never before fallen in love.
“I have no idea,” she said.
“Do you mind if I kiss you again?”
“Not very much at all.”
This time he leaned against the rough wood bench, pulling her into his body. He felt passion unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, and he heard the words come out of his mouth: “You know how I asked you if you believe certain things are meant to be?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “How could we know?”
“Because I have proof.”
“Proof?”
“Yes.” Martin said, holding her closer. “It’s happening right now, to us.”
“We’re meant to be?” May asked.
“We’re supposed to get to know each other. I’m supposed to court you, and we’re supposed to figure out what we have in common.”
“Looking at it that way, it doesn’t make sense,” May said. “I hardly know anything about hockey, and you don’t seem like the flower garden type. I’m raising my daughter on a farm in Connecticut, and you’re a jet-setting sports star in Boston.”
Martin held her tighter, shaking his head. “None of that makes any difference,” he said.
“How can you say that?”
“Because this is meant to be. I took one look at you on the plane, and I knew.”
“Knew what?” she asked softly, as if her mouth were too dry to quite say the words.
“That you’re the one.”
“But how can you know?”
“The same way you do,” he said. “Because it’s true.”
Chapter 4
W ITH GAME 1 OF THE Stanley Cup finals about to be played on the fast ice of Edmonton, Martin sat in the locker room of Northlands Coliseum. The trainer had just finished taping Martin’s ankles, knees, and wrists, and he was distractedly thinking about May and when he’d see her again when Coach Dafoe walked over. Hands in his pockets, he stood by the bench.
The coach had an easygoing demeanor, calling the team “his boys,” inviting some of them home for Sunday dinners with his wife and kids, but he was also the most focused coach in the NHL. He had known both of Martin’s parents, having played with Serge Cartier on the Montreal Canadiens when they were both young men. Balding and paunchy now, Coach Dafoe had dark eyes that reminded Martin of a shark’s—they never blinked, and they missed nothing.
Clearing his throat, he looked Martin straight in the eye.
“This is it, Martin.”
“I know,” Martin said.
“We’ve asked a lot of you all season, and we’re going to do that again tonight.”
Martin nodded, but he didn’t speak. He had been playing hockey a long time, and it was every player’s dream to make it to the finals. This year he and the Bruins had taken each other all the way. He knew he was their “star,” that expectations were higher for him than anyone. His stomach jolted, and when he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was his father standing before him instead of Coach Dafoe.
“You’ve had a few days off now,” the coach added.
“A chance to rest,” Martin agreed. And to fall in love with May. He wouldn’t let the other thought materialize: to get nervous about the series.
“That’s good.” The coach crouched down, still looking Martin square in the eye. He talked about Martin’s deadly shot, how there wasn’t another player on the ice who could score like him, how tonight Martin should fight the urge to pass the puck to his teammates.
“If Ray’s in the clear—” Martin said.
Coach Dafoe shook his head. Martin’s mother’s early coaching had had one flaw: She had stressed good sportsmanship, and she’d taught her son to pass whenever possible. He passed flawlessly without appearing to cock the stick, fooling his opponents and sometimes his own teammates.
“When in doubt, shoot,” Coach Dafoe said.
“But Ray and Bruno—”
“This could be your year,” Coach Dafoe reminded him. “The Bruins’ year.”
“I know, Coach.”
“We don’t know how good we are yet. That’s what
“I have no idea,” she said.
“Do you mind if I kiss you again?”
“Not very much at all.”
This time he leaned against the rough wood bench, pulling her into his body. He felt passion unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, and he heard the words come out of his mouth: “You know how I asked you if you believe certain things are meant to be?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “How could we know?”
“Because I have proof.”
“Proof?”
“Yes.” Martin said, holding her closer. “It’s happening right now, to us.”
“We’re meant to be?” May asked.
“We’re supposed to get to know each other. I’m supposed to court you, and we’re supposed to figure out what we have in common.”
“Looking at it that way, it doesn’t make sense,” May said. “I hardly know anything about hockey, and you don’t seem like the flower garden type. I’m raising my daughter on a farm in Connecticut, and you’re a jet-setting sports star in Boston.”
Martin held her tighter, shaking his head. “None of that makes any difference,” he said.
“How can you say that?”
“Because this is meant to be. I took one look at you on the plane, and I knew.”
“Knew what?” she asked softly, as if her mouth were too dry to quite say the words.
“That you’re the one.”
“But how can you know?”
“The same way you do,” he said. “Because it’s true.”
Chapter 4
W ITH GAME 1 OF THE Stanley Cup finals about to be played on the fast ice of Edmonton, Martin sat in the locker room of Northlands Coliseum. The trainer had just finished taping Martin’s ankles, knees, and wrists, and he was distractedly thinking about May and when he’d see her again when Coach Dafoe walked over. Hands in his pockets, he stood by the bench.
The coach had an easygoing demeanor, calling the team “his boys,” inviting some of them home for Sunday dinners with his wife and kids, but he was also the most focused coach in the NHL. He had known both of Martin’s parents, having played with Serge Cartier on the Montreal Canadiens when they were both young men. Balding and paunchy now, Coach Dafoe had dark eyes that reminded Martin of a shark’s—they never blinked, and they missed nothing.
Clearing his throat, he looked Martin straight in the eye.
“This is it, Martin.”
“I know,” Martin said.
“We’ve asked a lot of you all season, and we’re going to do that again tonight.”
Martin nodded, but he didn’t speak. He had been playing hockey a long time, and it was every player’s dream to make it to the finals. This year he and the Bruins had taken each other all the way. He knew he was their “star,” that expectations were higher for him than anyone. His stomach jolted, and when he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was his father standing before him instead of Coach Dafoe.
“You’ve had a few days off now,” the coach added.
“A chance to rest,” Martin agreed. And to fall in love with May. He wouldn’t let the other thought materialize: to get nervous about the series.
“That’s good.” The coach crouched down, still looking Martin square in the eye. He talked about Martin’s deadly shot, how there wasn’t another player on the ice who could score like him, how tonight Martin should fight the urge to pass the puck to his teammates.
“If Ray’s in the clear—” Martin said.
Coach Dafoe shook his head. Martin’s mother’s early coaching had had one flaw: She had stressed good sportsmanship, and she’d taught her son to pass whenever possible. He passed flawlessly without appearing to cock the stick, fooling his opponents and sometimes his own teammates.
“When in doubt, shoot,” Coach Dafoe said.
“But Ray and Bruno—”
“This could be your year,” Coach Dafoe reminded him. “The Bruins’ year.”
“I know, Coach.”
“We don’t know how good we are yet. That’s what
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