She didn’t blush outright, but the skin at her throat turned a delicate pink. “Yeah.”
He heard the rest of her sentence in his brain.Session. If that’s what we’re calling it these days.
“We through here, Coach?” he asked.
Tor glanced over. “I’m going to keep the rest of the guys another hour. But you go. Like I said earlier. I want you to trust your gut. Be instinctive. I’d rather you go off and work on that than stand here fielding slap shots.”
“On it.” And there it was, the little gnaw of guilt, a familiar feeling because after all, he was a Catholic boy. He’d focus on his game. That’s what he was meant to be doing with Margot. And if he wanted something more, well, he’d waited twenty-five years. He could set that aside while he focused on showing his team his commitment.
Because there was a date on his calendar coming up at the end of next week. Settlement negotiations. His lawyer said it was great they were moving fast. The statute of limitations could be years on such a case.
Soon he was going to face the music and maybe it wouldn’t matter what he was doing, what leaf he was trying to turn over, because his name would be mud if he agreed to settle. But what hope did he have in getting Guy to drop his case? Patch knew it wasn’t all about the money.
He’d hurt Guy Footscray right in the pride and that’s where he’d strike back.
Margot’s smile lit up her whole face. A lump lodged in his throat. She looked so pure. So perfect. And she deserved someone the same. Not someone who would drag her down in his shit.
“I guess you’ll want to hit the showers,” she said. “How about I wait down by the locker room?”
“Yeah. Sure. See you in a sec.” And he skated away. Once they were alone, he’d tell her that all he could focus on was hockey, getting his head on straight. That what had happened between them, what he’d done to her, had been a mistake.
“Holy shit. Donnelly’s got a lady out there,” Petrov announced a few minutes later, sauntering into the locker room. “Cute one too. I asked if she was lost and she said she was waiting for him.”
“No shit?” Munro glanced in his direction and waggling his brows. “You holding out on us?”
“I bet you’re right,” Nicholson added. “She is lost. Lost... in your eyes.” He crooned into an invisible microphone.
“You guys are idiots.” Patch slid on his long-sleeved grey T-shirt and tightened his belt. “It’s not like that.”
“She’s got legs for days,” Petrov continued.
“Aw, damn,” Nate Reed piped up. “This I gotta see.”
“No.” Patch stepped forward. “Not if you like living.”
“That a fact?” The second-string goalie, Nate Reed had a smart mouth and was chomping at the bit to replace his ass. “Or what? You going to break my arm too? How’s that working out for ya?”
The room fell silent. Patch’s fingers twitched reflexively and he balled them into a fist.
Then he heard Margot’s voice in his head, as clear as if she was whispering into his ear.
Breathe. Just breathe.
He did and shit, she was right. It was too shallow. He tried again. From his diaphragm. Counted to ten and did it again.
The rage faded. His pulse returned to normal.
Not today, Satan.
He smirked at Nate. “Hey man, have yourself a good afternoon. I know I will.”
And then he walked away, whistling for good measure.
And as he opened the locker-room door, his grin stretched from ear to ear. He’d gotten it back, the power. His rage was put in its place and he’d done it.
And the person who helped him get to that place was leaning against the wall.
“I came to thank you in person for the flowers.” Margot said. “My house looks like a summer garden.”
