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Benjamin made his way down the wide flight of stairs to ice level, stunned and dazed by the chance meeting. The players would be waiting in the dressing room, but he decided he needed a minute, so made his way to the players’ bench.
He gripped the wide wooden edge of the rink boards. The glistening ice, smooth and unmarked by the lethally sharp skates soon to be powering across it, taunted him. Shaking off thoughts of Lynn, he focused on the reason he’d returned to Prince George.
A battle would be fought on this ice, and on ice just like it in arenas across Western Canada. A battle for redemption. A battle he had to win.
His heart beat heavily in his chest, thundering with the anxiety that was a long familiar companion. Others might view him as washed up at thirty-five, but he’d made a vow to stop thinking of himself that way, and taking this job had been the first step.
“Ready, Coach?”
He turned to the man who had appeared at his side. Levi Ghostkeeper stared at him with challenge in his jutted chin and narrowed eyes. As assistant coach of the Prince George Canyon Cats for the past five seasons, people in the know—as well as Levi himself—had expected he’d fill the head coach position. Instead, Benjamin had been hired. Levi had made his displeasure clear from the moment of their introduction.
And continued to do so every chance he got.
“Bring them out.” His fingers aching with tension, he released the rail and slid his hands into the bulky gloves he’d tucked under his arm. Levi vanished down the tunnel leading behind the bleachers, his shouts echoing off the concrete walls and floor. A surge of adrenalin made Benjamin’s face tingle and he lifted his chin to scan the empty arena.
Remembering the rush of six-thousand fans cheering when he stepped on the ice, the hometown star that was going to set the hockey world on fire.
Remembering the boos and hisses when he’d failed them all.
Like a gathering storm, he sensed the approach of the young men that had been placed under his authority. Casual profanities and shouted insults, the soft thudding of skates on padded flooring and sharp creaking of protective gear, reached him before the first player came into view. He stood between the metal bench and the wooden boards, nodding at those that made eye contact as they passed, making note of the ones that didn’t. It was his job to meld them into a unit, from the sixteen-year-old rookies dreaming of national league glory to the twenty-year-old veterans learning to accept unwelcome reality.
And if he did his job right, give them all the chance to celebrate the success he’d denied himself.
The crisp sound of blades cutting ice did little to fill the huge space. Gazing up at the enormous score clock hanging from the rafters like a guillotine, Benjamin took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped through the gate, his skates as comfortable as slippers, his strokes swift and sure. He glided to a stop on the Canyon Cats logo in the centre of the ice and blew his whistle.
“Bring it in, boys. It’s time to get to work.”
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LYNN DIDN’T LET HERSELF be distracted by thoughts of Benjamin Whitestone until she had Oscar safely tucked in his crib at home. Sorry, officer. I ran that stop sign with my baby in the back seat because I was reliving the hottest one-night stand I ever had. That it was her only one-night stand was a moot point. The passion of those hours was seared into her very sinews.
What a morning. First the panicky call from her daycare provider about the flood, the impulsive and ultimately insane decision to bring Oscar to work, and the twist-of-fate meeting with a man who’d haunted her dreams for two years.
In the spare room that doubled as her home office, she unpacked her laptop from her messenger bag, determined to review emails while Oscar slept. Cynthie may have been understanding but Lynn held herself to a higher standard. One she’d completely failed to attain that morning.
Before settling to work, she went to the kitchen to refill her water bottle. As she held it under the stream from the tap, her eye caught the infinity symbol tattooed on her wrist. It was so familiar she rarely noticed it, but today it blazed off her skin like a beacon.
The day she’d had it inked had been the day she’d decided to skip the husband stage of her life plan and move onto the baby stage.
The night she’d had it inked was the night she’d slept with Benjamin. Now known as Benjamin Whitestone.
Though she’d been on maternity leave throughout the last hockey season, it had only been good business sense to keep up with the happenings of the organization that was her biggest client. She’d read little more than the headlines regarding the hiring of the new head coach, as in the normal course of events she wouldn’t have had much interaction with any of the Canyon Cats on-ice staff. Now she was handling the team’s marketing duties for at least a few weeks, she wouldn’t be able to avoid them completely. And by them she meant Benjamin.
Snorting out a chuckle, she recalled the varied expressions that had crossed his face during their short encounter. He really had made an ass of himself, first in revealing his terror he might be a father, and then jumping to the assumption she was married. He’d given her the upper hand the next time they met. Not that she needed the upper hand. They were both professionals. There was no reason this had to be awkward, especially since she’d cleared up all his ridiculous misunderstandings.
It might still be a good idea to learn as much as she could about him. For business purposes, of course. Nothing personal, and certainly nothing to do with the sparks of lust fizzing in her veins as she relived their night together.
Back in her spare room office, she fired up her laptop and made her way to the website for the local television news station. A quick search brought up the story she wanted. It included a video, so she set it to full screen, plugged in her earbuds so as not to disturb Oscar, and hit play.
The sports reporter, a young man with dark hair and a strong nose, sat at the anchor desk, a graphic of the Canyon Cats logo over his shoulder. He announced the hiring, and then the shot was replaced with video of a hockey game as the anchor went on. “This will be Benjamin Whitestone’s first head coaching position. It is also his return to his hometown. A star in the Prince George Minor Hockey Association, Whitestone was drafted by the Canyon Cats as a Bantam, playing his entire junior career here.”
The video changed again to what appeared to be a post-game interview with an unbearably young Benjamin. His sweat-dampened dark hair clung to his forehead, where his helmet had pressed a red line into the flesh. The thin whiskers of an infant beard were scattered in patches across his cheeks. Lynn’s heart clutched at the sight, not only at Benjamin’s vulnerability but the foreshadowing of a teenage Oscar.
The sports reporter continued. “He held several team scoring records and is well-remembered for his blazing speed. But his most notable claim to fame—or maybe infamy—is for a missed penalty shot on home ice in the final game of the National Championships. A missed shot that cost the Canyon Cats the trophy.”
He paused to let the highlight run uninterrupted. The footage from fifteen-or-so years ago showed Benjamin racing to a puck placed on the blue line, before slowing to bob and weave in an attempt to throw off the goaltender. His wrist shot, so quick she almost missed it, sent the puck sailing by the net, wide by at least a foot. The boos and jeers of the crowd rang in her earbuds, shocking in their animosity.
What a weight for a teenager to carry on his shoulders. Lynn couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the young man Benjamin had been.
The video cut back to the reporter at the desk. “Whitestone’s career in the NHL never matched the potential he’d shown as a junior. He played for five teams in six seasons, and then retired after a hit that gave him his third concussion. After playing in Europe for a short time, he returned to North America and became an assistant coach. Given the Canyon Cats’ lacklustre results in the past three seasons, he will have to work miracles to get the team to the playoffs this year.”
Lynn closed the video, pulled out her earbuds, and sipped her water. Though she’d been living in Prince George at the time, she had been concentrating on her university education with little attention to spare on junior hockey. If she had been more of a fan, maybe she would have recognized Benjamin that night at the jazz lounge. More than likely not—it was a decade and a half later, after all.
And now it’s two years after that, she reminded herself. So many changes had happened between then and now, the most important of which was sleeping in the room next to her. She was a mother. Any relationship she might cultivate had to be good for Oscar, not just her.
Which meant another one-night stand was out of the question—no matter how much the idea tempted her.