Thin Ice (14 page)

"I'm not going to drop this, Emily.” He stepped closer, touched her hair, her cheek. Her insides quickened, started to soften. Just like that. “We've got a chance of making something good happen between us. The chemistry is there. You know it is. The rest wil take care of itself if you'l just..."

Emily didn't hear the rest of what he said. She'd heard it before.

Ryan had played on her emotions in much the same way, using disarming smiles and soft, sweet words to gain concessions. First smal ones, then increasingly bigger ones, until she'd al but lost herself completely.

The idea that Eric would try to lead her down the same destructive path snapped her from her silence.

"No."

He looked startled, then annoyed. “Emily—"

"My life is fine just the way it is, Eric. I don't need you mucking it up with your ideas about—"

"Mucking it up? Oh, for the love of—how can I muck up something that doesn't exist?"

She forgot what she'd been about to say. “What?"

"You don't have a life, Emily, you have a son and a job."

Stung, she lashed out. “Wel, that's certainly more than you have."

He looked as if she'd stabbed him with a scalpel. Watching the heat rise in his face, Emily realized she'd made a mistake. A big one.

She'd forgotten about Eric's explosive temper. A ripple of fear snaked down her spine as the memory returned ful force.

Eric's jaw tightened. His fingers flexed at his sides. Another image of Ryan flashed across her mind—this one of him belting her for supposedly talking back to him. Warily, she stepped back. Eric's eyes jerked to hers. The emotion in them was so dark Emily couldn't suppress her shiver of dread.

"You're right,” he said. “Al I've got is a job."

With that, he brushed past her and strode into the rink, where he With that, he brushed past her and strode into the rink, where he yanked open the door so hard Emily flinched, fuly expecting it to hit the wal. But it didn't. He hadn't let himself go that far. Heart pounding, she watched it jerkily swing shut behind him, and—with no smal amount of relief and surprise—realized she was safe.

Unharmed. The fury had been there, in his hands and eyes and voice, but Eric hadn't made any attempt to vent it on her.

For a long moment she simply stood there, trying to assimilate what had just happened. When she finaly entered the ice arena, stil feeling disoriented, Eric was nowhere in sight.

Unsure whether to feel relieved or disappointed, Emily looked around again, trying to get her bearings. Everything was the same, yet suddenly it al felt different ... as if she were seeing things in clear focus for the first time. The squeals and shouts that echoed across the rink, the scarred and pitted ice, the smel of grease from the snack bar, the dedicated parents huddled against the cold in the dimly lit stands.

Eric must have taken his first steps toward becoming a professional hockey player in some cold, dark and drafty place like this. She shivered at the thought and climbed into the stands. Hands jammed into her coat pockets for warmth, she stared at her stil shaky knees and again tried to figure out what had just happened. If it hadn't been for Robbie—

Robbie. She hadn't gone into the locker room to help him dress.

That must be where Eric was. Lord, how could she have let that That must be where Eric was. Lord, how could she have let that totaly slip her mind? Robbie couldn't get al his padding and equipment on by himself, and she'd forgotten al about him.

Damn it. She needed to think. Needed to go somewhere warm and quiet to sort things out in her mind—but she couldn't leave now.

The game would start any second.

As if on cue, Robbie and his teammates spiled onto the ice in a blur of red and white. Emily spotted Eric standing by the locker room door, watching her, and knew she owed him yet another debt of gratitude. His impassive expression let her know the next move was up to her, but at the moment, she had no idea as to what that move should be. More confused than ever, she looked away, to where Robbie had skated into position for the opening face-off.

When she looked back at Eric, he was gone.

* * * *

Her heart did a strange somersault as she recognized Eric standing on her porch, his parka colar turned up against the wind and hands in his pockets. His tal, bulky frame created an imposing silhouette against the curtain of white that bilowed across her yard. He turned against the curtain of white that bilowed across her yard. He turned and stamped the snow off his boots as she opened the door. For several seconds they stared at each other, neither seeming to notice the frigid wind whipping around them.

"Got a few minutes?” he asked quietly.

She stepped back in silence. Folding her arms to fight the icy chil that entered the house with him, she wondered what he wanted this time. Instead of asking, though, she waited, wearing what she hoped was a neutral smile. In truth her heart was jackhammering against her ribs and she felt a nearly overwhelming urge to blurt out a litany of apologies for the things she'd said the night before.

He was staring at her again, her hair in particular. She stifled the urge to reach up and smooth what had to be a riot of curls. Wet curls. “You wanted to talk to me about something?"

"Your hair. What did you do to it?"

"Nothing. This is how it always looks after I wash it."

"You mean those curls are natural?” Emily stiled as he captured a long, curly auburn tendril between his fingers and studied it in the soft light that filtered down the halway from the kitchen. “Why do you hide them?"

The sudden intimacy between them flooded her with heat. “I don't hide them, I manage them.” Eric frowned, clearly confused. “My patients are nervous enough as it is. They don't need some wild-patients are nervous enough as it is. They don't need some wild-looking woman hovering over them when they're in pain. They need to know their doctor is someone they can trust. Someone who looks competent, in control and ... and respectable.” Even to her own ears, she sounded irrational.

"You're serious."

His amazement made her feel like an idiot. What had possessed her expose her deepest fear? The fear that Ryan Montgomery had been right. That no matter what she did, she'd never measure up. “Why else would I go to al the trouble of blow-drying the damned things straight?” she groused.

"I don't know. Why don't you tel me?"

His voice was soft and non-judgmental, more curious than anything else, but Emily felt cornered al the same. “Eric, if you've come to psychoanalyze me..."

"Where's Robbie?” he interrupted, looking up the stairs.

She was tempted to lie. But she was tired of lies. “On a sleepover at Glen's."

Eric resumed stroking the strand of her hair between his fingers, then smiled to himself as if he'd made some delicious discovery. As the light from the kitchen fel across his face, she noticed the lines of strain around his eyes and mouth.

"You look tired,” she heard herself say, vaguely aware she sounded almost wifely, half-feeling the part dressed in her floor-length terrycloth robe and slippers. Strangely, she felt semi-comfortable with the role. Much more so than with the knowledge she was naked beneath her robe. She'd planned to eat dinner, then settle into bed with a smooth glass of White Zinfandel and a spicy novel.

"I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Neither did I,” she admitted.

"I'm sorry for badgering you, Emily. I was out of line."

"So was I. I'm realy sorry, Eric."

Hope etched his strong features. “Friends?"

She saw it as a start. Maybe even a whole new beginning. “Only if you stay for dinner."

He smiled. “I can deal with that."

Her insides turned to mush. Emily hoped she could deal with that.

“Good. Think you can deal with turning off the oven for me? The chicken should be done by now."

"Sure, but—"

She shooed him into the kitchen. “Take off your coat and make yourself comfortable. I'l be back in five."

yourself comfortable. I'l be back in five."

She returned in ten, using the extra minutes to brush out her rebelious fal of curls and add a touch of makeup to camouflage the circles under her eyes. Upon entering the kitchen she found Eric had done more than make himself comfortable, he'd taken off his boots and made himself at home. The five-minute wild rice she'd had sitting on the counter was done and he was adding the finishing touches to her salad.

The scene felt cozy and welcoming. His parka looked right at home hung over a kitchen chair. He'd set the table for two—facing each other. Emily relaxed, having battled a dozen second thoughts as she'd changed, then changed again, then changed a third time, finaly settling on a comfortable dark green sweat suit that had seen better days. She wanted to be friends, not seduce the man.

Eric spied her reflection in the window over the sink, turned and smiled. “I hope you don't mind."

"Not at al.” She crossed over to the refrigerator and withdrew the green bean casserole she'd made for Sunday night's dinner, suspecting Eric would appreciate something more elaborate than the spartan meal she'd planned for herself. Casserole in the microwave, she took the chicken from the oven. Indicating the unopened bottle of White Zinfandel on the counter, she asked Eric if he'd like some.

"No thanks, water's fine."

"I'm glad things are going so wel for the Saints,” she said as they sat down at the table. “You must be very happy."

Pleasant surprise lit his eyes. “I didn't realize you were folowing the games."

She'd surprised herself by continuing to watch his games. But oddly enough, she found them entertaining, now that she had an understanding of the rules. The Saints had lost the first game after that night at Pizza King, but had ralied on the road, winning four games straight. The newspaper accounts rightly gave Eric much of the credit.

She shrugged and reached for the salad. “Robbie keeps me posted.

So do my patients. Apparently there's an epidemic of Saints fever sweeping the city."

"Oh, no. Is it fatal?"

She caught the twinkle in his eyes and grinned. “No, just highly contagious."

He grinned back and sliced into his chicken. “And how did you come to diagnose this startling condition, Doctor?"

Faling into the spirit of things, Emily pretended to consider the question. “Wel, the symptoms are pretty clear cut. First, every third person seems to be wearing a Saints sweatshirt, button or hat. Then there are the bumper stickers, bilboards and bus advertisements there are the bumper stickers, bilboards and bus advertisements cheering the team on. And of course one can hardly turn on the television or open a newspaper without encountering a story about how the Saints are taking the NHL by storm."

"Al thanks to Catherine Stump's carefuly orchestrated marketing campaign."

"Hardly.” Her eyes met his. “You're quite the star, Eric. I had no idea."

He was silent for a moment. “Does it bother you?"

"The publicity? Why should it? It doesn't affect me."

Eric's hopes sank. She hadn't changed her mind about him after al.

He'd spent most of last night muling over reasons why she refused to date him. One possibility he'd come up with was his celebrity status. Emily Jordan had carved out a quiet, comfortable life for herself and her son. He could understand her reluctance to get involved with a man whose name and face drew national recognition. “Pass me those green beans, would you?"

She handed them over, smiling. “You like them?"

Odd question, he thought as he scooped a generous helping onto his plate and added seconds of chicken and rice as wel. He hadn't eaten a meal this good since that night at Bil and Miranda's.

"The truth?” He grinned. “I like anything that isn't served off a menu."

menu."

With that, they segued into an easy conversation about life on the road. He told her about his upcoming trip to Montreal, Quebec, New York and New Jersey, and the team's need to win as many of those games as possible to earn a berth in the playoffs. When she commented on the strain the constant traveling and need to win must place him under, he was touched by her concern, but pointed out he wasn't the only player on the team. If he had an off night, there were nineteen others who could cover for him...

"As long as their egos don't get in the way,” he finished dryly.

"Does that happen often?"

"Not as much as it used to, now that the guys have seen what a difference puling together makes."

"They didn't before?"

He sent her a strange look, then remembered she was new to hockey. “No. Unfortunately, Stump went overboard when he first put the team together. He was so determined to give Minnesota a winning hockey club he refused to sign anybody but the best."

"Isn't that good?"

"In theory, yes, but Stump didn't take into account the personalities involved. When you get a room ful of so-caled stars, everyone thinking they're the best in the business, it gets tricky when you start thinking they're the best in the business, it gets tricky when you start dividing them into first, second, third and fourth lines. A player who's spent most of his career on the first line isn't going to like it when he gets assigned to the third or fourth line. Ice time is sacred to these guys. They don't want to give up a second of it."