The Globalist. John Walsh

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СКАЧАТЬ have you holding a stick and taking a few shots at the net.” She wet her lips. “I understand that’s what you’re good at.”

      Jason finished lacing up. “Wait till you see me in action, Claire Marsden.”

      “Oh, I think I already have.”

      SHE WAS WRONG. In action—in motion—Jason Doyle was beyond great. Barely harnessed power positively radiated from his being. Dynamite was too passive an adjective. It was like being on the surface of the sun with those vortices of energy swirling in every direction.

      Which only irritated Claire more because she was convinced she wasn’t capturing it all on film. For a good forty-five minutes, she directed the crew while he swiftly skated up and down. He took slap shot after slap shot, pausing only when the lights needed repositioning—a process that was annoyingly time-consuming to Claire. She was used to capturing the photo as quickly as possible. But the professional and perfectionist in her knew that the technical adjustments were key to getting these color shots right.

      “Would you move them to either side of the goal? That’s it, a little higher on the stands. And, Jason, take the shots right on goal, okay?” She moved behind the net.

      “Don’t trust me enough to stand in front? I hardly ever miss a stationary target, you know?” He leaned on his stick.

      “I’m not concerned for me, but my camera. Any loss of concentration might do it in.”

      “Always the ready excuse to keep from getting close.” He lined up a row of pucks.

      “Gosh, I don’t know why the thought of having a speeding puck fly within millimeters of my face just doesn’t do it for me.” Claire held up her camera and crouched behind the net.

      “Must be a testosterone thing.”

      “If the shoe fits.”

      “Among other things.”

      Claire lowered her camera, but before she even finished uttering, “Hey,” he stepped up to the first puck and with machinelike precision sent each one in the line hurtling toward her face.

      She quickly raised her camera and focused. Natural instinct had her flinching the first time the shot came flying toward her, only the loose mesh protecting the bones of her face. It was like being in front of a firing squad. She held firm and let the shutter whir, determined to get her shots of his shots.

      Ten minutes later, soaked with as much sweat as he was, Claire wasn’t convinced. She chewed on her lower lip. She wanted the reader to not just see the power, but to actually feel it. She shook her head and rewound, opening the camera and flipping the roll into her bag.

      Jason skated up, spraying ice chips as he came to a screeching halt next to her. He was breathing hard. The cold air made his breath cloud. Claire looked up. She quickly popped in a new roll of film. “That’s it! Keep doing that. And get more light in here. Now. Fast. And keep doing that heavy breathing.”

      “That’s what all the women say.”

      Claire didn’t bother to look up from her viewfinder. “I just bet they do.” She rattled off the shots until the air cleared. “We’ve got to get you moving again.” She snapped her fingers. “But hold on a sec.” She looked for the same lanky techie who had helped her out earlier. “Why don’t you rustle up a pair of skates for me? Size eight.”

      Jason stopped making lazy eights with his stick. “You skate?”

      “It’s been a while, but I think I’ll be good enough.” Claire looked around the rink. The last time she was on skates was when she was a teenager. She’d been in Holland with Big Jim. They’d just come back from Thailand, and as Big Jim exclaimed—Big Jim never just said anything; he always had to announce it to the world—“It’s colder than a witch’s tit.” In Big Jim’s mind that meant it was prime time for drinking and outdoor sports. The exact order of which tended to get a little fuzzy. “We’re here in Hans Brinker country, Claire-y,” she remembered him proclaiming. “We’ve got to skate on the canals.”

      And skate they did, along with scores of Dutch parents and their laughing children. The hours on the frozen ice were followed by hours in a pub, with Big Jim putting away endless bottles of beer and regaling the clientele with a bottomless well of tales.

      “You sure you’re up to it?” Jason’s voice penetrated her memories.

      Claire looked over. “No problem. Look, here comes Elaine.” She nodded toward Trish’s assistant and slid across the rink. At the bench, she quickly laced up. Her feet felt uncomfortable as she wiggled her ankles. “Well, here goes nothing.”

      Claire’s first steps on the ice were tentative. Then she relaxed her knees and quickly built up a rhythm of pushing off and gliding, an easy rocking from one skate to the other. She circled in a wide arc near the entrance to the rink, picked up speed and skated back to the center of the ice where Jason stood in the face-off circle.

      Jason watched her as she approached. “Not bad.”

      “I’m no Sonja Henje, let alone Wayne Gretzky, but it’ll do.” She picked up her camera in both hands. “Listen, ditch the jersey.”

      Jason held the uniform top by the V-neck. “This?”

      “That’s right.” Claire made a throwing motion with her hand.

      “You’re the boss.” Jason slipped it over his head, leaving only the tight black T-shirt—and very little else—to the imagination.

      An “ohmygod!” was audible from where Trish was standing by the boards. Then a clump. Claire looked over and saw her bending to retrieve her cell phone.

      “Just think what could happen if I went further?” Jason dipped a hand under the bottom edge of his T-shirt and started to lift.

      Claire caught a glimpse of his granite-smooth stomach muscles. She swallowed with difficulty. “No, I think you’ve gone far enough. I wouldn’t want Trish to end up face forward.”

      “I’m fully qualified at CPR. Trish would be in good hands.”

      And she was sure that Trish would be only too willing to take a dive to test out his claim. Which, come to think of it, was just what she had in mind originally. So why did she find herself wanting to see Jason practice his life-resuscitating skills on her, instead of her best friend? Down, girl, down, she admonished.

      “Hold that thought. You can play doctor later,” she said. “Guys—” she motioned to the crew “—spread the lights up and down the rink, away from the boards. And, Jason, I want you to skate straight down the ice, not too fast. I’ll skate along with you. I want you to be handling the puck. Look ahead, like you’re planning a shot on goal.”

      He took off slowly. “Like this?”

      “You can go a little faster. Good. That’s it. Keep looking ahead. You can talk if you want.”

      He handled the puck deftly. “So how come you didn’t ask me to take off my shirt, but you gave Clyde Allthorpe the go-ahead?”

      “I didn’t have to ask.”

      Jason stopped abruptly, the edges СКАЧАТЬ