Face-Off (14 page)

“H
OW FAR APART DO YOU
want us to be for this section?” Taylor asked. They'd been practicing a couple of hours on a small piece of the dance routine. They hadn't started lifts yet. He wasn't nearly ready for that. But he was starting to feel pretty comfortable with the dance steps. Irina might come off as scary but she was a good coach once he got used to the accent and the way she barked orders. He began to realize it was her way of speaking, not that she hated him as he'd first assumed.

“That's my job,” Becky informed him tartly. “Basically, I do most of the work. You stick to your moves and don't screw up and we'll be fine.”

He threw up his hands. “Okay, boss.” She was right, of course. She was doing the bulk of the ice dancing while he faked a couple of Fred Astaire moves and then did a few lifts. The lifts terrified him. He'd skated a few times with trophies over his head, and some of them were heavy, but he'd never tried to carry an actual living person. What if he dropped her?

He was having nightmares at the thought.

That's when he wasn't dreaming about her in entirely different ways.

Not that any of those dreams were coming true either. Since their one night of fun he'd kept things strictly business. If there was a pulse that beat between them when their bodies touched, she couldn't blame that on him since at least half the heat was coming from her.

If their eyes sometimes connected for too long, or their hands stayed clasped a few seconds more than strictly necessary, he didn't figure that was all him either.

He didn't think one time was going to be enough for either of them. But he could wait until she knew that as well as he did.

He might not wait patiently, but he'd wait.

And then they started the lifts.

Irina showed him what he had to do. He would lift Becky and she'd arrange herself like Ginger Rogers spinning around a ballroom dance floor with Fred. All he had to do was hold her up and skate in a circle.

They practiced first in a gym. It wasn't too bad and she didn't weigh much.

Then they moved to the ice.

He prepared to lift her, she skated to him and he grabbed her, but didn't lift. “I can't do it. What if I drop her?”

“Do not drop her,” Irina said, at her fiercest.

“You won't drop me.” Becky looked at him, giving him an understanding smile. “If I start to slip, I'll cling on like a monkey. Hey, I trust you.”

Somehow, her confidence rubbed off on him. He took a breath. Figured even if something happened he could angle his body to take the fall. “Okay. I'm ready.”

She skated up to him, he caught her in his arms, lifted her. She was so agile, so strong. He felt her move, changing position, felt their bodies align, let his skates lead him in circles, trusted her, trusted him, trusted them together.

The last part of the move was her sliding slowly down his body to land on the ice, where she'd spin away. But they hadn't got to that part yet. All he had to do was let her slide down his body.

Relief spilled through him as they made it through the lift, and then she was sliding down, into his arms. When she reached the ice, her arms wrapped around his neck and her body snug against his, she gave him her generous smile. “You didn't drop me.”

“I didn't drop you.”

And because the relief was so enormous, and she was so sweet and the imprint of her body was a reminder of everything they'd done together, everything he wanted to do again, he lowered his mouth to hers.

A sharp intake of breath, part warning, part sigh, and then she melted against him, kissing him back with all the pent-up longing he'd hoped she suffered.

“Tsch!” Irina burst out.

He ignored the coach. “Come out with me tonight,” he murmured against Becky's lips. “I can't.”

“Sure you can. I'll take you somewhere where no one will know you. A dark, secret place where the paparazzi never go.”

“Your place?”

“No. My favorite pool hall.”

Her laughter bubbled. “You're asking me to play pool with you?”

“I am.” He figured she had enough idiots asking her for fancy dates. Anyone could see she was a physical kind of woman who didn't want to sit around all night eating a bunch of crap that wasn't good for her athlete's body.

“I've never played pool.” She sounded interested.

“Excellent. I'll teach you. I'm a very good teacher.”

He moved in closer. “A very good teacher.”

“We are talking about pool, right?”

He grinned at her wickedly. “What else would I be talking about?”

She shouldn't go, Becky knew that on every level. A date, even as non-date as playing pool sounded, could give the man the wrong idea, plus she had her set-up date the following night with Cory. She needed to look her best.

But rebelliousness kicked in. Why shouldn't she have some fun just for herself? Who was she hurting? Besides, she reasoned, the more time she spent getting comfortable with Taylor, the better their routine would turn out to be.

“Okay,” she said. “You're on.”

 

S
HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT
she'd expected. A pool hall, she supposed, with slit-eyed characters betting large sums of money on sinking some ball into some pocket.

In fact, Taylor drove her to a neighborhood pub in Kitsilano named Jason's. Jason's had been around for forty years and if there'd been an update in decor during that time the redecorating was too subtle to notice.

Downstairs were big TV screens showing several sports at once, scarred wooden tables that were about half-full. The clientele was a combination of university students and locals, some of whom looked as if they'd been coming here since the place first opened.

Taylor led her up a flight of wooden stairs and there was a single pool table sitting under lights.

One more TV screen played up here, and a quartet of students battled it out noisily over a dartboard.

Becky put down her bag and approached the table. Her life had been so narrowly focused on one sport that she'd
never even held a pool cue, never mind tried to hit a ball. She had no idea what she was doing.

Taylor, however, had clearly misspent a lot of his youth around pool tables. He pushed some coins into the slot, set up the balls in a triangle and removed a cue from the wall.

He explained that she had to shoot the white ball into the triangle and break it up. Sounded easy enough.

He bent over and she liked the easy way he moved, shivered a little when her mind flipped back to their night together when he'd taken her with the same easy athleticism he now turned to a pool table.

Once the balls were spilled all over the green felt, he came up behind her. Put the pool cue in her hand, showing her how to hold it. “Now, lean forward, put the heel of your hand down, and your fingers propped like so.” He showed her how to make a V of her thumb and fingers and prop the cue in them. “Like sighting down a rifle.

“Now, prop your chin right over the cue,” he instructed in her ear.

She shifted. How did he make this all sound so sexy? Maybe it was the way he felt he had to stand right inside her personal space to teach her.

“And ease your legs apart a little bit.”

A tiny moan escaped her lips. He'd said those words, those very words that night, and suddenly she felt she was back there, parting for him, giving herself to him with a glorious abandon she'd never allowed herself before.

She eased her jeans-clad legs apart,

“That's good, baby,” he whispered, and she knew he'd deliberately replayed the tape from that night. Once more he'd repeated his exact words.

“Stop it,” she said, but so breathlessly it didn't come out as any kind of order.

“Sorry,” and he swiftly kissed her lips.

Neither of them noticed that one of the dart players was suddenly taking more interest in them than in the dart game. Or that he'd pulled out a small camera.

Matt Frenshaw was a third-year journalism major who worked on the college's student paper and also worked as a freelance stringer for the
Vancouver Province.
He'd recognized the two right away, not thinking there was much of a story there until he saw that kiss. So, Canada's Skating Sweetheart was recruiting from the farm team, was she? He could see the headline now. He crept downstairs to make a quiet phone call to the city desk.

As the lesson progressed, Becky found herself enjoying the challenge of lining up her eye and the cue and drawing an imaginary line between the pocket and the ball. It was sort of like geometry, the only math she'd ever been any good at. After an hour or so she was sinking a few of the easy shots and suddenly, to her horror, another couple came up and challenged them to a game. They didn't seem to care that it was her first time out and Taylor was soon chatting with the guy as though they were the oldest friends in the city not two complete strangers.

“Okay, honey,” he said, after the four had introduced themselves, “Come over here and have a strategy session.”

Strategy session? All she was going to try to do was not make a fool of herself or get in the way.

“Now, this is real important, when you go to shoot, let that scoop on your top flap open a little bit. Throws the guys way off their game.”

“You'd better not look, then.”

“It's different for me. Because we're on the same team. That gives me a home-team advantage.”

She shook her head. “You really are that guy, aren't you?”

“What guy?”

“The guy who looks down women's tops.”

“Honey, every straight man is that guy.” And he patted her backside.

Fortunately, Taylor was so good at pool that her lack of experience didn't matter too much. And she even managed to sink two balls during the three games, which thrilled her.

After the games, they all shook hands and she and Taylor left. They got into his car and he started the engine. He sent her a look that melted her bones. “Where to?”

Okay, so he'd been seducing her all night, they both knew that. Those little touches, the compliments on her natural aptitude as a pool player, the way he always seemed to brush her body when he moved past her. The look in his eyes when they rested on her.

Every part of her felt warm. Kind of bubbly. He was giving her that look again, that sexy, half-sleepy sort of expression that reminded her of rumpled sheets and soft sighs.

In response, she leaned over, took his mouth with hers. Kissed him thoroughly. “Your place.”

“You are my kind of woman.”

H
OW COULD HER “DATE”
with Cory have been anything but bland after a night of passion with Taylor?

Cory was nice enough. He picked her up in a limo and took her to a fabulous restaurant where she drank a rare glass of wine and, even though she tried to eat sensibly, wondered how many extra pounds of her Taylor would have to heft in practice.

A reporter from
eChat Canada
had conducted a brief on-location interview with them outside the restaurant, and she knew it would air as part of an in-studio interview the singer had already taped. The piece was scheduled to air the next day. The whole thing just made her feel tired. She didn't want to date Cory.

She wanted to date Taylor.

Cory seemed as if he'd either done some research on her or had it done, as he asked her questions based on her biography and skating career, which was sweet if a bit tedious.

She, in turn, asked him about his music career and so they got through the evening without a single awkward pause or a spark of romantic interest on her part. Or his, she suspected.

After dinner, the limo returned and he dropped her off properly at home. Outside her place, he walked her to her door and kissed her cheek when they reached it.

“Thanks for a great evening,” he said. He actually sounded as if he meant it, but then she had to remember that he was new to this celebrity business. After a few years, he'd probably find it a little irksome. Of course, if he really did become the next Michael Bublé, he was going to have a lot more heat than she ever would. “You're welcome.”

He shifted from foot to foot. “So, are you okay to go to the Grammys with me?”

“If you're sure?”

“Yeah. Sure. Why wouldn't I be? Okay. I'll call you.”

And he was gone.

She knew the piece was airing the next day, but didn't bother to watch. She'd long ago lost the thrill of seeing herself in the media.

She'd have assumed her mother had also, so when she called, saying, “Did you see the piece on TV?” Becky was surprised.

“No. I—”

“Well, you'd better take a look at it, young lady, and call me right back.” And her mother slammed down the phone. It had been some time since she'd been called
young lady
in that tone of voice. Something seriously strange must have happened.
eChat Canada
would repeat in an hour, but in the meantime she turned on her computer and checked Google. She typed in her name and Cory's and, to her horror, a whole pile of hits showed up. She clicked the headline of a gossip blog: Skating Star in Love Triangle with Crooner and Hockey Jock.

“Oh, no,” she moaned as she clicked the link. A photo
came up of her and Cory looking pretty cozy, and he was quoted in the
eChat
interview as saying she was his muse and that he was writing a song for her. Oh, gag.

But below that was a less professional but distressingly clear photo of her and Taylor taken while they were playing pool. No way they could claim “just friends” when the photographer had caught them locked in each other's arms, kissing. And then a second photo that clearly showed their faces. She frantically thought back to that night, but all she remembered were the couple they'd played against. If they'd recognized either of them, they hadn't said anything. Had they then rushed out to call the media? But no, she and Taylor had left first.

Only then did she remember the students playing darts.

And every one of them probably had a cell phone equipped with a camera.

Covering her face with her hands didn't really help. Her palms became a kind of screen on which played the pool evening. Her secret night out with her lover. Which had nothing to do with her so carefully orchestrated dating life.

She picked up the phone. Dialed.

“Hey, sexy,” Taylor's voice was laid-back, as though nothing was worth getting in too much of a bother over.

“Have you seen the news?”

“If there's another oil spill, don't even tell me. I swear—”

“It's not an environmental disaster,” she snapped. “It's a personal one.”

The sleepy sexy voice changed in a heartbeat. “Becky, what is it?” He sounded so adult, so concerned, so much like a man she could lean on, that for a second she wished he were here so she could press her head against his
shoulder where she'd hear his heart beating and indulge in a hearty bout of tears. “Watch
eChat Canada
and call me back.”

“I hate that stuff.”

“Well, then look up you and me and Cory Slater on Google.”

“That weedy little singer? That is not a trio I want to be part of.”

“Too late. You already are.”

“Hang on.” Then she heard him say, “Jarrad. Lend me that fancy phone of yours, will you?”

And after a few minutes he was back. “Well, shit. You couldn't have picked a real man as my rival?”

“Taylor, it's not funny.”

“I know it's not. I am seriously pissed that you would think that pretty-boy singer is better for your publicity than me.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don't know. Don't you have people for this sort of thing?”

“I guess. I don't think they're really talking to me right now.”

“Well, get hold of them. Don't say anything to anybody. I'll talk to Jarrad. He's good at this kind of stuff. He kind of got used to it after being married to that stuffed bikini. I'll call you later.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No biggie.” And he was gone.

 

H
ER PHONE STARTED TO RING.
She didn't even bother to check her call display. Her mom, Cory, Cory's people, media, friends, skating people. She didn't want to talk to any of them.

She dropped her cell phone on the table. Wrapped up
warmly and got into her car. The day was cold, the sky leaden and a light drizzle sent the damp right into her bones.

She drove aimlessly for a while, wondering how somebody who'd always tried to do the right thing, to be as close to perfect as hard training, discipline and an iron will would let her, had blown everything up.

Canada's Skating Sweetheart had become Canada's Skating Slut.

For maybe an hour she drove without any destination through North Vancouver, over the bridge and into Burnaby, and after a while, she found herself at the rink.

It wasn't her normal practice time, but she needed to be here for some reason.

“Hi, Frank,” she said, checking in at reception.

“Hi, Becky.”

“Any chance of a free rink?”

“Sure. Number three's open. You've got a couple of hours.”

“Thanks.”

She laced up, stepped onto the smooth ice. She was all alone. No coach, no audience, no music. Nothing but her and the ice.

Her blades carving ice was the most familiar sound in her world. The shushing sounds soothed her. She skated faster, letting warmth build in her muscles, feeling her lungs begin to accommodate to the motion.

All her greatest moments had happened in rinks, and some of her worst.

Even as she had the thought, she realized that a couple of her greatest moments ever hadn't been at the rink. They'd been in Taylor's arms.

With a groan she realized she'd gone and fallen in love
with a big, hairy hockey player. And that her actions would have lasting consequences on her career.

She was flying around the ice. This was her medium and she owned it. If her rising star was about to plummet, would she really care?

She already had a silver medal. Nobody could take that away, or the person she'd become while she'd trained so hard and worked so tirelessly.

But somewhere in all of that she'd lost who Becky Haines really was.

Maybe it took Taylor shaking her out of her comfort zone to make her see that she wasn't Canada's Skating Sweetheart. She was a woman, with a woman's needs and feelings.

She also happened to be a damn good figure skater.

She set herself up for a triple lutz/double toe, landed it like a champ. Threw in a double axel/double toe at the end because she felt like it.

Then suddenly, she wasn't alone on the ice. Taylor was there.

He skated up to her. “I thought I'd find you here.” He lifted her chin so he could look at her. The knowledge that she loved him made her suddenly shy, but still she couldn't resist gazing into his eyes, seeing the man she'd come to care for so deeply in such a short time.

“You look different,” he said. “What is it?”

She could continue to play a part or she could stand up and be the woman she'd only discovered.

She decided she had enough guts to be honest.

“I figured out I'm in love with you.”

Shock wiped his face clean of expression as though she'd pushed a button and turned off a computer screen. Then a slow smile began to build, spreading from his lips to his cheeks, crinkling his eyes.

He picked her up and swung her around, and they were both laughing and panting when he finished.

As he gazed at her, he said, “I knew when I first met you that you were going to be trouble.”

“Does that mean you love me too?”

He scratched the side of his face. “I guess so.”

Naturally, such truth-telling involved a lot more kissing. Finally, she came up for air.

“Did Jarrad have anything to say?”

“A whole lot. Most of it older-brother bull. But he had a pretty good solution.”

“What's that?”

“Something that's pretty close to the truth. That we fell in love during this skating thing and you didn't want to hurt Cory's feelings.”

“So I was two-timing him?” She didn't like that notion at all.

“No. In Jarrad's version, that night you two went out for dinner you told him that you were in love with someone else. And because the interview with Cory had already taken place, it aired. Big J's already got hold of Cory. He thinks that if Slater's willing to play it our way that everybody can win on this one. And you'll get to be Canada's Skating Sweetheart again.”

A smile began to bloom. “I don't care about that.”

He kissed her. “You don't?”

“No.”

“How would you like to be Taylor McBride's sweetheart instead?”

She grabbed his hands and skated in a circle, pulling him with her. Then she threw back her head and laughed in sheer joy.

“I love that plan!”