Face-Off. Nancy Warren
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her own perspective.
She was pretty sure after half an hour dragging around the klutziest woman who had ever donned skates he’d be ready to call off his idea to teach her about hockey. But for half an hour, this interesting man was hers.
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Great. Now, first thing we need to do is get you some skates.”
“I have skates,” she reminded him.
“Please. Wayne Gretzky couldn’t skate in those things. They’re trashed.”
And he reached over and picked the dingy white boots up and strode out of the coffee shop with her trailing in his wake.
He received a flattering degree of attention from the rental place compared to how she’d fared. He must be a regular. And before long she was wearing a pair of proper hockey skates that definitely supported her ankles better. This time, when she stepped onto the ice, she felt more confident.
Jarrad ran back to the rink where the cops and firefighters were still practicing, returning with a sports bag. He pulled out his own skates. Mean-looking black things, which he laced up with incredible speed.
When they hit the ice, he took her hand. She couldn’t believe how much she liked this, the holding hands, gliding across the frozen surface. Already she was feeling better.
“The first thing you have to do,” he said, “is stop being so scared. You’ve got padding. So what if you fall? You’ll slide. Get over it. The ice is your personal highway. Make friends with it.”
Make friends with the ice?
She thought she might manage a nodding acquaintance, but at the end of half an hour she was skating. By herself. Without looking at her feet. He didn’t call a halt and neither did she. Instead, he worked with her on a drill. He’d skate alongside her passing the puck, which she was able to retrieve most of the time.
She was having so much fun, she forgot to be scared. And that’s when she fell. And slid.
She glanced up to find Jarrad gazing down at her.
She laughed. “You’re right. It didn’t hurt at all.”
He held a hand down for her and helped her to her feet.
“So? You coming back for more?”
His hands rested on her shoulders and she felt some kind of sizzle run through all the layers of padding right to her skin. Coming back for more? Oh, yes, please.
She had no idea if he’d read her mind or was feeling the same sizzling attraction, but after looking at her for a moment, he said, “Have dinner with me tonight?”
“Dinner?” she said stupidly, as though she’d never heard the word.
“With me. Tonight.”
She thought about refusing. For a nanosecond. There was something about him, some confidence that suggested he might be one of those guys who was simply out of her league.
Then she thought of the way she’d spent the last hour. If she’d learned anything it was that sometimes when you fell it didn’t hurt.
“I’d love to.”
ONCE SHE GOT HOME, Sierra was determined to find something more flattering to wear than her brother’s too-big hockey padding. She still couldn’t believe that cute coach had asked her out. Or that she’d said yes.
She’d never been a spontaneous woman, and yet here she was—going out with a virtual stranger. In fact, she realized in horror, she didn’t even know his last name.
But then she wasn’t a complete fool. He didn’t have hers either. They were meeting at the restaurant he’d named. One of the best restaurants in Vancouver, a west-coast seafood bistro in Yaletown that she only knew about because it had been written up so much. Not that she’d ever been there.
Of course, a restaurant like that demanded a certain amount of primping. If she’d had time she’d have bought a new dress, but she didn’t have time for that, or a makeover. Or a six-week boot camp to get her body into peak shape. No, make that a fifty-six-week boot camp.
What she did have was a favorite little black dress, a new bottle of nail varnish in a hot designer color and a pair of Jimmy Choos she’d bought on sale because they were irresistible, though they were pricey even at fifty-percent off. Never had she been so happy that she hadn’t listened to her sensible, frugal self on the day she’d spotted the green-and-black stilettos.
While she painted her nails, she flipped on the television. She was channel surfing when she saw Jarrad. On her TV screen. For a second she thought she’d conjured him simply from thinking about him, but no, that really was Jarrad grinning out at her from her flat screen, with shaving cream all over his face.
She watched the entire commercial, a sick feeling spreading through her. The final image was of Jarrad with a woman who looked like a young Catherine Zeta Jones—all sex appeal and attitude—heading out on the town. She was as different from Sierra as Saks is from Wal-Mart. Nothing on that woman’s body had come from the sales rack.
With a low moan of horror, Sierra realized that Jarrad was some kind of fancy hockey star. A couple of minutes on Google confirmed her worst fears.
This guy was so far out of her league they weren’t even on the same planet.
An NHL superstar, he’d helped lead his team to Stanley Cup triumph three years ago. He’d taken a body blow to the head in an early-season game that had left him with some vision problems that meant he couldn’t play professionally any more.
But far harder for her to stomach were the endless photographs of him with a stunning swimsuit model.
A swimsuit model, for heaven’s sake. The kind of woman put on this earth to make Sierra forever feel like the forgettable girl next door.
What had she been thinking?
An aura of success had clung to him, she now realized. Everything from his tan to his easy charm to his uber-trendy jeans had screamed money. And look at the way they’d knocked themselves out at the skate-rental place.
How blind she’d been. How foolish. And why did she keep setting herself up for failure with these men who were altogether too much for her?
But she hadn’t done anything except cling to the boards like a motherless chimp to a tree. Why had he asked her out?
If only she had some way to get hold of him, she’d cancel their date.
Only she didn’t.
So she simply wouldn’t show up for their date. She’d call the restaurant and leave a message telling him she wasn’t coming. Big deal. A superstar like that? He’d have a dinner companion five minutes after he sat himself down at the bar.
She looked up the restaurant’s phone number. Picked up the phone. Put it down. Picked it up, put it down. A third time she picked the receiver up and then slammed the thing down. Sometimes Sierra cursed her mother for the manners she’d instilled in her daughter. No matter that Jarrad was way, way out of her league and was no doubt taking out a very ordinary primary-school teacher for obscure reasons of his own, she could not stand the man up on their first date.
It simply wasn’t in her too-polite nature.
So, she tortured herself for a few more minutes by gazing at the perfect bikini-clad body of his professional-model former wife.
Not even her sexiest dress and the high heels could disguise the fact that Sierra’s curves were modest at best, and her height no more than average.
She could argue that her face and body were entirely natural and kept in shape with regular yoga practice and sporadic jogging rather than discreet visits to a plastic surgeon, but pictures didn’t lie. The former Mrs. McBride’s nips and tucks and the vats of collagen Sierra suspected were responsible for that amazingly sexy pout were definitely