Free Face-Off by Nancy Warren Page B

a weird ache in her chest at the thought of all the history that was between her and Greg Olsen. They hadn’t only been boyfriend and girlfriend in high school. Looking back she realized now they’d been truly in love. They were probably the only two high-school sophomores who got Romeo and Juliet, who really deep-down understood the kind of teenaged passionate love that would cause you to die for each other rather than live alone.
    And yet she’d killed that love more completely than Romeo and Juliet had perished.
    In the most mundane manner. When Greg asked her to marry him, right before she’d left to go to law school in Toronto, she’d seen the gesture as an attempt to control her. As though he didn’t trust her to stay faithful to him.
    Oh, they’d seen each other in the intervening years since she’d been back in Vancouver. Ironically enough, usually at the wedding of an old friend from high school.
    They were polite, like distant acquaintances, the kind where you recognize a face but can’t recall the person’s name. Before, he’d been the first person she thought of when she woke in the morning, the last one she talked to at night.
    Jarrad was right. What was the big deal? Her brother was coaching the team. So what if her old boyfriend was part of the group? He was an old flame who’d sputtered out long ago.
    â€œSure,” she said. “I’ll swing by on Saturday.”
    Maybe it was time to make peace with the past.

2
    T HE MULTI-RINK COMPLEX housed everything from kids’ amateur teams to the Vancouver Canucks training. The place was hopping on a Saturday morning. Even though Samantha had given up precious sleep to be here at 7:00 a.m. she knew many of the players would have started while it was still dark outside.
    She passed a yawning pair of parents carrying coffee in refillable containers that sported a kids’ hockey-team logo. Acquired in a team fundraiser no doubt.
    Before entering the rink where Jarrad was coaching, she stopped to fix her scarf in the neck of the absurdly expensive black woolen jacket she’d never even worn before. Even as she’d cursed herself for doing it, she’d taken extra time with her hair and makeup this morning, as though she were preparing for an important day in court, not to sit in on an amateur hockey practice at a ridiculously early hour.
    She slipped into the rink where the cops and fire fighters were practicing. There was Jarrad, one foot up on a bench, watching as the men practiced a scoring drill. They were passing the puck down the ice once, twice and then the third guy shot for the net.
    Twenty or so men skated around the rink, but only one drew her attention. The way he always had.
    She moved closer, greeted Jarrad and passed him the takeout coffee she’d brought him.
    â€œThanks,” he said absently, his eyes never leaving the rink.
    Her gaze was fixed too, but on a more specific object. He looked so familiar and yet so new. The flop of dark hair she’d loved to play with was shorter now, but still thick and dark and her fingers itched to feel it. He’d grown into his face and it was harder, stronger than in his youth. His body had filled out, too. He wasn’t the tallest guy on the team, but he was solid and commanding.
    As though he felt her gaze on him, she saw Greg’s head lift, and he scanned the benches. She wanted to glance away, not be caught staring at him, but somehow she was powerless to move her gaze until it connected with his and the impact was like a charge of electricity zapping her. For a long moment they stayed like that, gazes connecting, all the intimate past roaring back to her in a rush.
    â€œHey, Olsen. Wake up.”
    He turned his head, caught the puck and the practice continued. He didn’t again glance her way. She knew because she never let him out of her sight.
    Jarrad had clearly overcome his reticence about his coaching abilities. He