See Jane Score (9 page)

“Yep.”

She thought of the first morning when he'd carried her briefcase, then told her that he wasn't trying to be nice. “Are you trying to be nice this time?”

“No, I'm meeting the guys in a few and I don't want to have to wonder if you made it to your room without passing out on the way.”

“And that would ruin your fun?”

“No, but for a few seconds it might take my attention off Candy Peeks and her naughty cheerleader routine. Candy's worked real hard on her pom-poms, and it would be a shame if I couldn't give her my undivided attention.”

“A stripper?”

“They prefer to be called dancers.”

“Ahh.”

He squeezed her arm. “Are you going to print that in the paper?”

“No, I don't care about your personal life.” She pulled her plastic room key from her pocket. Luc took it from her and opened the door before she could object.

“Good, because I'm yanking your chain. I'm really meeting the guys at a sports bar that's not too far away.”

She looked up into the shadows of his face created by her darkened room. She didn't know which story to believe. “Why the BS?”

“To see that little wrinkle between your brows.”

She shook her head as he handed her the key.

“See ya, Ace,” he said and turned away.

Jane watched the back of his head and his wide shoulders as he walked down the hall. “See ya tomorrow night, Martineau.”

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Are you planning on going into the locker room?”

“Of course. I'm a sports reporter and it's part of my job. Just as if I were a man.”

“But you're not a man.”

“I expect to be treated like a man.”

“Then take my advice and keep your gaze up,” he said as he turned once more and walked away. “That way you won't blush and your jaw won't hit the floor like a woman.”

The next night Jane sat in the press box and watched the Chinooks battle it out with the Los Angeles Kings. The Chinooks came out strong and put three goals on the board in the first two periods. It appeared Luc would have his sixth shutout of the season until a freak shot glanced off defenseman Jack Lynch's glove and flipped behind Luc into the net. At the end of the third frame the score was three–one, and Jane breathed a sigh of relief. The Chinooks had won. She wasn't a jinx. At least not today. She would have a job when she woke in the morning.

She remembered in horrid Technicolor detail the first time she walked into the Chinooks' locker room, and her stomach twisted into a big knot as she passed through the doorway. The other reporters were already there questioning the team's captain, Mark Bressler, who stood in front of his stall taking questions.

“We played well in our own end,” he said as he pulled his jersey over his head. “We took advantage of power plays and put the puck in the net. The ice was soft out there tonight, but we didn't let it affect our play. We came out knowing what we had to do and we did it.”

Keeping her gaze on his face, Jane felt around in her purse for her tape recorder. She brought the notes she'd been taking throughout the game up to eye level. “Your defense allowed thirty-two shots on goal,” she managed between the other questions. “Are the Chinooks looking to acquire a veteran defenseman before the March nineteenth trade deadline?” She thought the question was quite brilliant, if she did say so herself. Informed and knowledgeable.

Mark looked through the other reporters at her and said, “That's a question only Coach Nystrom can answer.”

So much for her brilliance.

“You scored your three hundred and ninety-eighth career goal tonight. How does it feel?” she asked. The only reason she knew about the goal was because she'd heard the television reporters talking about it in the press box. She figured a bit of flattery would get a quote out of the captain.

“Good.”

So much for a quote.

She turned and headed down the row of towering men, moving toward Nick Grizzell, the forward who'd scored the first goal. Long johns fell and jocks snapped as if on cue when she walked passed. She kept her eyes up and her gaze forward as she clicked on her tape recorder and let it record questions asked by other reporters. Her editor at the
Times
wouldn't know that she hadn't asked the questions. But she knew, and the players knew it too.

Grizzell had just returned the week before from the injured list and she asked him, “How does it feel to be back in the game and scoring the first goal?”

He looked across his shoulder at her and dropped his jockstrap. “Fine.”

Jane had had about enough of this crap. “Great,” she said. “I'll quote you on that.”

She glanced at the stall several feet away and saw Luc Martineau laughing at her. There was no way she would walk over there and ask him what he was laughing about.

She just didn't want to know.

Chapter 5
Ringing the Berries:
When the Puck Hits a Player's Cup

J
ane leaned back against her seat, pushed up her glasses, and studied the laptop resting on her tray table. She read what she'd written so far:

Seattle Checkmates Kings

The Seattle Chinooks crowned all six Los Angeles power-play chances and Goalie Luc Martineau blocked twenty-three shots on goal in a 3–1 victory over the Los Angeles Kings. The Kings put a goal on the board in the last few seconds of the game when a freak shot glanced off Seattle player Jack Lynch's glove and flipped into the Chinooks' net.

On the ice, the Chinooks play a fast, fearless game, aggravating the opposition with skill and brute strength. Inside the locker room they seem to love to aggravate journalists by dropping their pants. I know of at least one reporter who would love to put “the big hurt” on them.

She reached forward and deleted the last paragraph. It had only been six days, she reminded herself. The players were leery and superstitious. They felt she had been forced on them, and they were right: She had been. Now it was time for them to get over it so she could do her job.

She glanced at the snoring players sacked out in the team jet. How could she earn their trust or their respect if they wouldn't speak to her? How to resolve this issue so her job and her life were easier?

The answer came in the form of Darby Hogue. The night they arrived in San Jose, he phoned her room to tell her that some of the players were getting together at a bar somewhere downtown.

“Why don't you come with?” he said.

“With you?”

“Yeah, and maybe wear something girly. That way the players might forget you're a reporter.”

She hadn't packed anything girly, and even if she had, she didn't want the players to see her as a girly girl. While she needed them to know she respected them and their privacy, they needed to respect her as they would any professional journalist. “Give me about fifteen minutes and I'll meet you in the lobby,” she said, figuring interaction with the players away from the game might help and couldn't hurt.

Jane dressed in stretch wool pants that had two rows of buttons up the front like a sailor, a merino sweater set, and boots. All in black. She liked black.

She moved into the bathroom and gathered her hair at the back of her head. She didn't like it hanging in her face, and she didn't want Luc to think his opinion mattered. She looked in the mirror and dropped her hand to the counter. Her hair fell to her shoulders in dark shiny waves and curls.

He'd walked her to her hotel room. He'd thought she was sick or drunk, and he'd walked her back to make sure she got there safely. His one act of unexpected kindness affected her more than it should, especially since he'd only walked her to her door so he could thoroughly enjoy himself at a nudie bar. Or to yank her chain. That one simple gesture slid within her chest and warmed her heart, no matter if she wanted to be warmed or not. And she didn't.

Even if she were stupid enough to fall for a man like Luc, with all of the emotional and professional ramifications, he would never fall for a woman like Jane. And it wasn't because she thought herself unattractive or uninteresting. She didn't. No, she was a realist. Ken hooked up with Barbie. Brad married Jennifer and Mick dated supermodels. That was life.
Real
life, and she'd never been one to purposefully set herself up for heartache. She never wanted to be the one left behind when the relationship was over. She always got out first. It hurt less that way. Maybe Caroline was right about her. She thought about it a moment and shook her head. Caroline watched too much Dr. Phil.

Jane reached for the brush once more and pulled her hair back. She smeared Chap Stick on her lips, grabbed her purse, and met Darby in the lobby. Upon seeing him, she almost ran the other way. Jane knew that she herself was not a fashion goddess, and she didn't try. Darby, on the other hand, wasn't a fashion god, but he
did
try. Only the results were unfortunate.

This evening he wore black leather pants and a silk shirt with red flames and purple skulls on it. Leather pants on any man but Lenny Kravitz was a huge mistake, but she doubted even Lenny could pull off the shirt. Looking at him, Jane understood why the Chinooks might question Darby's sexual orientation.

They took a taxi from the hotel to Big Buddy's, a little bar more on the outskirts of the downtown area. The sun was just setting on a cloudless night, and the wind carried a hint of rain and dust. A crisp breeze brushed Jane's cheeks as she and Darby exited the taxi. A faded sign above the door read, “Voted Best Ribs.” She almost tripped on the uneven sidewalk and wondered why the Chinooks had chosen such a dive.

Inside the building, several television sets hung suspended in the corners, while behind the bar a red and blue Budweiser sign glowed. A string of lights left over from Christmas was still taped to the mirror. It smelled of smoke and booze, barbeque sauce and roasted meat. If Jane hadn't already eaten, her stomach would have growled.

Jane knew that by being seen with Darby, she ran the risk of adding fuel to the rumor that they were lovers, but she also figured that there was nothing she could do about it. And she wondered which was worse, being seen as the lover of a man who dressed like a pimp, or as the mistress of Virgil Duffy, a man old enough to be her grandfather.

Pinball machines pinged and flashed and she recognized two Chinooks playing air hockey in the corner. About five Seattle players sat at the bar, watching the Rangers battle it out with the Devils. Another half dozen sat at a table with a pitcher of beer, empty tubs of coleslaw, and Fred Flintstone–sized piles of stripped rib bones.

“Hey, guys,” Darby called out. At the sound of his voice, they turned their attention toward Darby and Jane. The hockey players looked like cavemen after feasting on a woolly mammoth, all full and content and sluggish, but they didn't look too happy to see Darby, and even less happy to see her.

“Jane and I felt like a beer,” he continued as if he didn't notice. He pulled out a chair for her, and she sat next to Bruce Fish and across from the rookie with the blond Mohawk. Darby sat to her left at the head of the table. The red flames and purple skulls on his shirt were subdued somewhat by the dim lighting.

A waitress with a tight Big Buddy's T-shirt set two cocktail napkins on the table and took Darby's order. As soon as he uttered the word
Corona,
he was instantly carded. A scowl drew his red brows togther as he flashed his identification.

“That's fake,” someone down the table said. “He's only twelve.”

“I'm older than you, Peluso,” Darby grumbled and shoved his driver's license back into his wallet.

The waitress turned her attention to Jane.

“Bet she orders a margarita,” Fishy said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Or one of those wine spritzers,” someone else added.

“Something fruity.”

Jane looked up into the shadowy face of the waitress. “Do you have Bombay Sapphire gin?”

“Sure do.”

“Fabulous. I'd like a dirty martini with three olives, please.” She glanced at the stunned faces around her and smiled. “A girl's gotta get her daily allowance of green veggies.”

Bruce Fish laughed. “Maybe you should order a Bloody Mary for the celery.”

Jane grimaced and shook her head. “I don't like tomato juice.” She looked across the table at Daniel Holstrom. The lights from the bar cast a reddish pink glow in his white-blond Mohawk. She wondered if the young rookie was twenty-one yet. She had her doubts.

Two more waitresses in Big Buddy's T-shirts appeared and cleared and cleaned the table. Jane half expected flirting and a proposition or two—jocks were notorious for rude behavior toward women—but nothing happened besides a few polite thank yous. Conversation took place over and around Jane and involved nothing more important or more pressing than the latest movie they'd seen and the weather. She wondered if they were trying to bore her to death. She suspected that might be the case, and she could honestly say the most interesting thing going on was the flash of lights on Daniel's scalp.

Bruce must have noticed her attention to the Swede's head because he asked, “What do you think of The Stromster's hair?”

She thought she detected a blush on Daniel's cheeks to match the pink tint of his hair. “I like a man who is so secure in his own masculinity that he can dare to be different.”

“He didn't have much of a choice,” Darby explained as his beer and Jane's martini arrived. “He's new to the team this year, and anyone new has to go through initiation.”

The Stromster nodded as if this made perfect sense.

“My first year,” Darby continued, “they emptied their dirty laundry in my car.”

The guys around the table laughed, deep ha-ha-ha-has.

“My first season was with the Rangers and they shaved my head
and
buried my cup in the ice machine,” Peter Peluso confessed.

Bruce sucked in his breath, and she suspected he might have put a protective hand over his crotch if she hadn't been sitting next to him. “That's harsh,” he said. “My rookie season was spent in Toronto, and I got thrown outside in my underwear a lot. Talk about colder than a well digger's ass.” He shivered to prove his point.

“Wow,” Jane said and took a sip of her drink. “Now I feel lucky that you boys just left me a dead mouse and call me all night.”

Several pairs of guilty eyes looked at her, then slid away.

“How's Taylor Lee?” she asked Fishy, deciding to let them all off the hook—for now. Just as she suspected he would, he launched into his daughter's most recent accomplishments, which began with toilet training and ended with a repeat of the telephone conversation he'd had with his two-year-old earlier that evening.

Since she'd met Bruce that first morning, she'd done a little reading on him. She'd discovered that he was going through a real messy divorce, and she wasn't all that surprised. Now that she'd live a small sample of their lives, she imagined it would be difficult to keep a family together while on the road so much. Especially given the rink bunnies that hung out in the lobby bars.

At first Jane hadn't noticed them, but it hadn't taken her long to pick up on who they were, and now she spotted them easily. They dressed in tight clothes, their bodies on display, and they all had that man-eater look in their eyes.

“Anyone want to play darts?” Rob Sutter asked as he approached the table.

Before anyone could speak, Jane was on her feet. “I do,” she said, and by the scowl on the Hammer's face, it was clear he'd meant anyone
but
her.

“Just don't expect me to let you win,” he said

Hustling darts had helped Jane put herself through college. She didn't expect anyone to
let
her win. She made her eyes go wide as she reached for her drink. “Aren't you going to go easy on me because I'm a girl?”

“I don't give quarter to girls.”

With her free hand, she took the extra set of darts and headed across the bar. The top of her head didn't even reach his shoulder. The Hammer didn't know it, but he was about to get the big hurt he so richly deserved. “Will you at least tell me the rules?”

He quickly explained how to play 501, which, of course, she already knew. But she asked questions like she'd never played before, and he was magnanimous enough to let her go first.

“Thanks,” she said as she put her martini on a nearby table and took her place at the taped toe line. Nailed to the wall a little over seven feet away, the board was lit from above. She rolled the shaft of the cheap house dart between her fingers, testing the weight. She preferred a ninety-eight percent tungsten dart with an aluminum shaft and Ribtex flights. Like the set she owned. The difference between the brass darts she held in her hands and the darts resting in their custom-made box at home was the difference between a Ford Taurus and a Ferrari.

She leaned way over the line, held the dart wrong, and glanced down the shaft as if she were sighting in a rifle. At the last second before release, she stopped. “Don't you guys usually bet or something?”