See Jane Score

lips drew breath. Was last night’s tie a fluke? A loss in the normal course of the season? Probably, but Luc had a lot on his mind these days, and that goal had come a bit too easy. Was his personal life affecting his game? He had yet to hear anything from his personal manager, and the Marie situation was still unresolved.

In her sleep, Jane pushed her hair from her face. Or was this the beginning of the curse of the woman reporter? Of course, one tie didn’t a curse make. But it might be the beginning if they lost this Friday night in Dallas.

As if Bressler had read Luc’s thoughts, he said, “Did you know that it was considered bad luck for a woman to board a pirate ship?”

Luc hadn’t known that, but it made perfect sense to him. There was nothing that could mess up a man’s life quicker than an unwanted female.

Friday night the Chinooks lost in a four-three nail-biter with Dallas. Saturday morning while Luc waited outside for the bus to take them back to DFW, he read the sports section of the Dallas Morning News.

The headline read, “Chinooks Spill Blood and Guts,” and that pretty much summed up the game after Chinooks rookie Daniel Holstrom took a puck to his cheek early in the second frame. The puck that dropped Holstrom like a rock had come from a Dallas stick. Holstrom had been helped off the ice and hadn’t returned. Tempers flared, retaliation was sought. The Hammer mixed it up with the Dallas offense, grabbing a winger in the third period and giving him a glove rub in the alley.

After that, things got ugly, and while the Chinooks may have won the battles in the corners, they’d ultimately lost the war. Dallas’s deep offensive lines had taken advantage of every power play and peppered Luc with thirty- two shots on goal.

This morning no one was saying much. Especially after the ass-ream they’d been given in the locker room by Coach Nystrom. The coach had closed the door on reporters and had proceeded to shake the cinder-block walls with his loud tirade. But he’d said nothing they hadn’t deserved. They’d drawn stupid penalties and paid the price.

Luc folded the paper and stuck it beneath one arm. He unbuttoned his blazer as Ms. Alcott stepped from the revolving door to his left. The Texas sun bathed her in bright morning light, and a slight breeze played with the ends of her ponytail. She wore a black skirt down to her knees, a black blazer, and turtleneck. Her shoes were flat, and she carried that big briefcase of hers and a to-go coffee. She added to the visual assault by wearing an ugly pair of sunglasses on the bridge of her nose. They were round and green like a fly. Damn, but she was into looking sexless.

“Interesting game last night.” She set her briefcase on the ground between them and looked up into his face.

“You liked that?”

“Like I said, it was interesting. What was the team’s motto? ‘If you can’t beat ’em, beat ‘em up?’”

“Something like that,” he said with a laugh. “What’s with all the gray and black you always wear?”

She glanced down at herself. “I look good in black.”

“No, sweetheart, you look like the archangel of doom.”

She took a sip of her coffee and said totally urbanely, as if he hadn’t hit a nerve, “I could live the rest of my life without fashion commentary according to Lucky Luc.”

Or at least she tried for urbane. The bloom in her cheeks and her narrowed gaze behind those ugly glasses gave her away. “Okay, but…” He stopped and shook his head. He looked up at the sky and waited for her to take the bait.

He did not wait long. “I know I’m going to regret this,” she sighed, “but what?”

“Well, I just think that a woman who has trouble getting a man might have better luck if she dressed up the package a little. Didn’t wear ugly sunglasses.”

“My sunglasses aren’t ugly, and my packaging is none of your business,” she said as she raised her coffee to her lips.

“So only my business is open for discussion? Your business is off limits?”

“That’s right.”

“You little hypocrite.”

“Yeah, sue me.”

He glanced down into her face and asked, “How’s the coffee this morning?”

“It’s fine.”

“Still taking it black?”

She looked up at him out of the corner of her eye and placed a hand over the lid. “Yes.”

Chapter 4

Good Wood: Jabbing with the Butt End of a Stick

Jane was almost afraid to glance around her. This morning, looking at some of the Chinooks was kind of like looking at a train wreck. Horrifying, but she was unable to turn away. She sat near the front of the plane across the aisle from Assistant General Manager Darby Hogue, a copy of the Dallas Morning News opened to the sports page in her lap. She’d sent off her report of the previous night’s bloodletting, but she was interested in what the Dallas reporters had to say about it.

Last night, she and the area sports reporters had gathered in the media room to wait for their chance to enter the Chinooks’ locker room. They’d drunk coffee and cola and eaten some sort of enchilada concoction, but when Coach Nystrom had eventually come out, he’d informed them all there were to be no postgame interviews.

During the wait, the Dallas journalists had joked with her and shared war stories. They’d even told her which athletes gave them a break and always answered their questions. They also told her which players never answered questions. Luc Martineau topped the arrogant-pain-in-the-ass list.

Jane folded the paper and stuck it in her briefcase. Perhaps the Dallas reporters had been nice because they hadn’t seen her as a threat and weren’t intimidated by a woman. Maybe they would have treated her differently if they’d been in the locker room competing for an interview. She didn’t know and really didn’t care. It was just nice to discover that not all male reporters resented her. She was relieved to know that when she wrote one last column about her experiences, she could report that some men had evolved and not everyone viewed her as an assault to their egos.

She’d sent off two columns to the Seattle Times now. And she hadn’t heard a word from her editor. Not a word of praise or criticism, which she was trying to take as a good sign. She’d seen her first article passed around among the players, but none of them had commented either.

“I read your first column,” Darby Hogue said from across the aisle. In his bare feet, Jane estimated Darby Hogue to be five-foot-six. Five-nine in his cowboy boots. By the cut of his navy blue suit, she’d guess it was custom-made and would probably cost most people a month’s salary. His spiky gelled hair was the color of carrots and his complexion was even whiter than hers. Although she knew he was twenty-eight, he looked about seventeen. His brown eyes were intelligent and shrewd, and he had long sweeping red lashes. “You did a good job,” he added.

Finally, someone commented on her article. “Thank you.”

He leaned across the aisle to give her some pointers. “Next time you might want to mention our goal attempts.” Darby was the youngest assistant GM in the NHL, and Jane had read in his bio that he was a member of Mensa. She didn’t doubt it. Although he appeared to have taken great pains to shake his nerddom, he hadn’t quite been able to give up the pocket protector stuck in his white linen shirt.

“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Hogue,” she said through what she hoped was a charming smile, “I won’t tell you how to do your job, if you don’t tell me how to do mine.”

He blinked. “That’s fair.”

“Yes, I think so.”

He straightened and placed a leather briefcase on his lap. “You usually sit in the back with the players.”