Leslie LaFoy – Blindsided (страница 10)

“Seriously. I was a mess for a long time.”

“You seem okay now.”

“Yeah, I think I’m over the worst of it. My fantasy life has gotten fairly tame in the past year, anyway. That has to be a good sign.” At his cocked brow, she explained, “Oh, the standard thing. The bimbo-ette gaining a hundred and fifty pounds overnight. Ben’s transplants failing and his face sagging back to real. That sort of stuff.”

He grinned. “You’re so vicious.”

Yeah, her attorney had pointed that out, too. But not so kindly, and certainly not with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes. “He is Kyle’s dad.”

“If he walked through the door right now, would you take him back?”

“Not on a bet,” she answered firmly even as her gaze instinctively darted to Hero’s front door. Just in time to see the last of six of the Warriors come through it. She reached for her tea and desperately tried to wash the panic down. God, they had to know she’d fired Carl. He wouldn’t have kept quiet about it. If they saw her and came over to talk about it… Damn, damn, damn.

“Tom didn’t exactly leave you a gold mine, you know.”

Her heart racing faster than the engine on her Jeep, she swallowed hard, begged fate for one huge favor, and replied, “The Warriors have potential. You said so yourself.”

“When?” he demanded, a bite of steak frozen halfway to his mouth.

“In the parking lot behind the Coliseum. Not quite an hour ago.”

He popped the bit into his mouth, chewed and shook his head. He swallowed and picked up his beer. “That wasn’t exactly what I said.”

Relieved that the players had moved straight to the bar without a glance in her and Logan’s direction, she countered blithely, “Doesn’t matter. It’s what I heard and what I believe.”

He lowered his chin and leaned slightly forward. “Well, the guys have to believe it, too. And they don’t. They put on smiles for you, but they don’t for a minute think they have a prayer of ever being any better than they are.”

Yeah, but… She stabbed a chunk of hard-boiled egg. “Carl’s done a number on them, that’s all.”

“It’s frickin’ genetic,” he said as he sagged back into his chair with a half stunned, half amused look on his face.

God, he was handsome. And especially when he smiled in that lopsided way of his. The dimple in his cheek was positively darling. “What is?” she asked, kinda stunned herself.

“Your I-can-fix-anything approach to things,” he said as he rolled his eyes and went back to his steak. “Tom was the exact same way. His theme song should have been ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’”

It had been. Millie had had it played at the funeral. Along with a whole bunch of other Motown hits. It had definitely been an odd service, but everyone had left with a little spring in their step, so all in all… But Logan didn’t need to know about any of that. There was a larger point to be made and she wasn’t about to pass up the chance to make it. “How’d you wind up in Wichita, playing for Tom?”

His gaze snapped up to meet hers and she saw his mental wheels whir. “I ended up here,” he said slowly and oh-so-grudgingly, “because no one else wanted me.”

She had him and they both knew it. “But Tom believed in you, in what you could do. And he was right, wasn’t he?”

“I’m the exception, not the rule,” he countered. “And besides, the game’s way different now than it was when I went in. Twenty years ago, you didn’t have to fight the Europeans for a chance in the majors. Now you do, and they’re damn good.”

His appraisal was hard and all but growled, Gotcha. Like that was going to slow her down. “So, because the chances of making it to the big leagues are slim, every minor leaguer should pack up their dreams and quit trying? They should just accept that they can’t ever improve? That they can’t be any more than they are today?”

He looked away and sighed. “It’d be the rational thing to do.”

“But?” Cat pressed.

He chuckled softly. “Hockey players aren’t hardwired to be rational. The whole game’s based on the fact that you have to be a few sandwiches shy of a picnic to play it.”

Goal to Catherine Talbott. But she could be gracious. “I think the same could be said for owning a minor league team.”

“In Wichita, for sure,” he agreed. “Have any of the prospective buyers mentioned the possibility of moving the franchise somewhere else?”

Interesting that he remembered that bit of conversation from yesterday. And that he apparently hadn’t accepted her reasons to hold off the sale. “We didn’t get that far in the discussions. I’ve given it some thought, though. Not that I have any idea of where that somewhere else might be.”

“Anywhere would be better than here.” He looked up to meet her gaze as he added, “Selling the franchise now would be an even better idea.”

“Maybe down the road,” she half promised as a movement on her left sent her heart into sudden overdrive again. “But not right now.” Right now, Matt Hyerstrom’s about to ruin everything. She reached for her tea and wished she’d ordered a margarita instead.

“Hi, Mizz Talbott.”

“Hi, Matt. I’d’ve thought you’d be too worn out from the game to even think about going out on the town.”

The young man’s grin was as sheepish as his shrug. “There’s more than one way to work out the aches, ma’am, and…well…” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His gaze slid to the other side of the table as he squared his shoulders, stuck out his hand, and said, “Mr. Dupree, my name is Matt Hyerstrom. I’m left wing, third line.”

Logan took the offered hand and gave it what looked—to Cat, anyway—like a solid, sincere shake. “Nice to meet you, Matt.”

“I can’t…” Matt looked over his shoulder toward the bar and then back. “All of us can’t tell you how great it is to know that we’ve got a real coach now. To be honest, we thought Mizz Talbott was nuts for firin’ Carl tonight, but now… We’ll do anything you ask us to. Anything.”

She’d never known that brown eyes could look icy and sharp; icicles had nothing on Logan Dupree in that moment. Jesus. Amiable and pleasant to ugly and lethal in a second flat. And without giving her a chance to explain. She reached out, touched the young man’s arm and brought his attention to her. “I’m afraid that there’s been a misunderstanding, Matt. Mr. Dupree is here strictly as a consultant. I don’t have a replacement for Carl yet.”

“Oh.” His shoulders slumped and he gave both her and Logan a weak smile as he edged backward and his face turned a bright red. “Well, it was a nice idea while it lasted. Sorry I broke into your dinner.”

“It’s all right, Matt. Really. I’ll find someone else you’ll be just as pleased with.” His nod was weak, but it would have to do. She turned back to Logan. “I’m sor—” The rest of the apology died on her tongue. Ice had gone to fire. Raging, barely controlled fire. What did he have to be mad about? She’d nipped it. Beautifully. Smoothly.

“Hyerstrom!” he barked, his gaze locked with hers.

“Yes, sir?”

Cat heard hope in the young voice, could see him frozen at the edge of her vision. She held Logan’s gaze and silently promised him Holy Salad Throwing Hell if he crushed the kid.

“The team needs to have new laces tomorrow morning,” he said calmly, crisply. “Pass the word.”

“Yes, sir!”

Cat frowned, repeated the words over in her mind, and considered them along with the pulsing jaw of the man glaring at her. The conclusion seemed reasonable. And impossible, too. “Did you just agree to coach my boys?”

He tore his gaze from hers and practically attacked his steak. “Only until you can find a decent replacement. When were you planning to tell me that you’d fired Carl Spady?”

An honest, direct question. Which required the same kid of answer. “Never. I figured that if I did, you’d see it as a form of blackmail.”

“You figured right.”

God, it was hard to breathe. And something was wrong with the heater in Hero’s; the place was like an oven. She was dizzy. Queasy, too. And a little voice in the back of her head whined to go home. Another little voice suggested that she tell him to pack up his suspicions and go to hell. She opted for middle ground. “Then don’t sign on. No one’s twisting your arm. I can handle it perfectly well without you.”

He looked up just long enough to growl, “Yeah, right.”

Cat laid her fork down, her appetite gone. “I don’t want you coaching my boys thinking that you’ve been boxed into doing it,” she said while she tucked her napkin under the rim of the salad bowl. “They deserve a coach who’s taking them on for the right reasons. They deserve someone who believes their dreams are worth something. If you don’t, then you’re not the right man for the job.”

“What time is practice and where?”

Did he believe in them or had he not heard a word she’d said? Or had he heard and just not given a damn? Did it matter which right this minute? She was past tired; she was flat wrung out. If she had to go at it all again… No, not tonight. Tomorrow. She’d be sharper tomorrow, after she’d had some sleep. “Practice is at the rink, 6:00 a.m.”

“What rink? The Coliseum?”

Yeah, like she could afford arena ice for practice. In his dreams. “The city ice rink,” she answered. A bit more testily than she’d intended.