By the time I reached Rattlesnake Peak Road, I’d fallen into a funk. I rolled to the gates of Adam’s land and rang the buzzer. They opened slowly. Pulling up to the nine thousand square-foot Spanish motif mansion didn’t help to lift my spirits as it should have. Adam whipped open the wide front doors and stepped out to greet me. That made me smile. He was a nice guy. Smart, professional, outgoing, eager to help those under him succeed. Add to that, he was easy on the eyes, dressed impeccably, and came from a ranching background, and it was easy to see why every woman and most of the men on the project respected him. For some crazy reason he had picked me, the big, bumbling farm kid from Minnesota, to take under his wing.
“Good thing I told the cook to put the food in the oven on low,” he said as I exited my truck. He took my hand, shook it, and then held it for a long moment. The sun seemed to glint off his gold hair as his sky-blue eyes twinkled. He had some age lines; he was over forty, but they suited him well. Lean and tall, not as tall as me though, he commanded respect with his bearing. He’d come far from his humble roots on a dirt-poor horse farm in Wyoming.
“Sorry, the cake discussion kind of went off the rails and we somehow ended up with a wedding planner and makeup artist,” I replied then eased my hand from his grip. He did tend to be a little too much in my personal space with the touching, but I chalked that up to Adam being Adam. I could handle a long handshake or an arm around the shoulder as long as it was brief.
“Ah weddings. I hope yours runs smoother than my first two did. My last husband cost me a Malibu beach house and several Arabian mares.”
“Ouch, sorry.”
He patted my cheek playfully. “Don’t let me drag you down. God knows the older a man gets the less trust he puts in vows and promises. Much better to just stay single.” He looped an arm around my shoulder then led me past the infinity pool. “I told Marta to set up our food on the veranda overlooking the guest house.”
“Do you have power there for the laptop? My Dell isn’t holding a charge.”
“Of course, but also I’ll send you a new laptop.”
“It’s okay I don’t need—”
“Nonsense, I can’t have my best analyst working on old equipment.”
That conversation over, we strolled around the grounds, him talking about the weather and the new groundskeeper he had hired, small talk for a millionaire. My eyes swept over the vista, the desert hills, and tall cacti as I grew more and more uncomfortable with his arm around my neck and managed to shuck it off jokingly. Thankfully, we reached the back of the mansion. A huge in-ground pool sparkled under the afternoon sun.
“Did you bring trunks?” he asked, his hand sliding down my back to rest on my belt as he directed me to a small round patio table heaped with covered dishes. I sat facing the wind feeling more than a little uneasy. He took my laptop, placed it onto a matching glider to the left of us, and poured me a drink.
“No, no trunks.”
“Never mind, next time maybe.” Adam looked the part of wealthy homeowner in his khaki shorts and tailored blue button-down. “I had Marta prepare some of your home state favorites.” He pulled the lids off the platters. My eyes widened. “Walleye fillets over wild rice, venison meatballs, a pot of booyah soup, and of course, some cold Grain Belt beer to wash it all down with.”
I eyed the ice-filled urn holding several bottles of beer. “I’m not drinking.”
“I’ll have my driver take you back.”
“No, I’m good. I need to concentrate on the figures anyway. And, oh man, the only thing that’s missing is a tater tot hotdish,” I laughed.
“Damn it! Next time.” He ladled up some of the rich soup and passed the bowl over. I dug in, sighing at the taste that took me right back home to fall church fundraisers where the booyah was made in huge kettles to sell. It was just as good as I recalled. The meats—oxtail, pork, short ribs, and chicken were tender, the veggies soft and delicious. I spooned up a big chunk of rutabaga. “Is it a taste of home?”
“Oh yeah, it’s just like the church socials back in Minnesota. I really miss the cold weather.” I sighed then resumed eating.
“I bet. I miss the snow. Growing up in Wyoming, I always loved the arrival of winter when I was a kid. Which is why I enjoy spending as much time in Switzerland as possible. It’s the home base of Bygenta, and winter there is really winter! You know.” He cracked open a Grain Belt and passed me a lemonade. “This project is nearing completion. Once it’s done I’d love to fly you over to our HQ in Basel. Do you ski?”
I nodded then dabbed my chin with a heavy cloth napkin. “Yeah, of course.”
“You’d love it over there then. They have some wonderful snow already, and the ski resorts are to die for! I own a small chalet near Basel-Landschaft with access to some amazing slopes. We could ski all day and enjoy the town of Basel at night. They have a winter market that I hit weekly, some wonderful ice-skating rinks, and the food is simply incredible!”
“Sounds great.” And it did.
I doubted Ryker would think so though…
Four
Ryker
The meeting with Coach Carmichael about the Boston game went much as I’d expected. He’d been controlled but pissed, I’d been irritable and defensive. When he suggested I explain what in heaven’s name I’d been thinking to take my eye off the puck, I told him I had my reasons. He contemplated me over his steepled hands for some time and then sighed.
“Do you actually want to play Raptors hockey?”
What the hell kind of question was that?
“Of course, I do!” He frowned at me. “Coach,” I added with respect.
“It doesn’t seem like it right now.”
“It’s just…” I folded faster than Superman on laundry day, and poor, bewildered Coach Carmichael got the full story of my life as it stood, with all the resulting hesitations and worries. Well, the edited version, at least. When I was done with my fabricated excuses, he sat back in his chair and regarded me thoughtfully.
“So tell me what you are doing to fix the hockey parts?”
I could answer that one in my sleep. “I’m going to put one hundred and ten percent into every game.”
“And?” He leaned forward and tapped his pen on a pad of Raptors notepaper filled with Xs and Os.
And? He wanted more from me? Like what? “I apologized to Alex,” I offered, and he raised a single eyebrow, which appeared was going to be his only comment. “And the team,” I tagged on. He didn’t have to know it was in group chat, but the post was sincere and heartfelt and talked about moving on to the next game. He remained underwhelmed and I wracked my brains for what else he might need. “I’ll leave the attitude at the door when we play?” Shit, I made that sound like a question, and he didn’t appear to be amused.
“Ryker, this isn’t the first time in the last few weeks that you’ve been off your game, in fact the Boston mess was the fifth one in a row. So, I’ve talked to Charlie and he’s waiting for you in his office.”
I winced. Charlie Brewer, the team numbskull-whisperer, was the very last person I wanted to talk to. He was a nice enough guy, but he had this way of looking at a person as if he could see straight inside their soul. He wasn’t a trained psychologist, but he was a former player and he knew his stuff, and was the one who stayed around to knock sense into anyone who needed it.