See Jane Score (5 page)

He'd first met Jenny Davis on a United flight to Denver. She'd served him a soda water and lime, a bag of nuts, and a cocktail napkin with her name and telephone number written on it. That was three years ago, and they got together when he was in Phoenix or she happened to be in Seattle. The situation was mutually satisfying. He satisfied her. She satisfied him.

Tonight he met Jenny in the lobby and together they drove to Durant's, where Luc ate his night-before-the-game meal of lamb chops, Caesar salad, and wild rice.

After dinner, Jenny took him to her home in Scottsdale, where she fed him his dessert. She had him back at the hotel by curfew; he loved his life on the road. Walking back into the hotel, he was completely calm, relaxed, and ready to take on the Coyotes tomorrow night.

He talked for a few minutes with his teammates in the lobby bar, then made his way up to his room. His right knee bothered him a little, and he grabbed the empty ice bucket from atop the television, then walked down the hall to the ice machine. He almost turned back when he saw Jane Alcott standing in front of the vending machine feeding it change. Her hair was pulled on top of her head and fell in a tangle of loose curls. She stepped forward and pushed the button to her selection, and a bag of Peanut M&M's dropped to the bottom of the machine.

She bent over, and that's when he noticed her nicely rounded butt with cows on it. In fact, she had cows all over her blue flannel pajamas. The thing was one piece, and from the back looked like long johns. She turned and he was confronted by a horror worse than those pajamas. A pair of black-rimmed glasses sat on her face. The lenses were small and square, and he supposed they were in style with militant women's groups. They were just plain ugly.

Seeing him, her eyes widened and she sucked in a startled breath. “I thought you guys were supposed to be in bed by now,” she said.

Damn, he didn't think a woman could look any more sexless. “What is this?” he asked and pointed the bucket at her. “The I-don't-ever-want-to-get-laid-again look?”

She frowned. “This may shock you, but I'm here to do a job. Not to get laid.”

“Good thing.” He thought of his conversation with Sutter and wondered if she'd slept with old Virgil Duffy to get her job. He'd heard the stories of Virgil's fondness for women young enough to be his granddaughter. In fact, when Luc had first moved to Seattle, Sutter told him that in 1998 Virgil had been set to marry a young woman, but the woman had come to her senses and had left him at the altar. Luc didn't listen to gossip and didn't know how much of it was true. He just couldn't picture Virgil in the role of a hound, though. “I doubt you'll find any action in that getup.”

Jane ripped open her bag of candy. “You don't seem to have a problem with finding action,
Lucky
.
” Luc didn't like the way she said
Lucky
and he didn't ask her to elaborate. She did anyway. “I saw you leave with the blonde. If I had to guess, I'd say she was a stewardess. She had that come-fly-me look about her.”

Luc moved to the ice machine and lifted the lid. “She was my cousin, twice removed.” She didn't look like she believed him, but he really didn't care. She'd believe what she wanted and write what sold papers.

“What's with the ice? Your knees bothering you?”

“Nope.” She was too damn smart for her own good.

“Who's Gump Worsley?” she asked.

Gump was a hockey great who'd played more games than any goalie in history. Luc admired his record and his dedication. Years ago, he'd taken Gump's number for luck. It was no big deal. No big secret either.

“Have you been reading up on me again?” he asked as he scooped ice with his bucket. “I'm flattered,” he said, but he didn't bother to make it sound convincing.

“Don't be. It's my job.” She popped an M&M into her mouth, and when he didn't say anything she lifted a brow. “You're not going to answer my question?”

“Nope.” She'd soon learn that none of the guys were going to cooperate either. They'd all talked about it and come up with a plan to confuse and bug the hell out of her. Maybe get her to go home. Outside the locker room, they'd show her baby pictures and talk about anything other than what she was dying to talk about. Hockey. Inside the locker room they'd cooperate just enough to avoid a discrimination suit, but that was it. Luc didn't think much of the scheme. Sure it would bug her, but not enough to make her go home. No, after talking to her a few times, he figured there wasn't much that could knock Ms. Alcott off her pumps.

“Tell you what, though.” Luc shut the lid to the ice machine and said close to her ear as he walked past, “Keep digging, 'cause that Gump thing's a real interesting story.”

“Digging is also my job, but don't worry, I'm not interested in your dirty little secrets,” she called after him.

Luc didn't have any dirty secrets. Not anymore. There were parts of his personal life he'd rather not read about in the papers, though. He'd rather it wasn't known that he had several different women friends in several different cities, although that piece of information in itself wouldn't make banner headlines. Most people wouldn't care. He wasn't married and neither were his friends.

He opened the door to his room and shut himself inside. There was only one secret he didn't want anyone to know. One secret that woke him up in a cold sweat.

Each time he played, he played with the possibility that one good hit would cripple him for life, and worse, end his career.

Luc dumped the ice into a hand towel and stripped to his white boxers. He scratched his belly, then sat on the bed with his knee elevated over a pillow, the ice packed around it.

His whole life, all he'd ever wanted was to play hockey and win the Stanley Cup. He'd lived and breathed it for so long, that's all he knew. Unlike some guys who got drafted out of college, he'd been drafted into the NHL at the age of nineteen, a bright future ahead of him.

For a while, his future had gotten off track. He'd slid into a vicious cycle of pain and addiction and prescription drugs. Of recovery and hard work. And now finally a chance to return to the game that made him feel alive. But the sport that had given him a Conn Smythe the year before his injury now looked at him sideways and wondered if he still had what it took. There were those, some within the Chinook management, who wondered if they'd payed too much for their premier goalie, if Luc could still deliver on his once-promising career.

Whatever it took, no matter how much pain he had to play through, he'd be damned if he'd let anything stand between him and his shot at the cup.

Right now, he was hot. Saw every play, got a piece of every puck. He was in his zone, but he knew how fast his hot streak could turn cold and unforgiving. He could lose focus. Let in a few soft goals. Misjudge the speed of the puck, let too many get past, and get pulled from the net. Having an off night and getting yanked from the pipes happened to all goalies, but that didn't make it any less appalling.

A bad game didn't mean a bad season. Most of the time. But Luc could not afford most of the time.

Chapter 3
Paraphernalia: Between a Player's Legs

T
he telephone next to Jane's laptop rang and she stared at it for a moment before she picked up.

“Hello.” But there was no one on the other end. There hadn't been the last seven times it had rung either. She dialed the front desk and was told they didn't know where the calls originated. Jane had a pretty good idea the calls were coming from men with fish on their jerseys.

She left the receiver off the hook and glanced at the clock on the bedside stand. She had five hours before the game. Five hours to finish her
Single Girl in the City
column. She should have started her column for the
Times
last night, but she'd been exhausted and jet-lagged and all she'd wanted was to lie in bed, read her research books, and eat chocolate. If Luc hadn't snuck up on her at the vending machine the night before, she would have bought a Milky Way too. Having been caught in her cow PJs had been bad enough. She hadn't wanted him to think her a pig, but really, why should she care what he thought of her?

She didn't know, except she supposed it was in a woman's genetic makeup to care what handsome men thought. If Luc was ugly, she probably wouldn't have cared. If he didn't have those clear blue eyes, long lashes, and a body to make a nun weep, she would have grabbed that Milky Way and maybe chased it with a Hershey's Big Block. If it weren't for his evil grin that had her thinking sinful thoughts and remembering the sight of his naked butt, she might not have heard herself babbling about stewardesses like a jealous puck bunny.

She could not afford for any of the players to see her as anything other than a professional. Their reception of her had warmed little since they'd arrived. They spoke to her about recipes and babies, as if by virtue of having a uterus she was naturally interested. But if she brought up hockey, their mouths shut tight as clams.

Jane reread the first part of her column and made a few changes:

Single Girl in the City

Tired of talking about hair care products and men with commitment issues, I tuned out my friends and concentrated on my margarita and corn chips. As I sat looking around at the parrot and sombrero decor, I wondered if men were the only ones with commitment phobias. I mean, here we sat, four thirty-year-old women who'd never been married, and except for Tina's one attempt at living with her ex-boss, none of us had ever had a real committed relationship. So was it them, or was it us?

There is a saying that goes something like, “If you put two neurotics in a room of one hundred people, they'd find each other.” So was there something else? Something deeper than a lack of available men without issues?

Had the four of us “found” each other? Were we friends because we truly enjoyed each other's company? Or were we all neurotic?

Five hours and fifteen minutes after she'd started her column, she finally pushed send on her laptop. She shoved her notebook into her big purse, then raced to the door. She ran down the hall to the elevators and practically had to wrestle an elderly couple from a cab. When she walked into the America West Arena, the Phoenix Coyotes were just being introduced. The crowd went crazy cheering for their team.

She'd been given a pass to the press box, but Jane wanted to be as close as possible to the action. She'd finagled a seat three rows up from the boards, wanting to see and feel as much as she could of her first hockey game. She really didn't know what to expect, she just hoped to God the Chinooks didn't lose and blame it on her.

She found her place behind the goalie cage just as the Chinooks stepped onto the ice. Boos filled the arena, and Jane glanced around at the ill-behaved Coyotes fans. She'd been to a Mariners game once, but she didn't remember the fans being so rude.

She turned her attention back to the ice and watched Luc Martineau skate toward her, geared up and ready for battle. She'd done more research on Luc than on the other players, and she knew that everything he wore was custom-made. The arena lights shone off his dark green helmet. His name was sewn across the shoulders of his jersey in dark green above the number of the legendary Gump Worsley.
Why
Mr. Worsley was legendary, Jane had yet to discover.

Luc circled the goal twice, turned, and circled it in the opposite direction. He stopped within the crease, slapped his stick on the posts, and crossed himself. Jane took out her notebook, a pen, and her Post-Its. On the top note she wrote:
Superstitions and rituals?

The puck dropped, and all at once the sounds of the game rushed at her, the clash of sticks, scraping of skates on ice, and the puck slamming into the boards. The fans screamed and cheered and the smells of pizza and Budweiser soon hung in the air.

In preparation, Jane had viewed many game tapes. While she knew the game to be fast-paced, the tapes had not conveyed the frenetic energy or the way that energy infected the crowd. When play stopped, infractions were announced from the sound system and music blared until the puck was once more dropped and the team centers hacked it out.

As Jane took note of everything around her, she discovered what the tapes, and even televison, did not show. The action wasn't always where the puck was being played. A lot of the activity took place in the corners with punches and blows while the puck was at center ice. On several occasions she watched Luc whack the ankles of a Phoenix player unfortunate enough to stand within whacking distance. He seemed very good at hooking Coyote skates with his stick, and when he stuck out his arm and clotheslined Coyote Claude Lemieux, two men behind Jane jumped up and yelled, “You play like a girly man, Martineau!”

Whistles blew, the play stopped, and as Claude Lemieux picked himself up off the ice, the penalty was announced. “Martineau, roughing, two minutes.”

Because a goalie could not do time in the sin bin, Bruce Fish took his place. As Fish skated to the penalty box, Luc simply picked up his water bottle from the top of the net, shot a stream through the cage into his mouth, then spit it out. He shrugged, rolled his head from side to side, and tossed the bottle back onto the net.

Game on.

The pace fluctuated from wild to almost orderly.
Almost
.
Just when Jane thought both teams had decided to play nice, the scrum for the puck turned physical. And nothing brought the crowd to their feet like the sight of players throwing their gloves and mixing it up in the corner. She couldn't actually hear what the players were saying to each other, but she didn't need to. She could clearly read their lips. The F-word seemed a real favorite. Even by the coaches who stood behind the bench in mild-mannered suits and ties. And when the players on the bench weren't swearing, they were spitting. She'd never seen men spit so much.

Jane noticed that the heckling from the crowd was not limited to the Chinooks' goalie. Anytime a Seattle player came within hollering distance, the men behind Jane yelled, “You suck!” After several Budweisers, they got more creative: “You suck, eighty-nine,” or thirty-nine, or whatever the player's number.

Fifteen minutes into the first period, Rob Sutter checked a Coyote into the boards, and the Plexiglas shook so hard Jane thought it would crack. The player slid to the ice and the whistles blew.

“You suck, Hammer,” the men behind Jane yelled, and she wondered if the players could hear the fans over the collective noise. She knew she'd have to drink a lot of alcohol before she had the courage to tell the Hammer he sucked. She'd be too afraid he'd meet her in the parking lot later and “feed her lunch.”

After the first two periods, the score remained zero–zero, mostly due to some amazing saves by both goaltenders. But the Coyotes came out strong in the third. The team's captain broke through the Chinook defense and sped down ice toward the Chinooks' goal. Luc came out of the crease to meet him, but the captain snipered a shot passed his left shoulder. Luc got a piece of it with his stick, but the puck waffled and sailed into the net.

The crowd jumped to their feet as Luc skated to the goal. He calmly placed his stick and blocker on top of the net. As the blinking blue light announced the goal, he pushed his mask to the top of his head, picked up his water bottle, and shot water into his mouth. From where Jane sat, she watched him in profile. His cheek was slightly flushed, his damp hair stuck to his temple. A stream of water ran from the corner of his mouth, down his chin and neck, and wet the collar of his jersey. He lowered the bottle, tossed it on the cage, and shoved his hand into his blocker.

“Eat me, Martineau!” one of the men behind her yelled. “Eat me!”

Luc glanced up and one of Jane's questions was answered. He'd clearly heard the men behind her. Without expression of any sort, he simply looked at them. He picked up his stick and lowered his gaze until it landed on Jane. He stared at her for several long seconds before he turned and skated to the Chinooks' bench. Jane couldn't tell what he thought of the two men, but she had bigger concerns than Luc's feelings. She crossed her fingers and hoped like hell the Chinooks made a goal within the next fifteen minutes.

We have to remember we're dealing with hockey players. You know they can be real superstitious,
Leonard had warned.
If the Chinooks start losing games, you'll get blamed and sent packing.
After the way they were already treating her, Jane figured they didn't need much of an excuse.

It took them fourteen minutes and twenty seconds, but they finally scored on a power play. When the last buzzer sounded, the score was tied, and Jane let out a relieved breath.

Game over, or so she thought. Instead five more minutes were put on the clock, while four skaters and the goaltenders battled it out in overtime. Neither team scored and the game went into the record book as a tie.

Now Jane could breathe easy. They couldn't blame her for their loss and send her packing.

She gathered her purse and shoved her notebook and pen inside. She headed to the Chinooks' locker room, flashing her press pass. Her stomach twisted into knots as she moved down the hall. She was a professional. She could do this. No problem.

Keep your gaze pinned to their eyes,
she reminded herself as she took out her small tape recorder. She entered the room and stopped as if the bottoms of her Doc Martins were suddenly glued to the floor. Men in various degrees of undress stood in front of benches and open stalls, peeling off their clothes. Hard muscles and sweat. Bare chests and backs. A flash of a naked stomach and butt, and . . .

Good Lord!
Her cheeks burned and her eyes about jumped from her skull as she couldn't help but stare at Vlad “the Impaler” Fetisov's Russian-sized package. Jane jerked her gaze up, but not before she discovered that what she'd heard about European men was true. Vlad wasn't circumcised, and that was just a little more info than she wanted. For one brief second she thought she should mumble an apology, but of course she couldn't apologize, because that would be admitting that she'd seen something. She glanced at the other male reporters and they weren't apologizing. So why did she feel like she was in high school peeking in the boys' locker room?

You've seen a penis before, Jane. No big deal. If you've seen one penis, you've seen them all. . . . Well, okay, that's not true. Some penises are better than others. Stop! Stop thinking about penises!
she chastened herself.
You're not here to stare. You're here to do a job, and you have just as much right to be here as male reporters do. It's the law, and you're a professional
.
Yeah, that's what she told herself as she wove her way through players and other journalists, careful to keep her gaze above the shoulders, but she was the only female in a room filled with big, rugged,
naked
hockey players. She couldn't help but feel very much out of place.

She kept her eyes up as she joined the reports interviewing Jack Lynch, the right winger who'd made the Chinooks' only goal. She dug out her notebook as he dropped his shorts. She was almost certain he was wearing long underwear, but she wasn't about to check it out.
Don't look, Jane. Whatever you do, don't look down.

She turned on her tape recorder and interrupted one of her male counterparts. “After your injury last month,” she began, “there was some speculation that you might not be able to finish the season as strong as you'd started. I think that goal put the rumors to bed.”