Blindsided

She couldn’t afford to pay him so much as a nickel on his NHL dollars. “My talent at what?”

“I’ve had two offers for the franchise. Both of them reasonable and fair considering the shape it’s in.”

How had they gone from him bailing out the team to her selling it? Talk about conversational whiplash. “You should signal left turns before you make them,” he growled.

Another sigh. “I know. I’m bad about that.” Another little heave of her shoulders. Another pointless effort to tuck her curls behind her ears. “Here’s my thinking on it all,” she said, holding her hands in front of her like a balance scale. “I could sell tomorrow and walk away with a lot more than I have now. But if I did, I’d be selling out Tom’s hopes and expectations. I have a problem with that on a personal level. I’d feel much better about it if I could improve the franchise before I let it go. Tom couldn’t be disappointed then. Does that make sense?”

It did. But in the most dangerous sort of way. If that was the full scope of her reasoning, the woman was playing a high-stakes game listening to her heart, not her head. And that was a guaranteed way to fail. He looked away from the big blue eyes that were so earnestly searching his. “Do you have experience in running any kind of business?”

“I’ve organized several successful charity events.”

He waited for her to toss out the next item on her résumé. All he got were the sounds of the marina. “That’s it?”

“I have a master’s degree in Sociology,” she offered brightly. “And I’m an expert in robbing Peter to pay Paul. No one does it better.”

What the hell had Tom been thinking? Millie, even with her marbles rattling loose, could do a better job than this little socialite. Had Tom lost it, too? “Let’s go back,” Logan said tightly. “What do you want from me?”

“I understand that you’re something of a legend in the minor leagues.”

Yeah, he was a legend there. In the majors, too. But not for the reason he wanted. In two years the only memory of him was going to be the moment when his eye tumbled out of its socket on national television. “Nail the point, Ms. Talbott. What do you want from me?”

“I want you to coach the Warriors this season.”

He gripped the arms of his chair, trying to keep himself from falling out. Step back twenty years? Start all over from nowhere? He’d never in his life wanted to coach. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.”

She certainly seemed sane. And sober. “Give up kicking back in the Florida sun and surf,” he posed dryly, “to spend the winter riding a broken-down bus across the windswept, frozen prairie with a bunch of third-rate hockey players. Would you go for an offer like that?”

“Actually,” she said, with a fleeting, weak smile, “if you don’t, I’m going to have to.”

“Come again?” he asked, stunned and even more appalled. “You know nothing about hockey but you think you can coach?”

“The sea of red ink is deep. Really deep,” she explained, her eyes darkening. “I’ve already let John Ingram—the GM—go and taken over his responsibilities. The office staff has been pared down to one. Looking at the team’s record so far, I figure no one can do worse than Carl Spady when it comes to coaching. I’ll promote the current assistant coach and play his second for no pay. And when we get back into black, I’ll leave the bench and hire the best I can to replace me.”

His head pounded. “You’re nuts.”

“Maybe,” she allowed. “Mostly, I’m determined.”

“The men won’t play for a woman.”

“They’re not men. They’re boys,” she calmly countered. “The average age is twenty-three. And their choice is to play for the Warriors or go home. I may not know much, but I do know that we’re the bottom rung of the professional hockey ladder.”

With her at the helm and on the bench…? The publicity would be incredible. The minors’ first female coach of a men’s team. The tickets to the freak show would go like hotcakes. She’d make money out of it. Hand over fist. But the players… God, being relegated to an unaffiliated team in the Central Hockey League was humiliation enough for them. Adding professional pity to it… Thank God it wasn’t his problem. His smile was grim and tight and he both knew it and didn’t care. “You have a lot to learn, Ms. Talbott. You might want to start with a copy of Hockey for Dummies.”

“I’ve read it from cover to cover. Twice,” she assured him. “And I bought myself some books on practice drills, too. They don’t make all that much sense at this point, but they will eventually.”

He’d bet the boat that she’d never even laced up a pair of skates. The poor bastards. All the Warriors wanted was to make a living playing a game they loved. It wasn’t much of a living and as dreams went it was a long shot at best, but… Jesus F. Christ. Did they have any idea of what was coming down the ice at them?

“Carl Spady pulls down a hefty five-figure salary,” she said, interrupting his nightmare. “I’d rather pay it to you.”

And he’d rather give up his good eye. “I’m making a solid seven-figure one sitting right here in this deck chair.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She’d said it softly, but there was an edge to her tone that made it ring like an insult. He held his breath and tamped down the instinct to charge squarely into the challenge. It took a of couple seconds and a conscious effort to unclench his teeth, but he eventually managed a fairly even, “Oh?”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she leaned down and flipped open the leather bag at her feet. “Here’s my card,” she said in the next second, straightening to hand him a fuzzy-edged card. “Please consider the offer and let me know what you decide.”

He looked down at the business card. Pink. With some fancy, feminine font. Pink! “There’s no thinking to be done, Ms. Talbott,” he declared as he tossed the card on the table beside his drink. “The answer’s ‘no thank you.’ I’m not even remotely interested.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” she said while she rose to her feet.

Logan gained his own, reached down, snagged the handle of her briefcase, and held it out to her saying, “I am.”

She had to tilt her head way back to meet his gaze. For a long second she seemed to be considering him, chewing on the inside of her cheek as her eyes darkened. Then the boat shifted slightly beneath them and she rocked back, unbalanced. Even as he reached out to steady her, she righted herself with a tight smile and turned away.

His arms fell back to his sides as she put the briefcase on the seat of the chair and opened it again. From it she drew a thick, brown expansion folder. Handing it to him with both hands, she explained, “Tom built this file over the years. Since there’s no reason for me to keep it, I think he’d probably want you to have it.”

He looked down to see his name scrawled across the front flap in black magic marker. The thing was stuffed to the gills and weighed a ton.

“Mr. Dupree?” She waited until he looked up. “If you change your mind…”

“Not going to happen,” he assured her blandly, plunking the file down on the table.

“Just the same,” she went on as she closed her case and took it in hand. “I’m on my way to the airport. My son has a ‘Hockey in Focus’ class tonight and I promised to have locker room treats for everyone afterwards.” She moved toward the walkway, adding as she went, “You can reach me on my cell after six. I’ll either be at home, making brownies, or at the rink, handing them out.”

Brownies. Probably with little pink sprinkles on top. Did she make them for the Warriors, too? Did she send them out on the road with little care packages tied up with pink ribbons? She probably put notes inside reminding them to eat sensibly and to remember to brush their teeth.

“May I ask you a personal question, Mr. Dupree?”

He brought his attention back to the marina. She stood on the floating dock, shading her eyes with her hand again. He shrugged his permission and refrained from mentioning that he considered an answer optional.

“My son is twelve. The first time he ever set foot in an ice rink was the day after Tom’s funeral. The hockey bug seems to have bitten him just as he stepped inside the door. As a man who played the game, can you give me some idea of what the odds are that it might be nothing more than a passing interest?”

Twelve? If he was remembering right, that made the boy a Pee Wee. The second year kids were allowed to check. Having to learn to skate while getting hammered into the boards meant that the kid was either a masochist or had found a passion. Given that his mother was an obvious loony tune… He decided to give the kid a break and yank Mama’s chain. “I hope Tom left you some stock in CCM.”

She arched a brow. “CCM?”

God, she really was beyond clueless. “It’s a company that makes hockey gear,” he supplied. “Along with others like Easton, Bauer, and Itech. Just to name a few. Didn’t you notice the names when you bought him his equipment?”

“I didn’t buy it. The Warriors outfitted him with their old stuff and hauled him out onto the ice. I was too busy worrying about broken bones to pay any attention to the labels.”

What a typical mom. Logan chuckled and shook his head. “Hockey players will do anything to bring another guy into the fold. Does the kid nag you about getting to the rink on time?”

The look on her face was answer enough. His own mother had often worn the very same exasperated expression. “He starts in two hours before we have to leave the house.”

“It sounds to me like he’s been pretty well bitten. Brace yourself,” he warned, grinning. “It’s a long, hard, expensive haul.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as she turned away.

The question came out of the blue and tumbled off his tongue before he could even think to stop it. “Why did Tom leave you the team?”

She paused and looked over her shoulder to meet his gaze. “I normally charge ten bucks for the story,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “But if you’ll take the job, I’ll tell you for free.”

Damn, she was cute. In a pink, fuzzy, kid sister sort of way. The cameras would love her behind the bench. Is that what Tom had been thinking? “I can live with the mystery,” he countered, knowing that he wasn’t being completely honest about it.

With a quiet laugh, she walked off, waving and calling back, “Have a good one, Mr. Dupree. Talk to you soon.”

Hopefully she had enough good sense to stop holding her breath before she passed out and went face-first into a bowl of brownie mix. Shaking his head, Logan watched her make her way along the floating dock and up the steps to the parking lot. As she climbed into the driver’s seat of a bright red Taurus, he smiled and turned back to the chair and his now watery scotch. She had a nice swing. Not that he wanted it in his backyard, of course. And she did have killer legs—especially considering how short they were.

Logan polished off his drink in one quick swallow. Rolling the empty glass between the palms of his hands, he eyed the expansion folder she’d handed him. There was no reason to open it up and go through it; he knew what was inside. Tom had kept a file on every one of his players. On “his boys.”

With a bittersweet smile, Logan wandered his memories. The Warriors had been Tom’s family, their accomplishments his greatest source of pride. Every morning ten copies of the Wichita Eagle had been delivered to the front office and Tom would cull the sports page, carefully cutting out the articles. One copy was always stapled to the bulletin board by the ticket counter. Another copy went into the individual files. Another was always mailed to the player’s parents with a note from Tom about how pleased he was for the opportunity to know such an outstanding young man, such an outstanding human being.

Being a good person had been important to Tom. Being a good hockey player hadn’t mattered nearly as much to him. He’d insisted that every man on the squad pick a social cause or a community organization and give it at least ten hours a week of volunteer time. It had been part of the playing contract and Tom had made the rounds, checking to make sure the players were where they said they’d be and when. No one had ever gotten away with shirking their charitable commitments. For Tom, giving back had been important.

And when the local paper mentioned the good works, Tom had posted, filed and sent those clippings home, too. Logan’s mother had saved them all. He and his sisters had found them in a box in the bedroom closet after her funeral. Along with them had been cards from her bridge club ladies congratulating her on having raised such a good, caring, talented man.

Logan swallowed down the lump in his throat and rose from the chair. He needed another drink, he told himself as he headed for the liquor cabinet below deck. He didn’t need to feel guilty or the least bit obligated about a damn thing.

Chapter Two

There was the good, the bad and the ugly. And then there was the Wichita Warriors. They had exclusive claim to the deepest pit of god-awful that Logan had ever seen. He gazed out over the sparse crowd, mentally calculating the gross. Unless the concession contract was a good one, Catherine Talbott was going to be paying expenses out of her own pocket this week. What did it cost her per game to rent the Kansas Coliseum these days? Public venues seating nine thousand didn’t come cheap. It had cost a fortune when he’d played here and odds were the rent hadn’t gone down in the past twenty years.

Arena rent, office rent and overhead, hockey equipment, insurance, travel expenses… Add in the player salaries. Minor leaguers—especially those in the west—didn’t make huge amounts of money, but considering the Warriors’ performance in tonight’s game, hell, if they were pulling down five bucks an hour they were being overpaid.

The ref brought the puck to the face-off circle in the Warriors’ own end and Logan watched the players slide into position. Wheatley, the center and a left-hand shooter, stood at the dot with his back to the goal. Vanderrossen and Stover fell in on either side of him and opposite the Austin Ice Bats’ wingers. Andrews and Roth, the Warriors’ defensemen, slipped in behind their teammates, checking over their shoulders to make sure they weren’t blocking their goalie’s view. Rivera nodded and set himself at the outside edge of his crease.

The ref did his quick visual check with the linesmen, and Logan drew a breath and held it. The puck dropped. It was still in midair when Vanderrossen flung his stick and gloves to the ice and himself at the opposing winger. Stover did the same on the other side. The whistle came in the next second—but about a half second after the puck ricocheted off Andrews’s shin guard and wobbled through Rivera’s wide open five hole.

The Ice Bats bench didn’t put up much of a celebration for the goal. Apparently the previous ten had pretty much used up all their enthusiasm. The players on the ice were too busy trying to de-sweater and break each other’s noses to notice the score. The fans obviously didn’t care that the tally had just gone to eleven-zip; they’d come for the fights. And to jeer the refs, Logan decided a few seconds later as the officials sent all four of the brawlers to the locker room with ten-minute game misconducts.

Logan glanced at the clock suspended from the arena ceiling. Three minutes, eighteen seconds left in the third period. An eternity by hockey standards. The way things were going, the Ice Bats could easily double the score before the final buzzer. There was no hope for the Warriors in that amount of time, though, and everyone knew it. What there was of a crowd was running toward the exits while the players set themselves up for the face-off at center ice and the Ice Bats’ goalie did push-ups in his crease.

With a hard sigh, Logan scrubbed his hands over his face and closed his eyes. He’d been insane to even come look, to so much as entertain the notion that coaching the Warriors might be a more productive use of his life than drinking the days away on his boat and feeling sorry for himself. So much for nice thoughts. Basking in the sun and polluting his liver was a slow road to hell. Coaching the Warriors would be like getting there on the bullet train.

Logan checked his watch. Ten o’clock. They’d already rolled up the ramps and shut down the airport for the night, so he was stuck until the first morning flight to civilization at six. How to kill eight hours in the middle of a Wichita night had always been a problem and from what he’d been able to tell on his trip from the airport to the Coliseum, no one had come close to solving it in the fourteen years he’d been gone.

The options tonight were the same as they’d been from October through April for almost all of his adult life: go back to the hotel, drink in the bar until they closed it down, leave a wake-up call request, crash a couple of hours and then stumble to the terminal gate with a raging headache so he could do it all over again the next night in another town. The beauty of his boat was not having to do all the stumbling between point A and point B.

Snagging the overpriced, too glossy program from the cement floor, Logan rolled it into a tube, shoved himself up out of the hard plastic seat and headed toward the exit just as the final buzzer sounded. He paused and turned back to check the scoreboard—12–0. He was thinking that the Ice Bats had shown the Warriors some mercy when his gaze slipped past the scoreboard to the sky boxes along the east wall.

Only two were lit. One was the press box with a pair of announcers undoubtedly trying to wrap up a dismal show. The other contained a single, slim figure with blond curly hair. Catherine Talbott stood alone in the owner’s box, her arms folded across her chest and her head bowed as though she were praying for a miracle. She needed one, he knew. Just as he knew that he wasn’t going to be it.

Logan shook his head and was turning away when his conscience squirmed. With a wince, he stopped again. He’d already given her offer way more time, money and consideration than it deserved. And he’d told her yesterday before she’d walked off his boat that he wouldn’t take the job, that he didn’t want or need it. There was no reason for her to hear it again. It would be cruel to go up to that sky box. It’d be like rubbing salt in an open wound; she had to feel bad enough already.

Cool reasoning didn’t settle his conscience. It prickled and then clenched tight like some long neglected, suddenly over-exercised muscle. With a growl, Logan eyed the sky box again, wondering just what the hell he could say to her that might be anywhere near encouraging or optimistic. Hey, at least you didn’t have to call an ambulance. Cheer up, they won two of the fifteen fights. Lady, if someone wants to buy this loser franchise, sell it!

Logan blinked, and in that same second the lights in the owner’s booth winked out. The scoreboard went dark in the next. He considered the now silent arena and the scarred, shaved ice below. Wichita had never been a great hockey town; it was too far south, too far north and nowhere near cosmopolitan enough to bring in transplants from the parts of the country where hockey was a way of life. It didn’t matter how bad or how good the Warriors were; it had never made a difference and never would.

Tom Wolford had spent his life swimming against the tide. And from the looks of things, he’d been pretty well swept out to sea for his effort. If Catherine Talbott didn’t know that the odds were stacked against her, then someone needed to be bluntly honest about it. It didn’t have to be him. It wasn’t like there was some big ledger book that said he owed her anything.

Aw, hell. Who was he kidding? Getting the hard stuff done had always been his job.

Cat leaned back against the grille of her ancient Jeep and crossed her ankles. The team’s just as ancient bus idled on the far side of the private parking lot, its running lights glowing bright orange in the crisp autumn night, the storage doors open, the driver standing beside them, smoking a cigarette and waiting for the team to file out and board. A good fifty feet separated the bus from the rear doors of the Coliseum. Cat considered the space, wondering what she should say to the players as they passed. Good game! probably wasn’t going to cut it. Even she knew that tonight’s game had been beyond pathetic. Telling them they’d win next time wasn’t something she thought she could choke out. At least not sincerely. Chewing Carl Spady up one side and down the other might cheer them up for a while. Or not. Most of the players had been on the team long enough to know that their coach would react by making their next practice a revenge-fest.

Of course she could just jump in her car and drive off before she had to face them. Cowardly, yes, but it would spare them all the awkwardness of trying to be upbeat. But it would also leave the players with nothing to counter Carl’s infamously nasty potshots. Why Tom hadn’t dumped him years ago was a mystery she hadn’t been able to solve. There had been nothing in the scribbled-on napkins to give her so much as a clue.

She was wondering about the therapeutic value of a good cry when the rear door of the arena squeaked on its hinges. Putting self-indulgence on hold, she stared down at the gravel just long enough to summon a smile and then lifted her head to give it to the man coming through the doorway.

The smile evaporated the instant the shape of the dark silhouette registered in her brain. The player had changed into his street clothes; they all did before boarding the bus. Always. And they always had their gear bags over their shoulder and their sticks in their hand as they went that way. Except this time, this player. He’d left his gear behind. God, was he quitting the team? Were they all packing it up and leaving it behind?

“You can’t!” she cried, vaulting off the front of her car to stand in the path of the player made featureless by the dark. “As long as you play, there’s hope. If you quit, it’s gone.”

“Empty hope doesn’t count for much.”

She knew the voice. Her heart actually fluttered, just before it shot up into her throat and cut off her air supply. “Logan Dupree?” she croaked out, her oxygen-deprived brain suggesting that she throw herself into his arms and kiss him senseless.

“I’m surprised I’m here, too,” he drawled with a lopsided smile as he stopped in front of her.

God, even in the dark he was so damn good-looking. And so tall. So broad shouldered. Throwing herself into his arms would require a running leap. The automatic half step back sparked some common sense. Swallowing around her stupid heart, Cat leaned back against the grille of her car and asked as nonchalantly as she could, “Do you want the free story now or later?”

“Never will be fine,” he replied, settling in beside her and crossing his arms over his chest. “There isn’t enough money in the world to get me to sign on to this disaster you call a team.”

Her heart dropped like a lead weight into the pit of her stomach. He wasn’t here to be her knight in shining armor. “Please lower your voice,” she said, desperately trying to anchor herself and hoping she didn’t sound as dizzy and queasy as she felt. Thank God she hadn’t done the grateful damsel routine. “The players will be coming out and they don’t need to hear themselves being run down.”

“They’re not stupid,” he pointed out quietly. “They know they suck.”

The choice was between crying, throwing up, or going on the defensive. “Well, they don’t need to hear anyone else say it,” she countered, lifting her chin. “That would be mean. And I happen to believe—contrary to what Carl thinks—that you don’t get people to improve by focusing on the negatives.”

“If you don’t look at the negatives, there’s no way you’ll ever turn them into positives.”

“But where’s the motivation to improve if there’s never a word of praise for the things you do right and well?”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one.” The shrug that went with the concession said that he considered it a very minor one.

God, she didn’t want to ask, but she had to. Just had to. “Do they do anything right or well?”