Читать книгу: «A Perfect Strategy»

For Marcela, with love.

For Keith, love always. xxxxx

Acknowledgments

Jill Marsal, my fabulous agent!

Victoria Curran, for helping me make this book the best it can be.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Fifteen years ago

“MAN, IT’LL BE good to finally play a game for real.”

Scott “Scotty” Matthews hefted his bag over his shoulder, shut the hatch of his SUV and followed the small group of teammates toward the arena.

“Yeah, the preseason just doesn’t cut it,” grumbled Cam “Bullet” Lockhead. The New Jersey Ice Cats’ much-feared enforcer slammed his palm against the security bar to open the door into the building’s lower ground level. “Pansy-assed friendlies aren’t worth the effort to strap on my skates.”

“You’re only pissed because Coach banned you from hitting and fighting.” Ryan Grey punched Bullet on the arm. “He wanted you to save it for tonight’s home opener.”

“We’ve had the entire freaking summer off. I want to get back to work.” Cam hip-checked his friend into the door frame. “But how can I do my job if I can’t drop the gloves?”

Scott pushed them ahead of him into the wide, concrete area where all the behind-the-scenes magic for the arena took place. The cold air was filled with the low hum of the ice-making machinery, the grinding of skates being sharpened and the throaty rumble of the Zambonis. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell of buttered popcorn and the acrylic tang of heating sticks. Yeah, it was good to be back.

“You can make up for it tonight,” he reassured Bullet. “Plus you’ll keep the crowd happy. They always bay for blood at a rivalry game. With Philly here, our fans will definitely expect you to put their fourth line out of business.”

Ike Jelinek, who’d recently been promoted to the role of starting goaltender for the Cats, cuffed Bullet on the back of the head. “I don’t know what you’re whining about. You didn’t play more than five minutes in each game. I was out there for the full sixty in four of the six.”

“And you sat on your butt wearing the ball cap for the other two.” Cam stuck out his lower lip and flicked it up and down with his forefinger. “Aww, did the poor, little net-boy get tired standing in his crease for so long?”

Scott grinned as Ike told his friend to do an anatomically impossible sexual act. Much as he loved Celine and his kids, he’d missed hanging out with these guys over the summer. They were more like family to him than his real siblings.

One of the problems with not making the postseason was that he’d finished playing in April. Which meant he’d had too long a break from hockey. Sure, the family vacation in the Caribbean had been great. He’d loved having the time to play with Angela and Wayne, who were growing up way too fast, and to chill with Celine. But by the time the Conference Finals were done in May, he’d already been itching to get on the ice. He’d been working out and training even before the Cup had been lifted by Tampa.

Scott had volunteered to help out with the younger guys at prospects camp in July and had counted off the days to training camp.

“You can—Oomph.” Scott ran into Grey’s back. His friend had halted abruptly. “What the hell?”

Grey had a strange grin on his face as he stepped aside and gave Scott a clear view of the locker room. Most of the team was already inside, getting changed for the pregame skate. A heavy rock beat pounded. As he walked in, the music switched off and the guys stopped what they were doing and started to whoop and applaud.

Scott frowned, confused. It wasn’t his birthday, he hadn’t done anything dumb that the media was gnawing over and he hadn’t even played in the last preseason game. Shaking his head, he walked forward a couple of steps, heading to his stall. He was surprised to see the room was full of coaches, trainers, equipment guys and other backroom staff. They must be as excited as he was about opening night and...

His brain froze. His steps faltered.

His gaze narrowed to the red jersey with the snow-leopard logo hanging in his stall. More specifically to the left shoulder. To the letter stitched there.

He blinked, thinking he must be dreaming. But nothing changed. Instead of the A he’d worn last season, there was a C. “Holy crap.”

Scott had known that there would be a new captain, since Johnny “Bruiser” Bruskowski had retired at the end of last season. As one of the alternate captains, Scott had figured he’d be on the list of possibles to lead the team but had assumed he was still too young. That it would go to one of the veterans. In his mind, next time around was more likely and he was good with that.

Clearly, the coaching staff and management had had a different idea.

Before he could process that, Scott was surrounded by people slapping him on the back and congratulating him.

“Hail the new captain,” Bullet said, with the right mix of deference, respect and mockery. “Best man for the job.”

“Only because none of you bozos wanted it,” Scott retorted good-naturedly, trying to hide his awe at the faith the organization and his team had put in him. “You’d have to toe the line too much.”

“Damn straight.”

“Come on, guys. Stop jawing and get suited up. Ten minutes before you hit the ice for warm-ups.” The trainer nodded at Scott. “Be good to see you leading the boys out there.”

“Thanks, man.” He raised his voice above the hubbub. “And thanks to all of you. I’ll do my best to fill Bruiser’s skates, though he’s a tough act to follow. Luckily for me, this is the best freaking hockey team in the world and I look forward to proving it to those other suckers, when we lift the Cup next June.”

A rousing round of cheers echoed through the locker room before everyone turned to the serious business of getting ready for a game. Scott strode to his stall, opened his bag and began his pregame routine, starting with placing the latest photo of Celine and their kids in pride of place—on the shelf above his sweater. He looked forward to celebrating his good news with them tomorrow. If she wasn’t too tired, there might even be a private celebration with Celine tonight. Especially if the Cats won.

He allowed himself a few seconds of heady anticipation before clearing his head and getting himself into game mode. By the time he’d changed into his gear, his mind was 100 percent focused on the task ahead.

It wouldn’t be easy tonight. Philly had made a lot of changes over the summer and were hot favorites to win the East coming into the season. They hadn’t lost a single preseason game, so were riding high on confidence. Scott planned to ensure the Cats knocked that cockiness out of them. They would not win in his barn, or at his first game as captain.

“You ready?” Grey called out from across the room.

Scott gave him the thumbs-up before reverently lifting his sweater off the hanger and slipping it over his head. On only two other occasions had the action meant as much to him—the day he was drafted by the Ice Cats and the night he made his first appearance in the show.

Putting on his helmet, he headed to where his friends were waiting. Then he led the way out, through the short tunnel and into the brightly lit main bowl of the arena. As his skates hit the ice, he looked over behind Ike’s goal to his seats. His heart swelled to see Celine, Angela and Wayne going crazy clapping and cheering him from behind the glass. He saluted them with his stick, then began his warm-up.

The rest of the pregame routine passed in a blur, no matter how hard he tried to imprint it all on his brain to preserve the memory. He couldn’t remember heading to the locker room, what Coach said or even what he’d said in his first captain’s speech. The next thing he knew, he was standing by the famous snow-leopard logo, with Ike ahead of him and Grey behind him, ready to lead his team out.

When the doors swung open, he cleared his throat. “Let’s go out there and show them the Ice Cats play the best damn hockey in the world.”

As he strode toward the ice, he allowed his mind one small lapse in focus to acknowledge that life couldn’t get much better than this.

CHAPTER ONE

Present day

“THE HOCKEY NETWORK, New York, isn’t renewing my contract?”

Scott paused, steak-laden fork halfway to his mouth, to look at his agent.

“They want to go in a different direction. They want a more ‘three-sixty’ coverage.” Andy added air quotes.

“You mean they’re changing me because I suck at color commentary.” Scott had never been good at running his mouth off and THNNY seemed to want to fill every second of the game with talk. He didn’t mind commenting on plays and stats, strategy and tactics, even guys’ college or juniors careers. But the network wanted him to gossip about the players, as well.

Sharing in-depth information about the men he’d been teammates with less than a year ago was something he had no interest in. He’d been on the butt end of that kind of intrusion enough this past season, between his retirement and divorce, to be real uncomfortable with sharing details about guys’ personal lives. He didn’t even like repeating locker-room tales.

Besides, who cared? Scott sure as hell didn’t. The only thing that mattered was what happened on the ice.

“I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue next season, so I guess that makes my decision for me.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to coach?” Andy patted his mouth with his napkin. “I’ve had feelers from several GMs about you. A future Hall of Famer is always of interest.”

Scott ate the piece of steak, using the time to mull that over. He’d done some work with the Cats this past season, helping the younger players tighten up their defensive tactics. He liked to think he’d played his part in helping the team win the Cup, even if he hadn’t been out there on the ice with them.

Getting his name etched on the silver chalice one last time had been cool, though it hadn’t made up for losing it the previous season. For sure, it hadn’t been the same as winning it as a player.

“I enjoy stopping by practice to work on drills with the guys,” he said finally. “But I don’t want to do it full-time. Or have the responsibility for running the team, day in and day out. I don’t have the patience. It drives me nuts to work on plays and then see it all fall apart come game time because they forget how to execute in the heat of the moment.”

Andy gave an exaggerated shudder. “You and me both. That’s the problem when you’re naturally talented. You can’t teach what’s in your gut.”

“I hope your gut is enjoying my food.” Ryan Grey clapped a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Good to see you, bro.”

“You, too, man.” Scott stood and greeted his friend and former teammate.

Ryan’s career had been cut short by repeated concussion issues. After a troubled few years, he’d decided to turn his love of cooking into his next career and now ran one of the most successful high-end steak houses in the tristate area, if not the whole East Coast.

“It’s been a while.” Ryan topped up Andy’s red wine. “How’s retirement treating you?”

“Still finding my feet,” Scott admitted. “If I was a better cook, I’d give you a run for your money.”

“You could try.” His friend grinned. “But I won’t be losing sleep over it. You’re a better D-man than chef.”

“True.” Scott didn’t take offense. He had enough culinary skills to survive without starving and had a sharp dialing finger for takeout and delivery. “Still, I can grill a mean burger.”

“Maybe you should open a sports bar.” Grey relit the candle on the table and straightened the centerpiece. “Don’t you have a business degree, too?”

Scott nodded. It was a bit clichéd—retired pro athlete putting his name to an eatery—but it could be fun. “That’s a good idea. I may look into it.”

“Anything I can do to help, give me a shout. I’m happy to share what I’ve learned.” Grey’s head lifted. “I have to go—my maître d’ is signaling. Don’t be a stranger.”

“I have a guy in my organization who specializes in second-career investment opportunities. He’s helped some football players with bars and nightclubs. I’ll put you in touch with him.” Andy pointed his wineglass toward Scott. “No pressure, but he’ll give you the facts and figures of what’s involved.”

“I’d appreciate his insights. But I’d still like to keep my hand in hockey somehow.”

Even though he knew his body couldn’t take playing at the highest level anymore, he didn’t feel old enough to be retired. He kept in shape and skated regularly. After so many years playing, he couldn’t give up hockey completely.

He wasn’t really part of the Ice Cats any longer. He was like an honorary uncle: included and indulged, but not a true family member. And he hadn’t felt like part of the commentating group—they’d been together a few years and it had been hard to slot into their tight-knit circle. Since his divorce one year ago, he sure as hell hadn’t felt like part of his family.

Andy signaled for the check. “You could join me and become an agent. Some of my best guys are former players. You definitely have what it takes.”

That was a major compliment. His agent didn’t bullshit or give praise lightly.

Driving home, Scott kept Andy’s advice front of mind. A couple of the opportunities they’d discussed made more sense than the commentating. In truth, the network had done him a favor by not renewing his contract.

Scott pulled into his garage and parked. As the door rumbled closed behind him, he took his time getting out of the car. Putting off the moment when he’d have to walk into the dark, empty house. Something he’d dreaded for the past year.

The divorce had come out of left field. Hell, it had been a freaking fastball from another freaking ballpark.

He’d assumed when he retired, he and Celine would spend more time together, especially now that both Angela and Wayne were in college. Since Scott and Celine wouldn’t be driven by the brutal schedule that had dictated their lives from September to June every year since they’d met, they would finally be able to do the things they’d always talked about. Instead, she’d left him.

His bitter laugh echoed around the garage. That was one play he hadn’t read at all.

Scott walked through the house, turning on lights. He kicked off his shoes in the front hall, then went into the living room and flicked on the flat-screen. Relieved to have noise—he didn’t care what channel was on—he padded to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. Then headed for his den.

The silence was the worst. For the past couple months, his kids had hung out here a lot, particularly while their mom was traveling. But this week, they’d both headed back to college early—Angela had wanted to get a head start on her third-year projects and Wayne had football practice.

Leaving Scott alone in a house he’d never really felt was home. He’d bought it for Celine when he became captain. A thank-you for all the sacrifices she’d made and the fantastic job she’d done with their kids. While his responsibilities at the rink and with the team had taken up more time, she’d decorated, extended and remodeled, until it was perfect.

And it was. Perfectly color coordinated. Perfectly furnished. Probably perfectly freaking feng shuied, too. All he knew was that other than in his den—where she’d given him free rein—he felt like he was in a show house.

He’d have been happy to give it to her when they split up, but she’d wanted a sleek apartment in the city. Less bother while she was traveling. Not wanting to get rid of the family home while his kids still technically lived there, he’d agreed to hold on to it until Wayne graduated. But he couldn’t bring himself to use more than a few rooms.

In his den, he dropped onto the sofa and turned on the Yankees game. Top of the fifth, and they were beating the Red Sox by four runs. Good news, but not enough to distract him. Maybe he’d sit in bed and read. The latest Robert Crais was next up on his nightstand; Elvis Cole was always good for taking his mind off things.

Scott walked back through the house, turning off lights and the TV in the living room. The thick vellum invitation on the mantel caught his attention.

Crap. He’d forgotten all about J.B. and Issy’s reception. The pair had been married during the play-offs in a quickie civil ceremony but were having a full-blown celebration now that the successful Cup run was over and players were heading to New Jersey for their preseason preparations.

Scott was glad for J.B., but he wasn’t looking forward to attending yet another function stag. At least there would be plenty of Cats and their families there, so he wouldn’t be stuck making small talk with people he didn’t know.

That brought to mind the earlier conversation over dinner. He was out of a job.

He’d never not known where he was headed. He hated feeling rudderless.

Damn it. Why hadn’t he seen this coming?

As he walked upstairs, he stopped to look at the family pictures that lined the wall. One for each year he and Celine had been married. For the first time he noticed that the writing had been on this wall, literally, if he’d bothered to notice. The happy smiles had become stilted over the years. The body language more brittle. He and Celine had been wrapped in each other’s arms on their first anniversary, but by the final picture, taken last summer, they were as far apart as physically possible, with their kids almost like a buffer between them.

The truth was that he missed his kids and hockey more than he missed his wife.

Scott sank onto the top step and rested his elbows on his knees, staring into the glass of red wine like it held all the answers.

Unfortunately, it didn’t.

* * *

SAPPHIRE HOULIHAN’S LIFE WAS, to quote Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way. She had a fabulous career, running her own successful management consultancy. She was healthy and fit and had finally lost the extra ten pounds she’d been carrying since college. Though after the one or two...okay...several to-die-for desserts she’d eaten at this wedding reception, she’d probably put half of those pounds back on. She had a busy social life and an active sex life, with absolutely no strings attached to either.

Everything was just how she liked it. Simple, straightforward, easy to manage.

So why did she feel so...restless? Unsettled?

Sapphie sipped her champagne and looked around the glittering ballroom. Her Louboutined foot tapped to the rock beat of an oldie but goody. The party was in full swing.

Her heart warmed to see her childhood friend Isabelle Brandine—no, Isabelle Larocque now—dancing with her husband, Jean Baptiste. Issy looked so happy. Who’d have thought a playboy hockey player, and a vacation fling at that, would turn out to be The One for conservative Issy.

Of course, there was the little matter of baby Sophia—currently being cooed over by J.B.’s mom—the result of that fling and an unfortunately timed bout of food poisoning. Sapphie believed her goddaughter was the catalyst for bringing Issy and J.B. together. So, despite a troubled path, their story had a happy ending.

If anyone deserved that happiness, it was Issy. Inseparable from the time they could crawl, Issy and Sapphie had grown up in a poor town in North Carolina. Because their parents had preferred partying over responsibility, the two friends had had to be the “grown-ups” in their respective households: looking after their siblings, making sure what little money their folks brought in kept a roof over their heads and food on the table.

When they’d escaped at eighteen, headed for college and better things, Issy had done everything she could to build a stable, financially secure life for herself, with the hope of settling down with a nice, responsible man to raise a family. Everything she hadn’t had as a child.

Sapphie deposited her empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and snagged a fresh drink. She sighed.

That definitely wasn’t the life Sapphie wanted. Marriage, kids, a mortgage—no way. She’d had enough of responsibility and commitment growing up and was determined never to be tied to any person or any place. She depended on no one but herself. She controlled her life and cherished her freedom.

Sapphie didn’t own an apartment but kept three serviced condos—one on each coast and another in Chicago—convenient pieds-à-terre for when she flew back and forth across the country to see her clients. No cleaning, no maintenance, no worries.

As for dating, Issy teased her about having “a guy in every port.” Not quite true, but Sapphie didn’t go out with any man for long. That way she didn’t encourage expectations that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, fulfill. Like the apartments, it suited her perfectly.

Sapphie pushed away from the pillar she’d been leaning against and sat at an empty table. The late nights she’d put in recently for her biggest client, Marty Antonelli—not to mention the red-eye she’d taken from LA to get here to help Issy with the party—were catching up with her. She had a room at the hotel until Monday and planned to take advantage of the spa to pamper herself.

Perhaps she’d sneak away and get an early night. Eight hours’ sleep sounded heavenly.

Taylor “Mad Dog” Madden sat beside her. “How soon can I cut out of here without offending the happy couple?”

The Ice Cats’ defenseman was a close friend and also one of J.B.’s groomsmen.

“I was wondering the same thing. Do you think we’re getting ol—” Sapphie broke off when she saw his face, tight with anger. “What’s put a bug up your butt?”

“Nothing.” He slammed his beer bottle on the table, then stared out at the dance floor, arms crossed.

She followed his gaze and spotted a familiar, pretty blonde talking to a slight man with thinning dark hair. “Oh. Lizzie came with someone.”

“Apparently, she’s been dating him for a few weeks.” Taylor’s lip curled. “Pompous jerk. He keeps touching her ass.”

“And that’s your business, how?”

He tossed her an irritated look. “It isn’t. I just think he should have better manners.”

“Uh-huh. Not jealous, then.”

Taylor had a thing for Lizzie Martin, though he was loath to admit it. The pair had dated briefly, a few years ago. That had been before Sapphie had met Taylor last summer when she and Issy had taken a trip to Antigua to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. He and J.B. had been getting some R & R at the same resort. Sapphie and Taylor had hit it off straightaway.

Their time in the Caribbean had been fun, and once back home, they’d become friends with occasional benefits. There was never any thought of a serious relationship, on either side. More recently, they’d dropped the benefits and simply enjoyed each other’s company.

Sapphie wasn’t upset about his feelings for Lizzie. He was a good person and he deserved a good woman. Especially if she kept him on his toes.

“You don’t freaking slow-dance to Bon Jovi, idiot.” Drumming his fingers on the table, Taylor looked ready to storm the dance floor and yank Lizzie’s date away from her by the scruff of his neck.

“I think Lizzie made that point,” Sapphie said as the blonde moved out of her partner’s arms. “So relax.”

Taylor drained his beer. “I’m fine. As long as he stops pawing her in public.”

“Because you want to be the one who paws her.”

“No.” He sighed. “Yes. But that won’t happen. She’s mad at me for embarrassing her at the Cup celebration a few weeks ago. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Every time I open my mouth around her, I’m eating shoe leather. I don’t have that problem with you.”

“Because our relationship is simple.”

“Maybe we should date instead.”

“Right.” Sapphie rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to spoil what we have.”

“You’re right.” He sighed again.

“Go sort things out with Lizzie. Apologize, then ask her to dance.”

“Even if she accepts I’m sorry, I’m the last person she’ll want to dance with.”

“It’s not like you to give up because it’s tough.”

His lips twisted. “Me and Lizzie isn’t tough—it’s impossible.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” She’d seen Lizzie surreptitiously watching Taylor. “Anyway, you’ve got nothing to lose by giving it a shot.”

“I guess. Anyone ever told you you’re bossy?” he grumbled good-naturedly.

“All the time. It’s how I earn my money. You’re lucky I don’t charge for my advice.”

“You’d be worth every penny.” He kissed her cheek, then stood. “Wish me luck.”

She held up crossed fingers. “You can do it.”

Taylor strode off purposefully, but his body language changed as he approached Lizzie. He was nervous.