“Margot?” Tor said right as Margot cried, “Me?”
She gaped at her friend. What was Breezy smoking?
“She could teach him some basic techniques and see if yoga’s for him. Think about it, Marg. Imagine if you could take the credit for screwing Patch Donnelly’s head on right. Tor could put out the word about who helped, and maybe at some point the Hellions could do a plug at your yoga studio. It could be a great way to build your rep as you move forward with your Sanctuary idea. Plus,” she arched a single brow. “You aren’t into gingers so won’t be tempted to mix business with pleasure, you little man-eater you.”
“I don’t know. Has Patch ever expressed even the faintest interest in yoga?” Margot asked, ignoring the taunt.
“No.” Tor leveled the full force of his icy blue stare. “Never.”
“Who cares? Show him what he’s been missing,” Breezy said emphatically. “Patch’s got anger issues, but sweet baby Jesus, he’s talented. We all know he isn’t playing to his potential, and you could be his secret weapon. What do you say, Tor? Because I’m telling you, if that guy can keep his cool, you’ll have the best goalie in the league. Margot might be the answer to your prayers.”
Margot stared at her friend, speechless and her heart swelling. No matter what happened, it was lovely to hear how much her bestie believed in her abilities.
“All I’ve got is one question,” Tor said after a considered moment. “Why the hell haven’t I thought of this before?”
Chapter Four
Patrick dipped his fingertips into the brass holy water font and made an absent-minded sign of the cross. Morning confession hour at Our Lady of Perpetual Help was hopping. Two elderly women in black cardigans prayed the rosary in the front pew while a third padded her walker in the direction of the votive candle stand. If it got any more exciting, someone might break out their knitting.
But he’d bet twenty bucks that Father O’Sullivan wasn’t bored by the peace and quiet. If he knew his old college roommate, Sully was kicked back in that walnut-paneled confessional perusing theDenver Post’s sports pages, which happened to be riddled with speculation about his lawsuit.
Patch’s jaw flexed. Leave it to Guy Footscray, that slimeball ambulance chaser, to know how to make a scene.
Patch couldn’t have messed with a worse guy. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Not that he’d had much of a choice in the matter. Not when he saw what Footscray was capable of.
Still, now he was in one hell of a shit burger. A shit burger that he didn’t know how to escape.
Which is why he was here.
Patch had once heard it said that if a guy had one person they could count on in life they should consider themselves lucky. Sully filled that description. He’d accepted a parish posting to Denver a year after Patch was drafted, and gained a reputation as an activist priest, supporting immigrant communities and advocating on behalf of the poor.
Only God himself knew why he made the time for Patch.
But whatever the reason, he was grateful that his buddy had the loyalty of a golden retriever. Sully was a good listener, and today Patch needed a trustworthy ear.
He slid into a pew. He could go receive the sacrament of reconciliation, but didn’t feel like owning up to all the quality time he’d been spending with his right hand.
A frosty winter sun shone through a stained-glass window depicting Saint Anthony of Padua, a friar in a brown robe wearing a belt with three knots tied at the end, symbolizing the holy vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. He held a bundle of lilies in his arms, a symbol of purity and a reminder to pray for grace during trying times of temptations.
Patch fingered the chain around his neck, the one that held his own Saint Anthony medal—a gift from Ma, the only thing of value that she’d ever given him. He glanced at the confessional again.
His head coach, Tor Gunnar, had called first thing this morning. With regular games resuming, Patch had braced himself for the news that he was being downgraded to second-string. The season needed to get back on track with no distractions. And getting served by Footscray hadn’t done him any favors. It was another reminder that Patch was unreliable. A liability. A loose cannon.
The last thing he’d expected was for Coach to give him an address to a yoga practitioner along with the order to attend a private class. “She’s expecting you at noon. If you don’t want me giving Reed your spot on the lineup, don’t be late,” he’d growled before hanging up.
Yoga? He bounced his knee trying to ignore the churning in the pit of his stomach. What the hell was that going to fix? Did Coach seriously think going downward dog with some spacey chick would make everything copacetic?
He gazed back to Saint Anthony, air compressing in his lungs. He’d never spent time with a yoga instructor. Would she wear those skintight leggings? Would he have to sit and watch as she bent her limber body into all sorts of positions?
Sweat broke out at his temples. He needed that situation like he needed a third nut.
Screw yoga.
Since he’d been a teen, he’d kept the opposite sex at a distance. It had been easier than anyone might imagine. Sure, girls had always been around, and yeah, there were always chances. But he stuck with other guys at parties, hanging on back porches talking shit about hockey. No one ever noticed that he didn’t go home with anyone. And if anyone ever gave him a hard time about his single status, all he had to say was that he was too busy with his game to have time for a girlfriend. People would just shrug and nod.
His rep might be notorious, but imagine if the real story got out.
A muscle ticked in his temple.
