The Man Tamer. Cindi Myers

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СКАЧАТЬ figured out what was happening.

      Even then, she found it impossible to see how anyone could catch a hard rubber ball in a small net at the end of a stick, then run the length of the court with it, all while opposing players whacked at him with their sticks. And then the player with the ball somehow had to fire it past a giant man in pads who stood in front of the net and tried to block the shot. Yet it happened over and over again, on both sides.

      In the middle of the second quarter, Garret was sentenced to two minutes in the penalty box. Rachel had no idea why, but the crowd alternately jeered and cheered when the penalty was announced. They cheered again when Garret rejoined the action on the court.

      In fact, they spent most of the time cheering. Or waving signs. Or singing along with the loud rock music that blared during every time-out. Rachel had never seen such a rowdy crowd. “These people are scary,” she told Moira. “It’s like a religious revival or something.”

      “I think it’s kind of fun,” Moira said. “I might even ask David to take me to a game. This is a lot more exciting than baseball.”

      A little more than two hours after it began, the game ended with the score Devils 17, Roughnecks 16. The crowd went wild, then dispersed rapidly. Moira and Rachel stayed courtside to greet Garret.

      He spotted them and came over. He’d removed his helmet and his hair, damp with sweat, looked darker than before. The stubble was back along his jaw and his jersey was torn at the neck. But he was smiling, teeth flashing. “Was that a great game or what?” he asked.

      “It was great,” Moira said.

      “Things certainly happen fast in lacrosse,” Rachel said.

      “Never a dull moment. Hey, thanks a lot for coming out.”

      “Thanks for getting us the great tickets.” She nodded to the stick in his hand. On one end was an elaborately woven net. “What do they call that stick?” she asked.

      “A stick.” He laughed. “How’s that for fancy lingo?”

      “Great game, Garret!” Another player, shorter with blond hair, skidded up to them. He grinned at the women. “Can you believe this man? Five goals and three assists.”

      “Bud Mayhew,” Garret said. “Bud, you remember Moira. And this is Rachel.”

      “Hey.” Bud nodded to them, but said nothing further.

      “I remember you,” Moira said. “You were at Denton’s party.”

      “Yeah.” He looked around nervously. “Hey, I better get to the locker room. See you around.” He turned and hurried away.

      Moira frowned after him. “Not very friendly, is he?”

      “Aw, Bud’s a great guy. He’s just shy around women.”

      “I don’t know why he would be. He’s cute.” Moira grinned. “Nice legs.”

      “I’ll tell him you said so.” Garret turned to Rachel. “Let me get cleaned up and I’ll take you two out to celebrate.”

      “I can’t. I have to get home,” Moira said. She patted Rachel’s shoulder. “But you stay.”

      Rachel wanted to tell Moira she didn’t have to go out of her way to leave the two of them alone. Part of the reason she’d asked her friend here tonight was to slow things down with Garret. Of course, after their conversation on the train, she was questioning why she should even bother. After all, she and Garret were both single adults. If the attraction between them was so strong, why not act on it?

      When Garret returned from the locker room he wore a blue sport coat, tan slacks and a white shirt open at the throat. He’d shaved and he smelled of expensive cologne. Rachel nodded approvingly. “You clean up pretty well.”

      “I try.” He ushered her out of the arena, one hand at the small of her back.

      “Where are we going?” she asked.

      “I hear O’Malley’s has good steaks.” He punched his key chain and a black supercab Titan pickup winked its headlights at them. Rachel almost laughed. Of course he drove a truck. This was Texas and real men drove big trucks.

      He opened the door for her—give him points for manners—and she slid into the leather seat. When he started the engine, rap music blasted from the stereo. He leaned over and stabbed it off. “Sorry about that,” he said.

      “Please tell me you don’t rap along with the radio,” she said.

      He grinned. “Only when I’m alone.”

      At O’Malley’s they were ushered to a corner table. They ordered drinks and Garret studied her across the table. “Tell me what you thought of the game,” he said.

      “It was exciting, but everything happened so fast I still don’t have any idea what was going on. Obviously, the object is to shoot the ball into the opposing team’s net, but I could never keep track of where the ball was. Or how anyone managed to get it past the goalie.”

      “That’s the beauty of the game.” He leaned toward her, elbows on the table, and arranged salt and pepper shakers, condiment bottles and glasses onto a “court” defined by their silverware. “Let’s say I get the ball. If I have a lot of defenders on me, I’m going to pass it to a teammate who’s open. If I’m open, I run down the court, cradling the ball in my stick. I’ll either pass it again to an open man or, if I see an opening, I’ll fire it into the net. I may have to shoot low or high to get past the goalie. My teammates try to block so he can’t see it coming.”

      “Slow down. What’s cradling the ball?”

      “Rocking it back and forth in the pocket of my stick. Like a baby. Think of it like dribbling in basketball. You’re not allowed to just hold the ball.”

      She shook her head. “I still don’t see how anyone ever makes a goal.”

      “Practice and skill.” He sipped his drink. “I told you, I’m very good with my stick.” He winked, a slow opening and closing of one eye that made her catch her breath and want to fan herself.

      I’ll just bet you are, she thought.

      The waiter arrived to take their order, then Garret picked up the conversation again. “Now you know all about what I do for a living. Tell me more about your writing. What do you write?”

      She hesitated. “I told you I write for a magazine called Belinda. For women.”

      “But what do you write? Fashion tips? Investigative reporting? Gossip column?”

      She could have found a way to blow him off, or lie, but she really wasn’t “that kind of girl.” She took a long drink of wine, then squared her shoulders and said, “I write a column called ‘The Man Tamer.’I give advice to women on how to deal with their boyfriends or husbands.”

      “‘The Man Tamer’?” Garret choked on his drink. “Crikey, that’s rich. You’re serious?”

      She nodded. “It’s a very popular column. Probably the most popular feature СКАЧАТЬ