Free Face-Off by Nancy Warren Page A

that’s the problem.”
    She crowed with delight and launched herself at him. “I knew it. I knew she was the one.” She squeezed her arms around his all-muscle middle. “This time it’s real love, isn’t it?”
    A crooked smile dawned, “Yeah. The forever kind.”
    â€œOoh, I can’t wait to be an auntie.”
    â€œSam, stop being a girl,” he ordered her sternly. “We’re talking hockey here.”
    â€œRight.” She pulled out of his arms, but nothing could stop the happy feeling inside her. At least one of them looked as though they had a solid romantic future ahead of them. “So, hockey.”
    â€œYeah. I’m coaching Greg’s team.”
    â€œI know.”
    His long legs ate up the polished concrete floor of her Yaletown loft. Eight hundred and sixty two square feet had never felt so tiny. She was growing dizzy from watching him.
    â€œYou don’t seem very happy about it.” Sometimes, she’d discovered, stating the obvious was the best way to get people talking. This time was no different.
    â€œHappy?” He swung round and actually stopped in histracks long enough to make eye contact. “How can I be happy about it?”
    She thought about how it must feel to be an NHL heavyweight benched forever and the only coaching gig around was for a bunch of fire and police geezers. “Maybe this will be a stepping-stone to other coaching opportunities.”
    He shook his head at her, as though she’d said something incredibly dumb. Which couldn’t be possible. “I don’t know how to coach.”
    Ah, so it wasn’t the humiliation of the team, but fear of his own shortcomings that was stopping him.
    She walked forward, laid a hand on his shoulder. “How did you learn to play hockey?”
    â€œYou were there. You saw me.”
    â€œOnly if I hung out at the rink. You were always at the rink.”
    â€œYeah. Exactly. That’s how I learned to play.”
    â€œRight. You practiced. Hour after hour. Maybe coaching is the same. You practice.”
    â€œI don’t know. These guys are seriously messed up. It’s so bad I’m taking advice from an elementary school teacher.”
    She bit back a smile. Coaching wasn’t the only thing he was learning from Sierra Janssen.
    â€œHere’s the thing, Sam, you have a good eye. Remember when you figured out way back in high school that moving Tom Delaney from right wing to left would improve the team? And we moved him and it was amazing?”
    â€œI remember. But it was easy to spot from the bench. He couldn’t shoot left worth a damn. But if he shot right, he had a killer aim.”
    â€œNot everyone can spot those things. You’ve got aninstinct. And you know hockey so I don’t have to explain anything.”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œCome on, you’ve been complaining since I got to town that we hardly see each other.”
    â€œI was referring to having dinner together or hanging out, not me helping you coach a bunch of over-the-hill amateurs.”
    â€œLook. Come down to the rink on Saturday morning. You’ve got good judgment, let me know what you think.”
    Her hand came off her brother’s shoulder and clenched involuntarily at her side. “Is Greg going to be there?”
    Jarrad’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “Of course he’s going to be there. He’s on the team. Come on. You guys are ancient history. I’m sure you could be in the same hockey rink without killing each other.”
    She wasn’t so sure about that.
    Talk about complicated.
    â€œI know you don’t understand, but—”
    â€œYou’re right. I don’t. No one does. So, you guys went out all through high school, then you went away to college and you broke up. Big deal. Happens all the time.”
    â€œWell, there was a little more to it than that.” She still experienced