Game On

She glared at her old friend, got a slight shrug in return.

“When do you want to begin?” Max asked.

“Maybe in a couple of weeks,” Adam said. “Closer—”

She interrupted immediately. He might be king of the rink, but he wasn’t going to rule her. “I got up at 4:45 a.m. and drove all the way out here. I suggest we start now,” she said. She was already giving up her time. She didn’t intend to be dictated to by her charity case.

The charity case spluttered, “I’ve got work. I have to be in the office—”

“I’d really like thirty minutes of your time.” She turned and began gathering her stuff.

Behind her she heard Max speak in a low voice, but not so low she couldn’t hear—which, knowing Max, would be deliberate. “If you screw this up, we’ll be changing the lines for the big game.”

“Says who?”

“The whole team. We talked about it.”

“Dylan?”

She imagined those big lips hanging open in shock.

Dylan said, “It’s about the team. We all want to win this year. At least give her a try.”

There was a pause so pregnant it must have contained triplets.

“Fine,” Adam snapped. “Thirty minutes.”

Dylan banged him on the upper arm as he left. “Looks like you got your wish, buddy.”

Adam grunted.

* * *

“OKAY,” ADAM SAID to Serena Long, feeling sweaty and unkempt in the presence of this woman who exuded control. She reminded him uncannily of a woman he’d once arrested. A renowned dominatrix who went by the name of Madame D. It didn’t help that she was wearing all black—including boots. No doubt it was stylin’, but he had the uncomfortable notion that what was in her briefcase—also black—might be a selection of leather-and-stud instruments.

“Okay?”

“Thirty minutes. I’m all yours.”

“I was thinking—”

“Starbucks around the corner,” he said. “Give me ten minutes to change.”

She regarded him coolly, then nodded.

He headed for the change room, grabbed a fast shower, dragged a razor over his face and was back out, feeling a lot more in control, in fifteen minutes.

Serena Long was where he’d left her, more or less. She had a tablet computer on her lap, her cell phone wired to her head. When she saw him, she said into the mouthpiece, “I have a meeting with a client now. I have to go.” Keeping her eyes on Adam’s, she added, “I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Ouch.

She put her gadgets away and rose. He followed her out the door. Even the way she walked reminded him of Madame D. That long, easy gait, the subtle sway of her hips. There’d been nothing outlandish about Madame D in her street clothes, either. She’d simply appeared to be a very sexy, beautiful woman. It wasn’t until you got behind the facade that you got spanked.

He had no intention of letting that happen with this woman. Once a man let himself get vulnerable with her type, the next thing he knew she was using his cojones as dashboard ornaments.

He insisted on buying the coffees, which gave him a chance to check out the coffee shop as he did every public place. It was an instinct honed by years of policing. Nothing remotely suspicious seemed to be going on. Most of the clientele consisted of business types grabbing a java on the way to the office. A couple of joggers ahead of him ordered green tea. A few singles sat at tables with computers or newspapers in front of them.

When they were sitting down at a table that was too small for him, as most café tables and chairs were, she said, “So are we going to keep fighting for control?”

Only years of training stopped him from choking on his coffee. How had she read his mind like this? Her cool gaze assessed him. He felt a pull of attraction so strong he could barely focus.

He swallowed the hot, bitter brew slowly. Instead of answering her directly, he said, “I don’t think I need a performance coach.”

“I’ve known Max for a decade. He’s probably the smartest person I’ve ever met. And he’s known you since you all played together in the sandbox. He seems to think you do.”

“Max’s trouble is he’s always the smartest guy in the room. Makes him arrogant.”

She let the words hang for a second, then said, “And your friend Dylan?”

His discomfort with this conversation grew by the second. He fidgeted in the too-small chair, ordered himself to relax. She must read body language as well as or better than he did. He put his elbows on the table. Leaned in. She leaned back slightly in response. Good. Her long hair caught the light and he realized it wasn’t simply black, as he’d thought, but a shifting mix of brown and black. “I didn’t play at the top of my game in the play-offs last year. It happens. Check out the NHL sometime. Best team going into the play-offs loses in the first round. Most expensive player on the team falls on his ass. Like I said, it happens.”

“Your friends seem to think that you didn’t simply have a bad couple of days in both of the last two play-off seasons. They think you choked.”

He was getting more irritated by the second. He wondered how he’d managed to stay friends with such a pair of meddlers for the past three decades. “You should know that if you start putting ideas in a player’s head about choking and performance anxiety, you’re sowing the seeds for trouble.”

“That’s an interesting phrase you use. Performance anxiety. Do you think you suffer from it?”

“No. You’re putting words in my mouth. I—”

“They were your words, Adam.”

“Look, it’s an amateur tournament. We raise money for charity. It’s not the Stanley Cup.”

“Then why are you getting so worked up about this? Maybe I can help you. Maybe I can’t. The best thing that can happen is that I help you improve your playing ability during the play-off rounds. The worst thing that can happen is that nothing changes. Either way, my services are free and all you’re giving up is some time.”

“What about you? What’s in this for you?”

Her fingernails were longer than strictly necessary. He had a momentary vision of her dragging them down his back in the height of passion. He had to blink the crazy mental image away.

“Max is a good friend who’s done a lot to help me build my business. If he asks a favor, I’ll do it. No questions asked.”

It was stupid to feel a pang of jealousy. Max was a great guy and very successful with women. If he and the dominatrix performance coach had a past, it was nothing to do with him. Still, some devil prompted him to ask, “And Max? Would he do anything for you?”

Her gaze stayed level on his. “I like to think so.”

He took another sip of coffee. “I don’t know.”

“It’s up to you. If you’re not willing to work with me, to do any exercises I give you, then we’re both wasting our time.”