Crossing The Goal Line. Kim Findlay

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СКАЧАТЬ he wanted to see her hair vibrate again.

      “Oh, you’re the lane swimmer. Bridget yell at you about that yet?”

      Apparently Bridget hadn’t known who he was then, so neither did these men. That would explain the odd expression on her face when he’d shown up at the game. He filed that away for future consideration.

      “It turns out it isn’t Mike’s fault. It’s Wally the Weasel,” Bridget answered.

      Mike bit his lip. The name was perfect. Maybe that was Wally’s problem with Bridget: he’d heard that nickname.

      “Are we playing or talking?” Cormack asked.

      Mike wasn’t sure how this would go. He didn’t doubt that he was going to be better than Cormack, but Patrick was a big guy, and Bridget was a woman, and his sister. Then there was Bernie on their team, and his improbably named friend Bert: two unknowns. Mike was competitive, and he assessed the men’s potential as players. Would the guys be chivalrous with Bridget, or did the redheads all have that same need to win?

      Patrick, it turned out, was competitive but fair. He had size and speed, and he didn’t have the whiffing issue his sister did. But he didn’t have that same drive Mike had, and again, Mike was better. Bert and Bernie were competent at most. Cormack was willing to cut corners, but gave his sister no slack. Bridget didn’t back down from anything, which was what he’d come to expect from her. She took and gave hits, and talked as much smack as the guys.

      And Mike was finding the sheer enjoyment of playing this game, whether on ice with his team or on a street with a woman he barely knew, was still the best feeling he’d known.

      The game was called when another car arrived and pulled into the driveway. Bridget and Mike (and Bernie) were up three to zip. An older man stepped out of the car, red hair threaded with gray. Obviously the father. He paused for a minute, then headed to the street. Mike wondered how many redheads were going to end up playing. Then an older woman, red hair making it obvious she was the matriarch of the clan, leaned out the door.

      “Dinner’s ready! And no, we’re not waiting on the end of your game.”

      “Okay, Mom! We’ll just clean up,” Patrick answered.

      Mom apparently had clout. The others started gathering balls and the nets. Mike stood up from his defensive stance, not sure what to do now. It was time for him to leave, but he had no vehicle. He’d been kidnapped, so was Bridget planning to take him back? Should he call a cab?

      The others were talking about the game. Bridget was stressing how very clean she needed her car to be, since she’d won the bet, thanks to Mike. Mike moved slowly to remove his pads, waiting for Bridget to remember him...

      “Nice game, Mike. You’ve got some good moves there. Do you play much?” asked Patrick.

      “Stop it, Patrick,” said Bridget.

      Mike looked from Patrick to Bridget.

      “I just said...” Patrick had that selling smile going again.

      “I know, but you’re not going to recruit Mike for your beer league team.”

      “Bridgie, it’s not up to you. If he wants to play, he could. He’s pretty good.”

      Mike was glad someone was finally happy with his performance. But he guessed from Cormack’s frown that the other man didn’t like being shown up. He wasn’t sure if knowing who had outplayed him would make it better or worse.

      Cormack grumbled. “Maybe the Blaze should recruit him. He’s as good as that overpriced—”

      “Shut up, Cormack,” Bridget interrupted.

      “Oh, I know, you don’t like Turchenko—”

      Mike decided it was time to show himself. He pulled off his helmet and grabbed the net with one hand, ready to do his share and return it to the garage.

      “—but you’re just prejudiced. Turchenko played really well today...” Cormack trailed off. He’d seen the others staring, and turned, recognizing Mike at last.

      Bridget looked from her brothers to Mike. She grinned at Patrick. “I don’t think he’s going to play on your team, Patty, he’s already booked.”

      Mike braced himself. Cormack was obviously a Turchenko fan, and Mike had heard from a lot of them. The whole family, apart from Bridget, might feel the same. They were obviously hockey mad, and Mike hadn’t been hearing anything good from Toronto fans.

      There was a pause, and then Cormack muttered, “Sorry.” Throwing a stink eye at Bridget, he continued, “Didn’t know who you were.”

      Mike tossed the net onto his shoulder. “Don’t sweat it. I’ve heard a lot worse. And not always to my face.”

      * * *

      PATRICK RECOVERED WELL. He grinned and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mike Reimer. I’m Patrick O’Reilly. But what happened in those playoffs last year? You cost me my hockey pool! And now I’ve got to clean Bridge’s car.”

      Mike shook his hand, and the awkward moment passed. As the rest of the guys dragged the hockey gear up the driveway, Mike turned to Bridget. “Why don’t I just call a cab?” he said.

      She shook her head. “No, the least I can do is take you back.”

      “But if your family is having dinner now...”

      “Hey, Mike,” Patrick interrupted. “Come meet my dad. He won’t believe who Bridget had playing road hockey with her.”

      Mike looked at Bridget, who shrugged. Patrick grabbed Mike’s shoulder and swept him toward the senior redhead.

      After that it was an impossibility for Mike to avoid dinner. Bridget tried to give him an opt out, but once he admitted that he had no plans, Bridget’s mom starting setting him a place at the table. Mike had to admit that he didn’t fight very hard. It had been a while since he’d had a home-cooked meal, and Bridget’s family reminded him of the neighbors he’d grown up with. He hadn’t seen them lately. And again, there was that empty hotel room.

      He found one big difference from the childhood dinners he’d known with his old neighbors, the Sawatzkys. Mrs. O’Reilly was devoted to her family, and having a large one made that a time-consuming job. She was a calm and placid center to this lively group. However, she had certain rules, and one of those rules was to not talk hockey at the table.

      The boys tried, but a look from their mother (honorary mother, in Bernie and Bert’s case) stopped them in their tracks.

      Bridget, who was beside Mike, explained, “Only topics of general interest at the table.”

      Mike looked at the people gathered around in the large dining room. Since Bridget’s dad had grilled him on the last playoffs as soon as they were introduced, he had to assume Bridget’s mother was the only non-hockey fan sitting there. He decided he liked this family rule. He was sick of talking about his poor performance in the last playoffs anyway.

      “So, Mr. Reimer,” said Mrs. O’Reilly, passing around the first bowl.

      “Mike, СКАЧАТЬ