Boiling Point (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 2) Page 18

  “The game starts at seven. We’re playing at the Northland Arena. Let me give you the address.” He started to reach into his jacket pocket.

  “I’ll find it.” She turned and rested her hand on the car door handle. “I guess I’ll see you then.”

  “Drive safely.” He didn’t smile, but something indefinable flashed in his eyes.

  “I always do.”

  He stepped aside but made no move toward his own vehicle. Instead, he stood and watched as she backed up and turned to head down the driveway. When she neared the gate, she glanced in the rearview mirror again. He was still standing in the same place, arms at his sides.

  She tried to shake off the unsettled feeling all the way home. Traffic on Lake Shore Drive slowed to a snail’s pace, coming to a standstill a couple of times as she neared downtown. Shoppers appeared to be out in droves, snapping up Day-After-Thanksgiving bargains, and she briefly considered joining them. Nordstrom’s shoe sale was always worth braving the crowds, but for some reason, she couldn’t work up her usual enthusiasm. She let the exit slip by and continued south until she reached the turn-off for her apartment near the Museum of Science and Industry.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she found a space only a half-block from her vintage red-brick building. After hauling her bag up the four flights to her charming-but-compact one bedroom apartment, she threw herself on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Why had Nick asked her to his hockey game? What did he expect to happen? Their only full-blown kiss had been amazing, but afterward he’d made it clear that wasn’t happening again. He had no intention of getting involved with her, even casually. So why would he ask her to spend time with him the minute they had a couple of free days? If he was simply looking for an opportunity to show off his manliness, he could stuff it.

  She closed her eyes and rubbed her brow, drained. Her head hurt. Maybe a cup of tea would help.

  Tea, a bath, and nine solid hours of sleep revived her, but by the following afternoon, she still hadn’t made up her mind about the game.

  But you promised.

  So what? He’ll live with the disappointment. Besides, he’ll be busy. He probably won’t even see me.

  There’s always afterwards.

  He’ll be tired.

  But she’d been around enough men to know physical exhaustion was no match for the excess testosterone that flooded their bodies when they banged into each other, sweating and grunting, trying to prove who was fastest or strongest.

  What if he wants to burn it off with me?

  You are so overthinking this. Just go, you coward.

  At six-fifteen she slipped on a pair of cashmere socks under her boots, shrugged into her down parka, grabbed a knit hat, and left. Forty minutes later she pulled into the arena parking lot. The lot was almost full, and small clusters of women with well-bundled children in tow were making their way toward the entrance. When she stepped out of the car, a last-minute urge to turn around and drive home seized her, but she fought it back and followed the steady trickle of fans through the glass-fronted metal doors.

  “Zoë, over here!”

  Startled, she turned toward the voice and saw a petite, pretty brunette with bright red lipstick on the other side of a swarm of people, waving her arm and smiling. Next to her stood a handsome, middle-aged woman with wavy black hair, whose strong nose and square jaw bore a striking resemblance to Nick’s. Zoë wove her way through the crowd until she reached them.

  “I knew it was you,” the younger woman exclaimed. “Nick described you perfectly.” She thrust out her hand. “I’m Angela Zolnicki.”

  Zoë shook her hand. “It’s great to meet you.” She turned to the older woman. “And you must be Mrs. Rosetti.”

  “Teresa. But call me Terry.”

  Zoë smiled. “Terry.”

  Terry glanced up at the big clock above the front doors. “We’d better get inside. It’s almost time for face-off.”

  Angela steered Zoë toward the main aisle. “One of the other wives is saving us seats in the family section behind the bench. Nick will walk right past us when the players come up from the locker room.”

  So much for him not seeing her.

  They had barely taken their seats when the army of red-and-white-clad giants lumbered up the rubber-surfaced ramp, sticks in hand. Zoë had seen a couple of hockey games on television, but she’d never been close enough to reach out and touch the players before. Suddenly, a stick banged the plexiglass next to her head, startling her so badly she bumped into Terry’s shoulder and almost knocked her off the bleacher bench.

  Nick’s face, encased in a scarred white helmet, grinned at her from the other side of the glass. “Very funny,” she mouthed, knowing he’d never hear her over the din, even if she shouted.

  His skates added at least three inches to his already considerable height, and the pads gave the illusion of an additional thirty pounds of muscle. All in all, he was a fearsome sight—kind of like Conan the Barbarian in a red number eighteen jersey. And based on his cocky expression, he knew it.

  After the face-off Zoë tried to follow the game the best she could, but the size of the players, the speed of the puck, and her minimal knowledge of the rules worked against her. Besides, Nick’s mother was much more interested in chatting about her son than watching him play.

  “So, Nick tells me you’re a personal chef.”

  “Um…yes, that’s right.” She didn’t want to spill any beans he hadn’t.

  “That sounds like a great job.” Terry laughed. “I wish I’d been paid for all the meals I’ve cooked over the years.”

  Zoë just smiled.

  “Do you cook much Italian food?”

  “I’m learning.” She glanced at the ice. Why couldn’t Nick score or something—anything to take his mother’s attention off her?

  Terry gave a vigorous nod. “That’s good. Maureen was a nice girl, but her idea of cooking was pouring cereal from a box.”

  Zoë straightened and tilted her head. “Maureen?”

  Terry didn’t seem to notice her sudden interest, but simply nodded. “She’s the reason Nick left Detroit. Not that I’m sorry, mind you. I’m glad to have my boy home again.”

  Hmm. This new tidbit didn’t jibe with Risa’s research. Maybe she could learn more if she kept her questions casual. “I thought his move was work-related.”

  “Yes, that too…but Maureen was behind it. Mark my words.” Terry shook her forefinger for emphasis. “She was more than his partner, if you get my meaning. And after the shooting,” —she shrugged— “well, you know how it is.”

  Zoë didn’t know at all.

  She was about to ask another question when Angela jumped up and shouted, “Nick!”

  Zoë’s gaze darted back to the rink, where players huddled around the prostrate figure of number eighteen. Her chest tightened when she saw the dark pink stain forming on the ice under his head. Someone tossed a towel to one of the players, who knelt and pressed it against his forehead. Terry’s hand flew to her mouth, and she began to mutter prayers for her son’s safety.

  ****

  Nick blinked and waited a second for the lights to stop spinning. What the hell had happened? One minute he was making a fast break, driving the puck toward the net, and the next he was flat on his back while his brother-in-law tried to suffocate him with a towel. He reached up to push Kenny’s hand away.

  Kenny pushed back. “Don’t move. You’re making a mess all over the ice.”

  “What happened?”

  “You took a stick to the face. The cut’s not big, but it’s bleeding like a sonofabitch.”

  Nick’s stomach lurched then settled, and his vision cleared. He reached for the towel. “I’ll hold that.” Pulling off his gloves, he pressed the bloody towel against the cut with one hand and reached up with the other. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  Kenny hauled him to his feet. Cheers and applause erupted when he waved his free hand and slowly made his way to the pl
ayers’ box unassisted. Hugh Swanson hopped over the side and skated out to take his place, while he collapsed on the bench then lowered the towel to check the bleeding.

  Jeff Barnes, a sports-loving ER doc who moonlighted as team physician, appeared at his side, black bag in hand. “Let’s get that helmet off so I can see what we’re dealing with.”

  Nick eased his helmet off and tipped his head so Jeff could inspect the cut above his right eyebrow.

  Jeff poked and prodded, dabbing the edges of the wound with an antiseptic-soaked wipe. “It’s only about an inch long. These head wounds usually look worse than they are.” He straightened and rummaged in his bag. “Three or four stitches and you’ll be good as new. Not as pretty, maybe, but my wife tells me women prefer ruggedly handsome anyway.”

  Suddenly Nick remembered Zoë. He twisted and found himself staring into three anxious feminine faces on the other side of the glass. He wasn’t worried about Angela and Zoë’s matching frowns of concern, but his mom’s lips were moving, and she was fingering the strap of her purse like a rosary.

  He turned to Jeff. “Doc, do I need to go to the hospital?”

  “Not unless you want to. If you can stand a little pain, I can fix you up here. All I’ve got with me is lidocaine.”

  His mother hadn’t witnessed one of his sports injuries since high school, and she didn’t seem to be taking it well. A trip to the ER might send her into a Hail Mary frenzy. It would be better to suck it up and let Jeff do his thing here. “Let’s just get it over with.”

  “Okay, but maybe we should go to the locker room. I think your mom is giving me the stink eye.”

  “If she’s mad at anyone, it’s me. Just go ahead. She’ll be fine as soon as you’re done.”

  Nick clenched his teeth when Jeff injected the lidocaine, but the actual stitches were a piece of cake. In less than ten minutes, he was sewn up, with a small patch of fresh white gauze covering the stitches.

  “Can I go back in the game?”

  Jeff frowned then pulled a penlight from his bag and flashed it in Nick’s eyes. “How does your head feel?”

  Nick stared into the tiny light as Jeff moved it up and down and from side to side. “Okay.”

  Jeff clicked off the light and returned it to his bag. “I don’t see any signs of concussion, but why push your luck?”

  Nick glanced at the lighted scoreboard. They were still down a goal. His team hadn’t managed to capitalize on the high sticking penalty and score when they were up a man. “I need to get back out there.”

  Jeff shook his head. “You guys are all the same—hopeless.”

  Nick wanted the team to win, but more than that, he wanted a goal so bad he could almost feel the solid slap of the puck reverberate against his stick. He tried to tell himself it was because he’d missed a couple of games. The fact that Zoë was in the audience was irrelevant. Right. “Come on, Doc. You know how it is.”

  “You’re lucky I do.” Jeff clapped him on the shoulder. “Go ahead, but put your helmet on and keep your face away from hard objects. If you tear those stitches, next time you’re going to the hospital, where they’ll use staples.”

  At the next stoppage, Kenny came off and Nick took his place. He skated hard and made a couple of nice passes, but the net eluded him. In the end, it was a young patrolman he barely knew who led the team to victory with the winning goal.

  The women were waiting for him when he returned to the lobby from the locker room after a shower and change. His mother rushed to grab his arm and pull him down so she could check his bandage up close. After a thorough examination, she released him. “The cut looks pretty small, but why do you do these things to me?”

  “I’m fine. Besides, you should be used to it.”

  “Hmph. A mother never gets used to seeing her son bruised and bloody.”

  Angela wore a classic younger-sister smirk. “Better you than Kenny, I always say.”

  At that moment the man in question appeared. He slid an arm around his wife and gave her a squeeze before planting a kiss on her cheek. “Should my ears be burning?”

  Angela snuggled into his embrace. “I was just saying how glad I am your handsome face is still intact, unlike this lunkhead.”

  Nick grimaced and felt a twinge in his brow. The lidocaine must be wearing off. “That’s enough, you two. Get a room, for Pete’s sake.”

  Kenny slung his arm over his wife’s shoulders and glanced from Nick to Zoë and back. “Some of us are going out for pizza and beer. You want to come?”

  Nick gave Zoë a questioning look. “What do you say?”

  She turned to Kenny. “Thanks, but I think I’ll take rain check.”

  Kenny shrugged. “Sure. What about you, Nick?”

  He glanced at Zoë. He hadn’t even had a chance to talk to her yet. “I think I’ll pass. Next time, for sure.”

  Angela reached in her purse and pulled out a set of car keys. “Suit yourself. We’ll drop Mom off on our way.” She turned to Zoë. “It was nice to meet you. We’ll have to get together someplace quieter where I can spill all my big brother’s secrets.”

  Zoë smiled. “You’re on.” She made no move to leave when the others headed out the main doors to the parking lot.

  Nick cleared his throat. “So, are you hungry? You want to go someplace—just the two of us?”

  She tilted her head and regarded his face long enough to make him antsy. “I should probably get going. It’s a long drive back to my apartment.”

  When she started toward the door, he fell in line beside her. “Where do you live?”

  “In Hyde Park, a few blocks from the lake.”

  All the way on the opposite end of the city. He could apologize for asking her to drive so far to watch him play, but he wouldn’t mean it. He was glad she’d come. His heart had done a funny little dance when he’d seen her in the bleachers with his mother and sister. “I’ll follow you then—just to make sure you get home safely.”

  He flipped up his collar against the wind and the small, wet flakes that had started to fall sometime during the evening. Patches of white had already gathered in the crevices in the pavement and around the windshield wipers of the vehicles. The roads would be slick soon.

  Zoë stopped next to her car and faced him, her expression unreadable in the harsh glare of the overhead light. “That’s silly. You’re injured, and I’m perfectly capable of getting myself home in one piece.” She pushed the Unlock button on the key fob and reached for the door handle.

  Nick placed his hand over hers. “I know you are. It’s just that I’ll feel better if I can see for myself that you’re safe. We’ve been through a lot lately, and it’s hard to let my guard down.”

  Some of the tension left her face, and her lips curved slightly. “Since you put it that way, I guess I can understand. I’ve been looking for threats around every corner, too.” She pulled a small notebook and pen from her purse and scribbled something before tearing off the page and handing it to him. “Here’s my address, in case we get separated on the highway. Since it’s Saturday night, there’s bound to be a lot of traffic on Lake Shore as we pass downtown.”

  He turned the page to the light and scanned it quickly before tucking it in his pocket. “I’ll stick as close as I can. Thanks for humoring me.”

  “Just doing my part for the walking wounded.” She flashed him a quick smile then climbed into the Mini, buckled her seatbelt, and fired it up. He was about to head toward his loaner SUV when she lowered her window a few inches. “There’s a good noodle shop a couple of blocks from my apartment. It’ll be full of college kids, but we can probably find a table in the corner, if you’re interested.”

  Any food sounded good right now, and he was far from ready to call it a night. “I’m interested. Hang on a second, and I’ll be right behind you.” Ignoring the slippery surface of the parking lot, he sprinted for the Escalade.

  The drive to Zoë’s apartment took over an hour, and Nick’s stomach was growling by the time s
he pulled over and parked at the curb. He circled the block and found a spot on the opposite side of the street. It was still snowing lightly, but here in the heart of the city, it hadn’t yet started to stick.

  He settled his Blackhawks cap on his head, careful to avoid the cut that was beginning to throb, and climbed out of the Escalade to meet her on the wet sidewalk. Tiny droplets spiked her lashes and sparkled on her smooth cap of dark hair. He offered his elbow. “Still hungry?”

  She slid her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “Starving. The restaurant’s this way.”

  Occasional boisterous groups of students reminded him how close they were to the university as they strolled past pre-war brick apartment buildings and Queen Anne-style, shingled Victorian houses. Up ahead, on the corner of a commercial street, a brightly lit storefront with steamy windows and a colorful neon sign enticed chilled diners. “Is that the place?”

  Zoë nodded. “It’s one of my favorite restaurants in the neighborhood. The food is good and reasonably priced, and it’s so busy you never feel lonely.”

  They pushed through the door past clusters of diners on their way out and joined the groups waiting to be seated. Nick glanced around the room packed with chattering college students and neighborhood families and understood what she meant about the vibe—the cheerful din was irresistible. After a few minutes, the harried hostess ushered them to a tiny table for two next to the front window and handed them menus.

  Nick studied the list of Thai-themed dishes while the waitress poured two cups of hot tea. “What’s good here?”

  Steam rose in front of Zoë’s face as she blew on her thimble-sized tea cup. “Pretty much everything. A lot of people like the broad Chow Fun noodles or the Pad Thai, but my favorites are the red and green curries over rice. It depends on how you feel about spice.”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.” He closed his menu.

  She ordered one red and one green curry. “We can

  green share. That way you can try both.”

  The food arrived quickly, and he leaned over the bowl of curry and took a sniff. A complex aroma of chilies, coconut milk, and lemon grass met his nose. “This smells great.”