Chapter 7
SEVEN
Coach Jace was right—Conrad just needed to get out of his head. Which meant a good sweat or, in this case, a cold plunge.
“That’s nearly three minutes, Con.” This from his trainer, a man named Ethan Parker, who stood near the tank in the Blue Ox training room with a watch. He pointed to the next tank, where Wyatt Marshall shivered. “And you have another four.”
“I can’t feel my body,” Wyatt said. He sat, teeth gritted, his head back on the stainless-steel surface, eyes closed. “I love it.”
Conrad, also shivering, laughed. “Why?”
“My hip doesn’t hurt, my knees aren’t swollen, and just maybe by Sunday, I’ll have my racing body back.”
“I get you,” Conrad said and held out his fist. Wyatt met it. Third day back to practice had him feeling like an eighty-five-year-old man. But the pain made him focus, get his head in the game, and frankly, he needed the distraction.
Off the ice, he simply spent too much time dissecting Penelope’s crazy end to their nondate.
Maybe he needed to put in some time in the weight room, purge her from his brain, again.
But her dismissal sat under his skin, and maybe a little in his chest, the way she’d gone from warm and friendly on their drive to her house, to downright arctic during their drive back to his place. She’d dropped him off, barely a goodbye. And no amount of dissecting the disastrous Blue Ox games or working out in his home gym or even pushing himself in practice could dislodge the questions.
He just didn’t like to fail.
Aw, maybe that was the problem—he’d seen it as a personal goal to get her to trust him.
“Okay, three minutes are up,” said Ethan, and Conrad pushed himself out of the plunge and grabbed the towel the trainer offered.
He ran it over his chest, his shorts, and then draped it around his neck.
Coach Jacobsen walked into the room. He gestured with his head, and Conrad followed him out into the locker-room area. Most of the guys were still around, some of them changing after showers, a few in the massage room—Conrad might have preferred that. He spied Justin on the exercise bike, cooling down, his EarPods in.
Jace folded his arms. “Time-out is over. You ready to get back in the game on Sunday?”
“Always.”
Coach nodded. “You saw the last game.”
“Disaster.”
“Justin doesn’t have your instincts yet. He hesitates at crucial moments, second-guesses himself. Thankfully the Idaho games weren’t ranking, but we need to win against the Omaha Outlaws.”
“I’ll bring it home, Coach.”
Jace nodded again. “How’s it going with EmPowerPlay?”
“Good. We have that tournament tomorrow. Got the kids new equipment. They were crazy excited.” The memory of the kids opening the boxes, suiting up in their gear, pressed a smile to his mouth. “We might not win, but we’ll look good losing.”
“Great job. After this weekend, I need your focus back on the Blue Ox. We have a cup run, and I want to look good and win.”
“You got it.” Conrad had started to shiver under his towel.
“Go get warm. See you Sunday.”
Conrad headed to the showers, his body still numb, and stood under the spray, his hands braced on the tile for a long time, his muscles loosening. Date’s over, Conrad.
Aw.
He turned off the water, got out, and headed with his towel to the locker room. The problem was he didn’t know what he’d done. Maybe it’d been his conversation with her father. Except Oscar Pepper seemed like a nice guy, and sure, he wanted the man to like him—had nearly stepped over his personal boundaries to taste the whiskey the man had poured. But he’d circled that conversation through his head over and over and couldn’t figure out what he’d said that had turned her cold.
Maybe he’d been too verbally impressed with her parents’ house. Sure, the Pepper estate was magnificent, and he’d been a little knocked over at her family’s wealth, but he’d been around money, and frankly, it only caused headaches.
And stress, thank you. Because he had lost a painful chunk of investments last year. And Oscar Pepper’s words had prompted him to come home and check his stocks, even slide some over into an S&P 500 account.
He got dressed almost on autopilot, threw his towel and soiled clothes into the hamper, then headed out to his truck. Practice had gone late—the sun was already down, the stars blinking overhead. The crisp air filled his lungs.
“I’m not saying don’t try. I saw the pictures—you made her smile. That’s a start.”
He shook Harper’s words away. He was done trying. Penelope Pepper was just too . . . mysterious. Complicated. Maybe even high-maintenance.
Too much relationship math to keep track of in his brain. Besides, she hadn’t texted him. And he wasn’t going to text her. He recognized the boot end of a goodbye.
No more Pepper in his brain.
He went home, fried up a ribeye with butter, garlic, and fresh rosemary, added some baby smashed golden potatoes, and watched the latest Outlaws game. Took a few mental notes on the signals the center dropped to his team right before a face-off. Their starting center also tended to stay high in the zone to cut off the passing lane. And he was aggressive.
He also kept the puck longer than he should, maybe.
Conrad paused and rewound a couple of the goalie snatches—the man was strong on his glove side, but had given up two goals on his stick side.
He could use that.
Overall, an intensely physical team, although by the third period, they lagged. So, he’d have to conserve his energy, exploit that.
Conrad went to bed after three whole hours without Pepper in his brain. And then promptly returned to that moment in the alleyway outside Turbo when the urge to kiss her had nearly possessed him. Still did, because when he closed his eyes, she was right there, staring up at him, her golden-brown gaze wide, words in her eyes, as if?—
No. He sent a fist into his pillow, enacted a few breathing techniques, and managed to grab hold of sleep.
But he was up at five for a workout, eggs, and bacon, and had a stiff black coffee in hand when he pulled into the North Star Arena.
Simon met him, parked in front of a school bus with the team’s name and logo, holding coffee and a clipboard. Kids were milling around the lot, their gear bags in a pile. The forecast had suggested a storm on the way, but blue skies arched overhead.
“Hey,” Simon said. “You going to follow us or ride in the bus?”
Why not? “I’ll ride.”
“It’s two hours away, nearly up in Brainerd.”
“We’ll talk strategy.” He grabbed a couple bags and walked them around to the back, opened the door and threw them in. Shouted at the kids to load up, then turned back to Simon, who had followed him. “I haven’t seen Jeremy at any of the practices.” He probably shouldn’t ask—especially since not having the kid around had kept him from having an episode.
In fact, he’d managed to keep his cool for every practice. So maybe the nightmares wouldn’t win.
Simon closed the back, gestured to the kids to get in. “Yeah. I called him. Said his dad got an infection, was in the hospital. He needed to stick around and help.”
Conrad frowned.
“His mom works full-time, and he has a couple younger siblings. He helps out a lot. Good kid, tough lot.”
He walked around to the entrance of the bus.
Conrad stood there, his chest tight. Breathe.
He finally followed Simon onto the bus, sat down on one of the seats in front, turned, and glanced back at the team. They were playing on their phones, many of them plugged in with earbuds.
“Different from our road-trip days when we just threw things at each other,” Conrad said.
“Hey. I had that Game Boy,” Simon said. “You were the one who couldn’t sit still.”
Conrad grinned. “I was a little hyper back then.”
“No, you were intense back then.” Simon raised an eyebrow as they pulled out. “I don’t think much has changed. You were a little hard on the kids this week.”
“We want to win, right?”
Simon shrugged. “We play to learn and grow. And yes, win, but losing doesn’t have to be failure.”
Conrad narrowed his eyes, took a sip of coffee. “I have some ideas on how we might win.” And then he spent the next two hours outlining his game plan, starting with identifying the opposing team’s key playmakers during the first period and assigning defensemen to shadow them, implementing a trap neutral zone strategy to slow them down during a turnover, and taking as many shots on goal as possible.
“We want to tire them out, keep them guessing.”
“They’re kids. Most of them are thirteen.”
“By the time I was thirteen, I was playing in the Quebec International Pee-Wee Hockey Tournament, had scouts looking at me, coaches inviting me to the juniors.”
“You had parents who were involved. Who showed up?—”
“But that’s the point of EmPowerPlay, right? To show the kids that they can do this on their own.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “I think that is exactly not the point, Con. We’re a team, and we need each other?—”
Conrad held up a hand. “I know. But I mean . . . no one is going to succeed for you. You need to figure it out and play your best game if you want to win. You can’t depend on others to play your position. Man up.”
Simon considered him for a moment, then nodded. “Spoken like the Duck Lake Storm team captain.”
“We won state in our division.” He leaned back, noticing that they’d left the highway, were working their way through plowed country roads, the forest shaggy, the occasional road cutting through from houses buried deep in the woods, maybe seated on the shores of nearby lakes. This area of northern Minnesota was lousy with vacation getaways. “Is this an outdoor rink?”
“The Frozen Lakes Youth Cup semifinals. We win this, we advance to the finals tournament in St. Paul. It’s a recreational league, nonofficial, but it’s still a big deal.”
They drove up to a large parking lot jammed with trucks and SUVs and kids hauling gear. The words Crystal Lake Ice Circle were painted on a Quonset warming house with glass doors. The shed faced a rink that glistened under the sun, bleachers stretched out on either side. Kids skated, shooting at the goals, warming up their puck handling. He spotted at least five different jersey colors.
“It’s going to be a long day,” he said as the bus stopped at the warming hut.
“C’mon,” Simon said, getting up. “This is going to be fun.”
Fun.
Hockey had ceased being fun over a decade ago, really. But he piled out of the bus, got the kids moved into their section of lockers in the warming building, and then walked out with Simon to watch the first game, a fresh cup of cocoa in his hand.
He pointed out a few weaknesses of the other teams, but frankly, the entire gameplay felt like a collision of small bodies scampering over the ice, scrabbling for a wild puck. Not a glimpse of strategy in sight. Simon kept laughing at him too, so whatever .
But he eventually found himself cheering for the peewee goalie who kept nabbing the shots that came near him—most went wide, into the net behind the cage.
“He’s not bad,” Conrad said. “But he needs to keep his body square to the puck, not the player.”
“For the love, Conrad,” Simon said, but grinned at him. “We’re up next. Let’s go gather the team.”
Conrad listened as Simon briefed them on the upcoming game strategy, managed not to butt in when Simon told them to have fun out there. To his credit, the coach had adjusted the strategy to match Conrad’s suggestions.
Maybe they wouldn’t get annihilated.
When he took the ice with his team, slapping the puck to the wings in warmup, he realized he hadn’t thought of Penelope all morning.
Bam.
The kids huddled up on their bench, and he gave a pep talk to the first line, nothing too intense. “Remember, keep your heads up, support each other, and play smart. We’ve practiced hard to get here, and now it’s time to bring that practice onto the ice. Pass the puck, communicate, and stay alert. I want each of you to give it your all.” He looked up at Simon, took a breath. “But most important, I want you to enjoy every moment. On three.”
He held out his hand, and they added theirs to the middle, and okay, this was fun.
They took the ice, skating out for the face-off.
That’s when he spotted her. Lined up on the other side of the boards, dressed in a dark-blue hat, a silver-and-blue jersey, her long dark hair down, loose in the wind, clapping wildly.
Aw. She looked good. Too good.
The kind of good that could derail a guy trying to focus on the peewees.
Nope. He shut her away and turned to the game.
Face-off—the Ice Hawks scrambled after the puck, and for a second he lost her in the action. Good. Except the other team, the Maple Falls Polar Bears, scored, and when his team skated in to change lines, he spotted her on their side, seated on a bench.
He ignored her.
Simon crouched in front of the line. “Listen up! That goal—they earned it, but it’s just one goal. We’ve been down before, and we know how to bounce back. Let’s shake it off?—”
Conrad stepped in. “Focus. Nab your passes, stay sharp on defense, and communicate out there. Let’s go out there, take control, and play our game.”
Simon lifted his fist. “We’ve got this! Let’s go show them!”
They spilled out, and he barely noticed her in his peripheral vision.
They scored, and the team erupted on the bench. They switched lines and kept the puck moving?—
They weren’t terrible. And by the time the period ended, he had some new strategies. He gathered the boys in and appointed the defensemen to watch a couple of the Polar Bears’ players.
No goals in the second period, and Simon huddled up with the kids.
She stood on the outskirts, her gaze like a burr under his skin.
The crowd had dispersed, parents leaving to get hot cocoa or to warm up. He’d barely noticed the chill.
A motor fired up, and he looked up to see the Zamboni enter the rink. It rounded the outside, a smooth layer of ice freezing in the crisp air.
Simon was still talking. “We’re not defined by one goal or one game. We’re defined by our resilience and our teamwork?—”
“Oh no!”
Penelope’s voice, and of course, it zinged right into his brain. He looked up, saw her moving toward the open gate to the ice.
Then he spotted the trouble.
A kid, maybe three years old, had toddled onto the ice from the opposite side, now stood in the middle, holding a puck. He dropped it on the ice.
The Zamboni had rounded the far edge, heading toward him.
And Conrad didn’t think. He dove through the door, slipped, caught himself, and then ran, flat-footed, short steps, scampering in his boots toward the kid.
The Zamboni roared in his ears, but he didn’t look. Even if it stopped, it would slide at least a few feet on the ice.
He pushed off and slid, scooping up the toddler as he skimmed across the surface.
He reached the new ice, still forming, and his feet zipped out from under him.
He held on, angled himself and landed, bam , on his hip, rolling to his back.
Heat flashed into his bones, shaking out his breath, and he lay there groaning, the kid screaming and writhing in his arms. Players from the other side skated out, and the coach of the Polar Bears grabbed the kid from his arms.
“You okay, King Con?” This from one of the youngsters. Of course they’d recognize him. He sat up, breathing hard.
Glanced over at the Zamboni.
It had slid into the path, right where he’d plucked the kid.
“That was amazing,” said a voice behind him, and he spotted a couple of his kids also out on the ice. “Way to go, Coach!”
He nodded and rolled to his feet, his hip on fire, but glanced over to where the toddler’s mother held him, shaking, nodding at Conrad.
He shooed away help from his team and picked his way back toward the bench. Crossed in front of the Zamboni.
And maybe it was the exhaust from the engine souring the air, or the crisp smell of the fresh ice, even the rumble of the engine—or maybe just the near tragedy—but his heartbeat jumped into overdrive, and a sweat broke out along his spine.
No, not now ? —
His throat started to close, his chest tightening. Breathe — breathe ?—
He made it to the bench, sat down.
“Wow, Coach, that was cool!” One of the players—he couldn’t recall his name at the moment?—
“Okay, guys, let’s give Coach Con some room. Focus on me?—”
On the ice, the Zamboni fired back up.
Conrad’s stomach started to roil. Not here. Not now ?—
He got up and shoved through the players to the edge of the bleachers, then out and around to the back?—
There. A garbage drum. He gripped the sides and bent over, and just in time, because he lost it.
Not a lot to lose, but still—not his finest moment. He spat, wiped his mouth, completely grossed out now, and then turned to find a place to hide?—
“Conrad? You okay?”
There she stood, concern in her beautiful eyes, hands in her pockets.
Aw . . . So much for purging her from his brain. Especially when she came over, put her hands on him, and said, “C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.”
* * *
She probably deserved the cold look he gave her at her suggestion that he escape prying eyes, but the man clearly had something going on.
Conrad shoved his hands into his jacket, shivered suddenly—and why not? The temps hovered just below freezing a crisp day with blue skies and brilliant sunshine. A glorious afternoon for a hockey tournament in Minnesota, so maybe the forecasters had been wrong.
No dark storm clouds huddling on the horizon.
Unless she counted the ones in Conrad’s expression.
“Conrad. Really. People are watching. Let’s get you inside.”
She reached out for him, but he drew in a breath, glanced at the game now resuming on the ice, then closed his eyes, shook his head as if in pain.
“You’re breathing funny?—”
“I’m fine,” he snapped.
“You’re clearly not fine.” She’d dropped her voice, leaned in. “You nearly got run over by a Zamboni.”
He opened his eyes, emotion sparking in them, and then his mouth tightened and he nodded.
Okay then . It felt a little like bringing a buffalo to heel.
She made to take his arm, but he stiffened, so she just walked with him around the rink, toward the Quonset hut. Except a crowd gathered there, watching them, so she gestured toward the parking lot. “I have water bottles and sandwiches in my car.”
“You brought sandwiches?”
“I called Simon—he said the kids would need lunch after their game, so yeah.” She dug her fob out of her purse and unlocked the car.
He walked over, got in, and she opened up the back hatch and retrieved a couple water bottles. She’d wait on the sandwich, given the tragedy over at the garbage can.
Clearly a response to the adrenaline, the near miss.
She got in and handed him one of the bottles. From here, they could see the game, although the boards hid most of the action. Still, his gaze stayed on his team even as he cracked the top of the water bottle and guzzled it.
“Go easy there?—”
He lowered the bottle and looked at her.
“Sorry. Just . . . you know.”
“I’m fine.” He leaned back, closed his eyes, his breathing hard.
Almost looked like . . . “Are you having a panic attack?”
Nothing . Not even a muscle moved in his jaw.
“I mean, I get that—you were nearly pancaked. So yeah, just breathe.”
“Thanks, doc.”
But he didn’t follow with a smile, so ouch.
“I used to have them, and my therapist said to focus on something?—”
He held up a hand.
Right.
She turned on the car, then upped the heat. Watched the game.
The Ice Hawks clearly scored, because their sticks went into the air and they huddled up, hitting one of the players on the helmet in congratulations.
“We’re ahead.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said, and she glanced over. His eyes were open, watching the game, wearing almost a fierce expression.
And she was right back in her father’s study, hearing Conrad’s low—pained?—voice. “What date?”
She’d barely stopped herself from crying the entire wretched ride home.
Especially since after he walked out, she spotted his full glass of whiskey on a side table, untouched, so way to jump to conclusions, Pep . And not that she would care—but . . .
Maybe he hadn’t been trying to wheedle into her world, earn her father’s favor.
But she didn’t know how to say that. Maybe the cold front turning him into a dark and grumpy Roy Kent version of King Con was for the best.
The last thing she needed was to fall for a guy whose world was sports. Conrad was all hockey, all the time, pro or otherwise. He hadn’t even noticed her when she arrived at the rink.
Good thing he’d noticed the toddler, however. “That was brave—what you did.”
He glanced at her. “It required no bravery, Penelope. Just instinct, and maybe a little familiarity with ice and Zambonis. I was in the right place at the right time?—”
“With the right skills.”
“Sliding. Hardly a skill.”
“How did you know that Zamboni wasn’t going to be able to stop?”
He capped the bottle. “Physics. It’s putting down fresh ice, which is slippery, and even going as slow as it was, it was going to slide. Ice, big machinery . . . not hard math.”
A muscle pulled on his jaw, however, as he looked away.
The man had a tell.
“That’s not all. What am I missing here?”
A beat. He sighed. Looked back at the game. “I saw a Zamboni accident, years ago. The machine slid and pinned a guy to the boards. Crushed his leg. He eventually lost it.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yeah, it was. Young guy. Had a kid—one year old. He was in the hospital, then rehab for months.” He shook his head, swallowed. Glanced at her. “Actually, you met his son Jeremy at the gala.”
She frowned, trying to recollect. “The Ice Hawks kid.”
“Yeah. His dad was the security guard at North Star Arena in Duck Lake. He was working late one night—hockey schedules are crazy late and brutally early to get all the ice time in for the teams. A peewee team had just cleared out.”
He drew in a breath. “A bunch of high-school players had hung around, hoping to slap around the puck, and one of them got on the Zamboni, started driving on the ice, goofing around. When they spotted Joe, they piled off, and the Zamboni just kept going. Joe ran out to try to stop it, fell, and couldn’t get away in time.”
Her hand covered her mouth.
“Terrible accident.” He took another sip of water, then stared out at the game, his face hard.
Wait . . . “Oh, Conrad—you were the high schoolers.”
His jaw tightened.
“You weren’t the one driving ?—”
He looked at her, the answer in his tortured eyes. “I’d driven the Zamboni a few times, part-time job, so I had keys, I knew how to run it. It wasn’t off-limits, at least to me. But a buddy of mine got the keys, started it up, and lost control. I tried to take over, but . . . I panicked. I hit the brakes, put the Zamboni into neutral . . . and bailed. I never meant . . .”
He shook his head. “It was deemed an accident, a malfunction of the Zamboni. I was found guilty but only of negligence and was given community service. I spent a summer cleaning the local parks, coached the peewee hockey team, and had to work as the janitor at the arena for an entire year.”
He finished the water. “I never played hockey there again. Thankfully, I was already playing in the juniors, so I’d moved on. But . . .” He looked at her then, his blue eyes thick with pain. “I relive it over and over. I made the news in my small town, and it was humiliating. I felt so stupid. So . . .” His mouth tightened. “Naked.”
Oh.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I knew better—but I was with my buddies, and we were in our senior year, had just won state, and I just didn’t think . It was impulsive and stupid and . . . and I wrecked someone’s life.”
She simply didn’t care if he shrugged her away when she put her hand out and touched his forearm.
He looked at her hand, back at her, met her gaze with a slight frown.
“I’m sorry I was rude on Sunday night. I was . . . I . . .” She drew in a breath.
He cocked his head.
“I read into . . . Never mind. Clearly I misjudged you, Conrad.”
He gave a small huff. “It happens.” He lifted a shoulder. “Don’t believe everything you read on the internet.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Clearly.”
He turned, his blue eyes holding hers, what looked like a question in them.
On the ice, the buzzer sounded. The kids erupted, hugging on the ice, and it broke his gaze. She released her hold on his arm. “I’ll get the sandwiches.”
He got out also, dropped the bottle into a nearby trash can, and then helped her carry the loot to the Quonset hut.
The team traipsed in, and he high-fived them, grinning, and it seemed he’d rebounded, back in his element. Simon came in too. “You good, bro?”
Conrad nodded, gave Penelope a quick glance. “Yep. Sorry?—”
Simon held up his hand. “No problem. Great coaching today. On to the finals, boys!”
Shouts, which was her cue to get out the sandwiches.
The team descended like wolves and scooped up the food, some of them still in their new gear. A few parents came in, and she posed with some of the players. She noticed that Conrad didn’t try to get into any shots, although a couple players cornered him.
He didn’t suggest even one with her.
The team finished the meal, and she gathered up the debris while they changed out of their gear. Conrad and Simon had gone back outside to watch the next game.
She joined them, standing at the boards. They were pointing out players and different gameplay. Conrad seemed revived—she noticed he’d downed a sandwich and another bottle of water, and the color had returned to his handsome face. The sun shone down into his beard, the red highlights turning him into some warrior Norseman, and all she could think of was the pain in his blue eyes.
Yes. She’d misjudged in epic leaps and bounds.
One of the teams scored, and the period ticked down. The rest of the team had trickled out, some throwing snowballs at each other, others watching the game. A few remained inside, playing on their phones.
Conrad caught her eye. “Simon wants to head back.” He shoved his hands into his coat pocket, his mouth a line.
Oh. Um . . . and then— wait. “Do you want to ride back with me ?”
He narrowed his eyes, glanced at the sky. So maybe the forecasters hadn’t been all wrong. A few darker clouds hovered to the west, blowing in from North Dakota. “I don’t want you driving alone.”
She cocked her head.
He held up a hand. “I know. You can take care yourself. But . . . you have a couple sandwiches left. I might get hungry.” He smiled.
Oh, wow, she simply had no defenses against Mr. June’s smile. No wonder they’d doubled their sales this year.
“You can catch me up on your research,” he added.
“Research?”
“The pictures you sent to Janet?”
“Oh, those. She said that none of them were the guy, so . . .” She lifted a shoulder.
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I had to prep for my podcast anyway.”
She waited for him to suggest that he’d listened to it, but he just nodded. Oh. A small ding landed in her heart. Not that it mattered, hello.
The team had started to gather their gear. He walked over to the bus and she followed. He helped Simon load the bags, then shook his hand and turned to her.
And maybe the ding in her heart healed a little when he said, “Let’s listen to your podcast on the way home.”
“I’ll recap,” she said. “I can’t listen to my own voice.”
“Right? I hate my interviews.” He got into the car and moved the seat all the way back to make room for his legs. Funny, he hadn’t done that before.
The bus pulled out, but she needed gas, so she took the route into the town of Crystal Lake and bought a couple coffees while he pumped gas. Like they might be on a road trip.
She got back in and handed him a coffee as he climbed in the passenger side.
Snow had started to peel from the sky, fat snowflakes that melted against her windshield. She pulled out.
“So, you met my dad.” She didn’t know why she’d started there, but . . .
Okay, she wanted to know if her heart was right about Conrad. Please, let her father not be part of the game.
“Nice guy. Interesting. Smart, clearly. We talked about investing. I looked up the company he sits on the board of. Quantex Dynamics. They’re up over 44 percent just this year. Crazy.”
“Yeah. Apparently it’s some sort of AI software company?—”
“Software, hardware. They develop GPUs that are used in AI research for deep learning and computations. They’re big in the gaming world. They had a big competitor a few years ago—an electric car company developing AI autonomous-vehicle technology. But their AI software is years behind Spectra and they’re struggling.” He took a sip of coffee. “This is like tar.”
“Don’t be such a diva. At least it didn’t cost a kidney.”
He laughed. The entire car filled with the robust sound of it, and it seeped right into her, warm, smooth, sweet, like chocolate. “I’ve never heard that phrase before.”
“I had a friend in college who said it.”
She turned onto the two-lane county road back to the highway, noticed that the snow had started to stick, turning the road a little slick.
“I personally like kidney-costing coffee. Give me a latte at Caribou any day.”
“I got used to the cafeteria coffee at the U, and there’s a perverse sort of joy in the suffering. It offsets my clothing budget.”
“Is that an issue?”
She sighed. “It should be. I barely make ends meet with the podcast. But of course . . . there’s the trust fund . . . I’m so weak.”
“I think it’s fantastic that you want to make it on your own.”
Sweet.
“Except, why is it so important? Your dad seems like a generous guy.”
She didn’t know why Conrad’s words hit with such force. She probably winced, because he frowned.
“Did I say something?”
Shoot, her eyes suddenly burned—where had that come from? She’d made peace years ago with—“No. Yes.” She glanced at him. “My dad refused to pay the ransom on me when I was kidnapped.”
There, it was out. And her chest eased. “He told me it was because he knew who took me, that he knew my nanny wouldn’t hurt me, but . . . I don’t know. It’s always made me feel like . . . you know . . .”
“You needed to be on your own. Take care of yourself.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I never know when someone is going to betray me.”
He went silent, and she winced again when he said, quietly, “That explains a lot.”
She looked at him then, probably for too long, because he jerked, slammed his hand on the dash.
“Pen!”
She righted them into the lane a second before the other car passed. But she slightly overcompensated and their car swerved.
Yanking her foot off the gas, she resisted hitting the brakes, let the car slow on its own, and straightened them out. She blew out a breath as she eased them up to speed again.
“Wow. That was . . . pretty good.”
“I took a defensive driving class in college.”
“Sexy.”
She smiled, glanced at him.
“Eyes on the road!”
“Sorry.”
Night was descending, twilight sparking through the trees. Headlights beamed on the road behind her.
“Sorry about your dad,” Conrad said.
“I forgave him long ago. He is pretty smart with money—he’s managed our family’s investment holdings since he was out of finance school.”
“At the U?”
“Cornell. I was the only one who went to the University of Minnesota.”
“I never went to college.”
“Really?”
“Drafted when I was eighteen. Made it to the NHL by the time I was twenty. But I’ve taken some business and investing classes. And I’ve done okay.”
“Given your digs, more than okay.”
“Trying to stay in the game.”
“That seems to be your specialty.” And she didn’t mean it as a dig. She glanced at him to see if he might have?—
He smiled back.
Lights burst into her rearview mirror. She winced and adjusted the mirror. “Sheesh.”
“Brights much, buddy?” He turned in his seat.
The car did seem to be too close. It pulled out as if to pass, and she eased up on the gas. Go ahead, pal ? —
The car moved parallel with her, kept speed.
In the distance ahead, she spotted headlights. “C’mon, pass me.”
The car stayed even and then?—
“Hey!” She swerved to avoid it as it crowded into her lane. She tapped the brakes.
“Get behind it?—”
Not fast enough. The car jerked into her lane right in front of her, clipping her hood?—
The Nissan spun, slamming her against the door as she hit the brakes. Too hard. She worked the wheel, but the car slid across the road, flying into the shoulder?—
Airborne.
They touched down and rolled. Down into the ditch, beyond, into a tangle of pine and scrub brush, her seatbelt pinning her as the car pitched into the snowy woods.
And her scream echoing into the night.