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The deep bass of the local rock band Lynn had hired to play the Canyon Cats Home Opener Tailgate Party thrummed through the exterior concrete wall. They were doing their sound check before the crowd began streaming into the parking lot for the event that would kick off the new hockey season. She was taking a breather in the office before heading back outside to make sure everything was running smoothly.
She scrolled through the checklist on her tablet, colour-coded by importance, subject, and timing. The tailgate party was an annual event she’d spearheaded—other than the last, of course, as Oscar had just been born—after joining the arena staff several years ago. None of the players or coaches were expected to attend, since it was a game day, but fans would be treated to a live band, food vendors, and other activities designed to boost excitement. Given the Canyon Cats dismal record on the ice the last few years, anything off the ice that put butts in the seats was sorely needed.
In the past, Lynn would have headed home once the game started. Today, in her role as acting marketing coordinator, it would be up to her to direct the in-house announcer and arena host through the contests she’d planned, which meant she wouldn’t be done until the second intermission was over, and maybe not even then.
She glanced at the clock in the corner of the tablet’s screen. She had reworked her schedule so she had been able to spend the morning with Oscar before dropping him off at daycare. Stephanie should be picking him up about now. She’d be the one giving him his dinner, watching over him as he splashed in the tub, kissing his downy head goodnight as she tucked him into bed.
Lynn’s fingers itched to send a quick text, but if Stephanie was driving the last thing she wanted to do was distract her. She could wait a little longer, give them time to get home and settled before sending a casual, friendly message. It wasn’t being overprotective if she just said hi, was it?
She left the office, locking the door behind her, and strode along the wide concourse. Through the glass doors and floor-to-ceiling windows of the main entrance a buzz of activity was visible, with people and vehicles moving busily to and fro. Inside, a hum of anticipation filled the empty space, as if the very walls knew something exciting was about to happen.
Giving in to impulse, she veered off her route and climbed one of the many short flights of stairs leading into the arena proper. Rows and rows of green seats flowed down to ice level and upward into the rafters. The players had had an optional skate earlier in the day but the Zamboni had erased all evidence and the team logo painted in the centre circle of the frozen surface gleamed smooth and unmarked.
Her fingertips tingled, the same sensation she had when the lights went dim in a theatre signalling a play was about to begin. All that potential—for failure or success—just begging to be unleashed.
Sucking in a deep breath laced with the scent of fresh ice, she turned to go and caught sight of Benjamin in the Canyon Cats players' bench. Head bowed, he leaned on the boards, rocking slowly back and forth.
She didn’t want to interrupt an important pre-game ritual, but something about his posture drew her toward him, ready to offer comfort. The video chronicling the vicious reaction he’d received as a player in this very arena streamed through her mind. The pressure to do well as the coach must be intense.
Weaving her way through the bleachers, she unfolded one of the plastic seats that overlooked the tunnel leading from the players’ bench to the dressing rooms and sat. For several more moments, Benjamin stayed where he was, contemplating the ice. Then he turned, and though she wore soft soled sneakers and had made little noise when she’d approached, he didn’t seem surprised to see her.
“Hi.” He leaned his hips against the boards, rested his palms on the top rail, and crossed his ankles. The pose looked casual enough but the tension in the tautness of his shoulders, the flexing of his throat, was unmistakable.
“Hi.” The few times she’d seen him in the last weeks, whether on or off the ice, he’d been wearing a nylon track suit and a team ball cap. Tonight he’d donned a navy-blue double-breasted suit with a white button-down shirt. The tails of a colourful tie hung from the breast pocket of the jacket, ready to be knotted into place. His dark hair, which had brushed the collar of his windbreaker, was now cropped high on his nape. He looked professional and competent.
And sexy. Mouthwateringly, gut-clenchingly sexy. Just like he had in the jazz lounge the first time they’d met.
Lynn swallowed and searched for something intelligent to say, but he spoke before she could collect her thoughts. “How’s your boy?”
Her belly warmed further, touched that he had a thought to spare for her son on such a personally important night. “Oscar’s good. With a sitter.” Well, duh. She was pretty sure Benjamin could have figured that out for himself. She scrambled to camouflage her awkwardness. “So, are you going to turn things around tonight?” His eyelid twitched and Lynn wanted to kick herself. “Sorry, stupid question.”
While this was the Canyon Cats home opener, it was already the third game of the season. They’d played their first two on the road and lost both. It couldn’t be the start Benjamin had hoped for.
“It’s okay.” He shifted on his feet then stilled abruptly, as if fearing any movement betrayed his anxiety. “We’ll do our best.”
“Simpson is playing well.” Lynn had been reading the sports news closely in recent days, telling herself her interest had to do with her return to work and not the new coach.
“Yes.” Benjamin’s expression lightened. “He’s a great kid. Skilled, coachable, respected by the other players. He’s going to be the nucleus this year, I think.”
Lynn’s phone signalled a text and her heart stopped. A quick check of the screen, however, revealed it was Cynthie asking if all was ready, not Stephanie with a message about Oscar. “Sorry. Duty calls.”
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FROM HIS STANCE IN the players’ bench, Benjamin watched Lynn as she checked her phone. He hadn’t heard her approach, but a subtle change in the air had roused him from his pre-game reverie. He would have been glad of any distraction from the negative thoughts swirling in his head, but had been especially pleased when he’d seen her there.
She looked up from the screen and offered a small smile. “That’s my boss. The gates are opening. For the party.” Her husky voice settled in his belly, and then slipped lower. He lifted one foot to the metal bench in front of him to hide his reaction.
She made no move to leave. Her rich blond hair gleamed under the huge overhead lights and she looked neat and tidy in a light blue windbreaker embroidered with the arena’s logo and slim black trousers. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen her since their impromptu meeting a few weeks ago. He’d noticed her in the stands during practices, even though she always chose an unobtrusive seat in the shadows. She never stayed long, but it was a simple connection that he savoured without pausing to examine why.
He stepped out of the players' bench and stopped in the hall below her. His head was about level with her seat and he tilted his chin to meet her gaze. “I should let you go, then.”
She reached down between the rails separating the bleachers from the hall. “Good luck.”
“Thanks. You, too.” He clasped her hand. An electric thrill raced up his arm and hardened his body further. How was it possible that the attraction that had had them jumping into bed after only a few hours acquaintance was still there, maybe even stronger? He released her and took a quick step back. “Uh, I have to go. See you around.”
Escaping to the cool dimness of the hall under the stands, he paused to draw in a couple of cleansing breaths.
Even if he wanted to renew the relationship, he couldn’t. For one, he didn’t have time. He needed to focus on the team. Two losses didn’t sound the death knell, but he had to stop the slide, and soon. For another, Lynn was a mother. Her priority would be her son—Oscar he repeated to commit the name to memory—and she would have no interest in exploring anything with a struggling junior hockey coach with a checkered past.
There were other, deeper reasons, but he was distracted from those depressing thoughts by the clicking of dress shoes echoing toward him. Peterson Brewster came into view at the far end of the hall.
“Benny! How’s it going?” His hearty, hail-fellow-well-met bellow reverberated off the concrete walls.
Benjamin disliked that diminutive of his name intensely, but he gritted his teeth and nodded a greeting. He would put up with a lot worse for the opportunity Brewster had given him. The Canyon Cats’ owner had taken a chance hiring a first-time head coach, and Benjamin couldn’t forget it. “The players are ready, sir. Everyone showed up for the optional skate this morning. That’s a good sign.”
“Excellent.” Brewster fell into step beside him. He was several inches shorter and filled out his expensive suit with a comfortable paunch. While he’d never spoken to Benjamin with anything less than jovial respect, his eyes held a sharp intelligence that warned he should be treated with caution.
They made their way under the bleachers to Benjamin’s tiny, windowless office. “Don’t worry about the slow start. I’ve been an owner long enough to know junior hockey is made of dramatic ups and downs. There’s plenty of time to turn it around. And if not”—he shrugged, the shoulders of his suit jacket shifting silkily—“there’s always next year.”
It was a relief to have a boss that understood the intangibles of sports and the tension in Benjamin’s spine should have eased. But the other man was wrong. Next year wasn’t an option. Not for Benjamin. He needed to prove his worth this year.
He hadn’t told anyone about his self-imposed deadline. But after living and breathing hockey since before he was old enough to lace up his own skates, he’d decided it was time to make the call. If he couldn’t drag the Canyon Cats into a respectable place in the league this season, he was leaving the sports world for good.
What he would do if he did, he didn’t know. Maybe take up knitting. But one thing was certain—this year would make or break the rest of his life.
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DISAPPOINTMENT GROANED from three thousand throats as the puck bulleted past the Canyon Cats goalie and into the back of the net.
“Well, that’s that.” The man a few seats down from Lynn stood up in disgust and squeezed past her knees to get to the stairs. He wasn’t the only one leaving. Around the arena, fans filtered out, emptying the barely half-full stands even further.
Lynn hadn’t meant to stay this long. After wrapping up the second intermission contests she had texted Stephanie to confirm Oscar was sleeping peacefully, and then slipped into an almost empty row near the top of the stands. The Canyon Cats had gone into the third period leading by one and she’d wanted to see Benjamin get his first win. Unfortunately, the wheels had come off and the Cats were now behind by three goals with less than five minutes left.
While she didn’t want to be seen as one of the rats deserting a sinking ship, Lynn followed the man out. Nothing she could do would change the outcome of the game, and it was well past the time she should have been home. As she passed the interior window that looked onto the concourse from Cynthie’s office she was arrested by a rapid knocking. The vertical blinds that provided privacy were pulled aside and Cynthie beckoned at Lynn in an unmistakable gesture.
Delaying her return yet again, Lynn sighed, punched the keypad to enter the outer office and walked to the inner doorway. Cynthie paced back and forth in front of her window, mumbling to herself, which was never a good sign. “What do you need, Cynthie? I was just leaving.”
Her boss halted, spun to face Lynn, and planted her hands on her hips. “Peterson Brewster wants to move the Canyon Cats. He’s looking to get out of his lease.”
Lynn felt her face go blank with shock. “There’s still three years left.”
“I know. I wasn’t supposed to hear this, so if anyone asks, you know nothing.” Cynthie threw herself into her chair and swivelled back and forth in jerky, rapid motions. “He was on the phone, so I only heard his side of the conversation, but it was perfectly clear.”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“I didn’t mean to. If you want to have a private conversation, don’t have it in your owner’s box with the door wide open. Anyone could be walking by.”
“And you were?”
Cynthie shrugged. “The bathrooms are at that end. I was on my way back to the management box. I don’t know who he was talking to but he made it perfectly clear that he wants to move the team and that he’s hoping attendance will fall below the required minimum so he can get out of his contract without penalty.”
Lynn dropped into a visitor’s chair, the air escaping from her lungs in a whoosh. “Where? Where does he want to take the team?”
“I don’t know.” Cynthie’s lips pursed. “Not that it matters.”
“Is that why the marketing coordinator left?” If so, Lynn could understand the other woman’s point. Who would want to be hamstrung by an owner that didn’t want you to succeed?
“I doubt it. I can’t imagine he’s trumpeting his intention to his junior staff. If this news gets out, it will cause an uproar.”
Lynn nodded. “And could derail his plans. If fans knew, they might start attending more games, just to keep it here.” Hockey fans could be rabidly loyal when threatened with the loss of their team.
“Now we know, we have to do what we can to stop it. It would be a huge blow to the arena’s revenue. We’d probably have to lay off staff.”
That aspect hadn’t occurred to Lynn. She suppressed a shiver of fear. No job would be safe if the Canyon Cats left, not even hers. “What do we do?”
“There’s no need to panic. We can take some time to come up with a strategy. But one thing is for sure—we can’t let anyone know that we know. Brewster would have no compunction in accusing me of spying, even if it was by accident. We don’t want to give him any ammunition.”
It was only later that night, as she lay sleepless in bed, her mind racing, that another angle struck Lynn.
If Benjamin brought the Canyon Cats up to a competitive level, the result would more than likely mean higher attendance. That would play against Brewster’s plans.
How far would the owner go to break his contract? Wouldn’t he prefer another disastrous season, not a successful one?
And if so, what did that mean for Benjamin?