A New Life. Dana Corbit
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touched her. Instead, he concentrated on merging onto Interstate 96 and tried changing the subject.
“I was surprised the little girl was hers. Hannah doesn’t look old enough to be a mom.”
“She isn’t—or wasn’t—really old enough, but she’s a wonderful mom.” Tricia settled back into the seat, finally relaxing. “Hannah was just seventeen when she got pregnant, but she’s worked so hard to make the best of her difficult situation.”
“I take it the dad isn’t in the picture?”
Tricia shook her head but turned to face him. “She refused to name the father, even under pressure from some church members. I think it was especially hard on her, being the P.K.”
“P.K.?”
“Preacher’s Kid. She’s the daughter of our minister, Reverend Bob Woods.”
“I’d bet that was a huge church scandal.” He hated it when Christians were the first to judge others. The poor girl had probably first been betrayed by a boy and then by the people in her church, the people she trusted. He knew what it was like to have the foundations of one’s life—and even faith—ripped away. It tended to jade a person. He was proof of that.
“It was scandalous at first, but the church has been so supportive of Hannah, even of her decision to keep the baby instead of giving her up for adoption.” Tricia was smiling when he glanced her way. “And you couldn’t find a more devoted grandfather than Reverend Bob.”
“Sounds like Hannah was pretty fortunate.”
“She does her part, too, working hard to get her college degree and still being a great mom to Rebecca. She’s pretty amazing.”
“Yes, she is.”
But he was no longer talking about the other young woman’s situation, and he wondered if Tricia realized it. His date might have been amazed by Hannah’s determination, but he was equally impressed with Tricia’s. How had the woman beside him faced everything that had been thrown at her? Without trying to sound too interested, he’d plied Jenny for details about Tricia this week. How she’d survived her horrible loss two years before astounded him. His own injuries seemed trivial when compared to hers.
As if she, too, wondered where his thoughts had traveled, Tricia changed the subject again. “So you’re Brett Lancaster. Are you any relation to the old movie star Burt Lancaster?”
Brett looked at the dash clock. “That’s seventeen minutes. I wondered how long it would take you to ask.”
“Was my time good or bad?”
“Pretty good. For the record, I’m not related to Burt Lancaster, and I’ve never seen From Here to Eternity beginning to end.”
Tricia’s laugh was so sweet and musical that he wanted to come up with a comic monologue to make her do it again.
“I’m glad you made that clear.” She paused. “Hmm, next subject. How’d you manage to get these tickets, anyway? I’d always heard it was impossible to get Detroit Red Wings tickets.”
“Ever heard of Lancaster Cadillac-Pontiac-GMC in Bloomfield Hills? I am related to that Lancaster. He’s my dad.”
“I think I’ve heard of it.”
Her answer sounded noncommittal, as if she were neither impressed nor put off by the fact that his family had money. Well, she couldn’t be that driven by money if she’d agreed to go out with a police officer.
“Dad has season tickets through his work that he mostly uses to take out clients.”
She turned to face him. “Do you go to games often?”
“Rarely. And don’t get too excited about these tickets. This is one of the last regular-season games and attendance is sometimes low. If this were the end of next week during the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs, we’d be out of luck in getting tickets.”
When he glanced at her again in his peripheral vision, she nodded. “I get it. I’m not supposed to be impressed, but can’t I be, just a little? This is my first hockey game, ever, and it happens to be the Detroit Red Wings.”
“Okay, just a little.” He peeked at the tickets he’d stuck in the visor, glad he’d gone against his recent habit of declining his father’s gifts for the strings that went with them. As he pulled behind the long line of cars taking the exit for Joe Louis Arena, he resigned himself to dealing with those strings later.
“Okay, be impressed now. Here’s the Joe. Welcome to ‘Hockeytown.’”
Chapter Three
Applause, cheers of “Hey, hey, Hockeytown” and the bass beat of some sixties rock anthem pounded in her ears as Tricia watched two players battle against the boards for the puck. Though air whooshed from a forward’s lungs as he hit the glass barrier, he pushed away and skated behind the goal to recapture the loose puck.
The Detroit team was playing one of those new expansion teams with a name about as forgettable, at least according to Tricia’s date, who doubled as her hockey interpreter. From their fifth-row seats, she could see, hear and feel every exciting bit of it.
“Let’s go Red Wings,” the crowd chanted, with Tricia and Brett joining in the chorus.
The exhilarating game—that had to be the reason for the way her pulse tripped and all of her nerve endings tingled, as if she’d suddenly awakened from an overlong nap. Taking another big bite of her Coney dog and wiping her mouth on her napkin, she shivered from the arena’s refrigeration and wished she’d worn a heavier sweater.
“Cold?” As he asked, Brett draped her coat over her shoulders.
“Better. Thanks.” Her shoulders warmed all over, but especially where his hands had brushed. She shook the sensation away, inhaling another breath of that strange, stale scent Brett had explained was the ice itself.
The buzzer sounded to mark the end of the second period. Fans scooted past them on their way up to the concession stands, but Brett and Tricia remained seated.
“Are you having a good time?” He turned in the cramped seats until his knees brushed hers. Amber specks like dots of confetti danced in his light brown eyes—the spots only noticeable from this close up.
“I am.” She didn’t want to lie. Tonight was the most fun she’d had on a date since…well, since she’d started dating again. It was so much better than those dreadful dinner dates she’d subjected herself to in the last year, with stilted conversations and self-conscious dining. Miserable in every way.
Strange, she could barely remember what it was like when she and Rusty had dated. It had been so long ago, and they’d both been so young and broke. This situation was different, so she should just enjoy it instead of making useless comparisons. Why compare what she couldn’t have?
Tonight wasn’t a serious date, anyway. Maybe that’s why she was enjoying herself. While some of the men she’d been out with had been so nervous and intense that she’d worried they would propose before the waiter brought the main course, Brett seemed relaxed. In his element, even.
He didn’t appear to expect more from her than to enjoy the game and, maybe, to learn the definitions of “face-off,” “blue line” and “icing.” The last term he insisted wasn’t what went on a fudge cake, either. He’d told her there would be a quiz later, which she fully intended to ace.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” he asked as the Zamboni made its first wet pass around the ice. “Does hockey pass the muster?”
“Absolutely.” So did the company, though she didn’t mention that. “I’ll never be able to flip past a hockey game on TV again without stopping and comparing it to this. Hockey’s different in person.”
“It’s also a different experience in the nosebleed seats, but I’d