue and passed out, he wasn't going to answer a damn thing. After his troubles of the last few years, Luc no longer spoke to reporters.
Ever
.
Having one travel with them wasn't going to change that.

He pulled his briefs up over his behind, then glanced over his shoulder at Ms. Alcott before he slipped his T-shirt over his head. He caught her staring at her shoes. Women sports reporters were nothing new in the locker room. If a woman didn't mind seeing a room full of bare-assed men, as far as he could tell they were treated pretty much as their male counterparts. But Ms. Alcott looked as uptight as an old virgin aunt. Not that he would know anything about virgins.

He finished dressing in a pair of faded Levi's and a blue ribbed sweater. Then he shoved his feet into his black boots and strapped his gold Rolex onto his wrist. The watch had been given to him as a signing gift from Virgil Duffy. A little flash to seal the deal.

Luc grabbed his leather bomber jacket and duffel bag, then made his way to the front office. He picked up the itinerary for the next eight days and spoke with the business office to make sure they remembered that he roomed alone. Last time there'd been a mix-up in Toronto, and they'd stuck Rob Sutter in his room. Usually, Luc could fall asleep within seconds of lying down, but Rob snored like a buzz saw.

It was just after noon when Luc left the building, the thud of his boot heels echoing off the concrete walls as he made his way to the exit. As he stepped outside, a gray mist touched his face and slid down the collar of his jacket. It was the kind of haze that didn't actually rain, but was gloomy as hell. The kind he had yet to get used to living in Seattle. It was one of the reasons he liked to travel out of the city, but it wasn't the biggest reason. The biggest reason was the peace he found on the road. But he had a real bad feeling that his peace was about to be shattered by the woman standing a few feet away, digging around in the briefcase hanging from her shoulder.

Ms. Alcott had wrapped herself up in some sort of slick raincoat that tied around the waist. It was long and black and the wind from the bay filled out the bottom and made her look as if she were carrying ballast in her rear end. In one hand, she still held her to-go cup of Starbucks.

“That six
A.M
.
flight to Phoenix is a killer,” he said as he walked toward her on his way to the parking garage. “Don't be late. It'd be a shame if you missed it.”

“I'll be there,” she assured him as he moved past her. “You don't want me traveling with the team. Is it because I'm a woman?”

He stopped and turned to face her. A crisp breeze tugged at the lapels of her coat and blew several strands from her ponytail across her pink cheeks. On closer inspection, she really didn't improve all that much. “No. I don't like reporters.”