Playmaker: A Baltimore Banners Intermission Novella (9 page)

Made her want.

No, she shouldn't be doing this. She couldn't.

She uncurled her fingers and rested the palm of her hand flat against his chest. Then she pulled away, pushing him just the slightest bit to put distance between them. Was it her imagination, or was his heart beating hard in his chest, the rhythm steady against her palm? And was his breathing a little faster, a little shakier like hers? It must be her imagination. It had to be.

"Derek, what are you doing?"

He blinked, a slow lowering of lids over heated blue eyes. "I thought I was kissing you."

"No. I mean—why? I don't understand. We did our thing already. Had our fun and—"

"Had our fun?" He took a step back, his brows lowering into a dangerous frown. Cold air flowed into the space between them, chilling her. "You think that's all I wanted? A quick romp, wham bam and good bye?"

"Isn't it?"

Something flashed in his eyes. Guilt, maybe? Certainly not hurt. No, that was surely her imagination. "No, it isn't. Why would you think that?"

"Why?" God, she could name a hundred different reasons, but the biggest one of all was that she wasn't his type. She knew that, had seen some of the women he dated, both at the arena and in the sports pages. And she wasn't like them, not even remotely close. "I think the only reason you're still interested is because I'm not falling all over you. I'm nothing more than a challenge to you."

Okay, that sounded really harsh, even for her. And she didn't imagine the flare of hurt in his eyes this time. Hurt and something that looked like disappointment. Which was so ridiculous. No, it had to be her imagination.

She squeezed her eyes shut for little more than a second. And when she reopened them, Derek had taken another step back. His face was expressionless, his eyes hidden in the shadows of the night. Tension rolled from him, small little waves that made her uncomfortable, made her feel guilty.

He held the backpack out to her, waiting for her to take it. She closed her hand over the strap, expecting him to let go. But he tugged on it instead, pulling her off balance enough that she staggered forward a step.

He pressed his lips against hers once more, the touch so brief it barely qualified as a peck. Then he released the backpack and took another step back.

"You're wrong."

He didn't say anything else, just turned around and walked away. Bridget stared after him, wondering what the hell had just happened.

And wondering if maybe she hadn't just made another mistake that she'd come to regret.

"Out with it, love."

Bridget winced at the sharp nudge against her ankle then looked across the table with a frown. William and Mitchell were both watching her, identical expressions of concern on their faces.

She shrugged and looked back at her plate, at the mess she had made of the French toast. She sighed and put her fork down then reached for the mug of coffee.

Sunday breakfast was a weekly tradition, had been for over a year. It was supposed to be a relaxed gathering, a time to unwind and catch up on the week's events. Only Bridget didn't feel like talking. Which shouldn't have been a problem, since Mitchell had been excited to share the news of his new position with the public relations firm he worked for. The details had provided plenty of conversation, saving Bridget from saying anything.

Except she must have zoned out somewhere along the line, or been too quiet, or too distracted. Something. It didn't really matter what, only that the two men sitting across from her had noticed.

"Out with what?"

"With whatever has you so deep in thought."

Bridget shrugged again. "Nothing. I'm just tired, I guess."

William and Mitchell exchanged a quick look, sharing so much silent communication that Bridget sighed again. She wondered if she should just come up with an excuse to leave, to run upstairs to her own apartment and hide for an hour or so before it was time to leave for the hospital.

No such luck. Not when William leaned across the table and grabbed her wrist. Yeah, her cousin knew her too well.

"It's more than just being tired. Out with it, love. What's going on?"

Bridget tugged her wrist from William's hold and leaned back in the chair. "How can you tell if someone is serious about you, or just playing games?"

Silence greeted her question, a silence filled with curiosity and wariness. Bridget immediately regretted asking, knowing that she had only succeeded in opening herself up to at least a dozen questions. And while the questions would be meant well, she really didn't feel like listening to them.

Or answering them.

William leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead, giving him an air of rakish danger. She thought once again that her cousin had been born in the wrong century, that he'd make a perfect eighteenth century pirate. Or highwayman.

"Would this have anything to do with your visitor from last week?" William's dark eyes bore into hers, studying, seeing too much. Bridget squirmed and lowered her gaze.

"No. Not really. Well, maybe."

Mitchell laughed, the sound rich and warm. He nudged her foot under the table then nodded at William. "Sounds like our Bridget may have finally met someone who keeps her on her toes."

"What? No. No way. I'm not even sure I like him."

William and Mitchell exchanged another look before turning back to her. "So you're in the habit now of sleeping with men you don't like?"

Heat instantly flared inside her, over her. Her face burned, no doubt glowing a vibrant red, and she looked away in embarrassment. It was one thing for her to know that they knew what happened. Well, maybe not know, not really, but certainly guess. But for William to come right out and say it? Gah. Could she be any more mortified?

"Ah, thought so." William chuckled, completely ignoring her reaction. He ran his fingers along the handle of the knife, his brows lowered in thought for a long minute. "So why do you think the man in question is playing games?"

"I don't know. I'm not his type, for one."

William cocked one eyebrow at her then ran his gaze from the top of her head down to her waist—or whatever he could see since she was sitting at the table. She rolled her eyes and waited for him to say something about her usual messy ponytail. At least she was wearing a somewhat decent sweater today instead of her usual baggy sweatshirt.

But he surprised her and didn't say anything. At least, not about the way she was dressed. "And what type do you think is his?"

"I don't know." Bridget stared at her half-eaten French toast, remembering the way she had seen Derek flirting with the dance team. One in particular, now that she thought about it. She frowned, not liking the spurt of emotion that flared at the memory. No way was she jealous—there was nothing to be jealous of, no logical reason for it. "I think he likes the model-type. You know, all curves and bare skin and simpering smiles. And I think he's just used to women chasing after him."

Mitchell laughed, the sound quickly choked back when William tossed him a dirty look. Her cousin looked back at her, his brow creased even more. "That's not like you, love."

"What's not?"

"You're being a bit judgmental, aren't you? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were maybe jealous of something."

Bridget opened her mouth to object, only to have William wave his hand at her, dismissing whatever she was going to say. Which was just as well, since she wasn't sure what to say, not when his words were too close to the truth.

"Be that as it may. You say he's used to women chasing him. So you think he's the kind of man who moves on after getting what he wants?"

"Well…yeah. I guess. I mean, I think he just sees me as a challenge, since I'm not falling all over him."

"Really?" William placed his arms on the table and leaned toward her. "I would think the challenge is over, wouldn't you? That is, if we're talking about the same gentleman. Or perhaps you're talking about someone else?"

Crap. Crap and shit. Bridget looked away, knowing that the blush on her face said more than words ever could. She wanted to deny it, wanted to argue with William, to defend herself. But she couldn't—not only because he was right, but because he knew her too well.

She pushed away from the table and grabbed her plate. "I need to get ready to leave."

"You can leave it, I'll clean up." Mitchell stood and took the plate from her, pausing long enough to give William a warning glance. "Stop teasing your cousin. It will only make things worse."

Mitchell grabbed the other plates and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone. William watched the swinging door for a few seconds then leaned back in the chair with a sigh.

"Sorry, love."

Bridget shrugged but didn't say anything. A few minutes went by, quiet but not uncomfortable. Then William leaned forward with a sigh and closed his hand around her wrist once more.

"What is it you’re afraid of, Bridget? That you like him—or that maybe he likes you?"

"That doesn't make sense."

"Doesn't it? For as strong and independent as you've always been, you've never given yourself enough credit."

"Stubborn. Don't forget stubborn."

"Yes, stubborn too. God forbid I forget that." William chuckled and squeezed her hand then sat back. "So—which is it?"

She thought about playing dumb, then reconsidered it when she saw the look William was giving her. "I don't know. Both maybe. I mean, I didn't think he'd be the kind of guy I'd like, you know? And what if it turns out I really do like him and he only sees me as a challenge? What then?"

"Explain to me again why you think he would see you as a challenge."

"I told you. Because I'm not falling all over him."

"And again, not to sound too harsh, love, you've already slept with him, so what challenge is there?"

Leave it to William to point out the obvious, no matter harsh it might sound. But he was right. At least, partially. Bridget blew out a sigh laced with frustration and impatience. "Because I didn't mope around hoping he'd call. Because I didn't fawn all over him the next time I saw him. That's why."

"Ah, now I see." William nodded as if it all made perfect sense now. She was half-tempted to ask him to explain it to her because she was more confused now than before. "Let me ask you a question. The times you've been with him—have you had fun?"

Her face heated again and she looked away, still embarrassed even though she knew William didn't mean it quite that way. Then she nodded. "Yeah. I guess."

"And do you think he's someone you would continue to enjoy being with?"

"I suppose so. Maybe."

"Then what is so wrong with just having fun and seeing where it leads?"

"What if it doesn't lead anywhere except to me getting hurt?"

"That's something you need to decide, love. Are you willing to lock yourself away and never take that chance?"

Bridget pulled her gaze away from the linen placemat, frowning. "You're no help."

William laughed and pushed away from the table, walking around until he stood in front of her. He ruffled her hair, pulling it loose from her ponytail. "Of course I am and you know it. But as wise as I am, I can't give you the answers. Only you can do that."

Bridget muttered a growl and pushed his hand away before automatically redoing her ponytail. He laughed again then pulled her from the chair, leading her over to the door and lifting her backpack from the floor. He bent down to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

"Off with you, before you're late. And Bridget? Don't overthink things. There are times when you just need to let things happen and see where they take you."

William nudged her out the door, closing it behind her. She blew out another frustrated breath then tossed the bag over her left shoulder.

"See where they take you. Yeah, easy for you to say." She mumbled the words to the closed door, knowing she'd get no more answers from it then she did from William.

She didn't think she'd ever get the answers. And she could at least admit to herself that part of her was afraid of what those answers might be.

Bridget paused outside the closed door, just out of sight, and listened to the clear laughter drifting into the hallway. The sound brought a smile to her face, the noise more enjoyable than any song.

"Sounds good, doesn't it?"

Bridget turned away from the door, not caring that she had been caught listening. Mary, one of the pediatric nurses, stood just off to the side, a small smile on her round face. Her mahogany hair was liberally threaded with silver and pulled back with a bright purple elastic band. The band matched her scrubs: bright purple pants with a purple top. The top was printed with colorful cartoon penguins in various playful poses, designed to be eye-catching, fun, cheerful. There was even a small stuffed penguin attached to the stethoscope draped around Mary's neck.

Bridget had asked her once about the different scrub outfits she wore, curious about the bright colors and sometime garish patterns. Mary said she wore them to not only cheer the patients, but to cheer herself as well.

It didn't take long for Bridget to understand why.

"Yeah, it does." She cocked her head, listening to the squeals of laughter. There was a sudden loud thump, followed by a split-second of ominous silence. Then more laughter, accompanied by a few muffled warnings of someone getting into trouble. The warnings weren't serious, though, and quickly dissolved into more giggles after a deeper voice warned them not to tell.

Bridget frowned, picking up several other deeper voices in the commotion. She glanced over at Mary, her brows raised in question. "What in the world are they doing in there?"

"Playing hockey. I think." Mary laughed then reached out to give Bridget's arm a squeeze. "This was a wonderful idea, Bridget. I can't thank you enough for arranging it."

Bridget opened her mouth, ready to ask Mary what she was talking about, but the woman was already walking away, her stride brisk as she moved down the hall. Bridget stayed where she was, her feet frozen in place, long after Mary disappeared around the corner.

What was it she was supposed to have arranged?

Another thump echoed from the room, followed by loud cheers and screams of "Score!". And underneath was a deeper voice. No, several deeper voices.

Bridget was very much afraid that she recognized one of them. No, it couldn't be. Surely she was imagining things.

She pushed opened the door, not entirely sure what to expect. It didn't matter what she expected because the sight that greeted her took her breath away, surprising her enough that she actually gasped.

Six kids, ranging in age from eight to twelve years old, were skipping around the large room, each wielding chunky plastic hockey sticks. Even Jerry was playing, his wheelchair being pushed around the room by one of the Banners players. Maybe pushed was the wrong term, given that Mat Herron was weaving the chair in and out between everyone else, pulling it back to do wheelies and making engine noises as Jerry swatted at a large red ball.

Brad Goodrich, the team's back-up goalie, was kneeling in front of a makeshift goal, a plastic bucket on his head and a child's baseball mitt shoved on one oversized hand. And there, in the middle of the room, was Derek Caulton, inching forward on his knees as he pretended to swipe at the ball being rolled across the floor toward the makeshift goal.

Dionne giggled and swung her stick—which was almost as big as she was—at the ball. The little girl stumbled and tripped after hitting the ball, her stick flying up and catching Derek on the chin just before she tumbled toward the floor.

Bridget moved forward, her hands instinctively reaching for the little girl even though she was nowhere close enough to catch her. She held her breath, waiting to hear the soft thud of a child falling, waiting for the accompanying shriek that would be followed by tears.

But Derek was closer, and so much faster. He caught the little girl around the waist and swooped her up, swinging her around and angling her so she could still aim for the ball. With Derek's help, Dionne hit it one more time and it rolled oh-so-slowly past Brad.

"Score!" Derek's booming voice was nearly drowned out by the squeals of laughter and cheers. Dionne giggled again, her thin arms wrapped around Derek's neck. An expression of surprise crossed his face, mixed with something else so fleeting that Bridget couldn't make it out. She blinked and swallowed, her heart finally easing in her chest. When she looked again, whatever expression had been on his face was gone, replaced by a boyish grin that made her heart skip again.

He sat back on his heels and eased Dionne to the floor. But the little girl didn't let go. Instead she clapped one hand on each side of his face and leaned forward, her face scrunched into an expression of worry.

"You have a boo-boo." Then she leaned forward and placed a loud wet kiss on his chin. "There. All better."

She squirmed out of Derek's arms and made her way back to the group of other kids, her stride awkward and off-balance because of her limp. Bridget stayed where she was, watching Derek. Her worry over Dionne was replaced by something stronger. Something she didn't want to examine too closely.

Derek remained where he was, off to the side as the game continued around him. He reached up and touched his chin with one hand, absently rubbing the spot Dionne kissed with a look of bewilderment on his face, like he wasn't quite sure what had just happened.

Something softened in Bridget at his expression. No, she didn't want to feel anything soft toward Derek. She couldn't. It was too dangerous, too risky.

And too late.

She should look away. And she should push away whatever thoughts were trying to form in her mind. Just shove them back before she could acknowledge them. But Derek must have sensed her watching him and he turned toward her, their eyes meeting across the room. And for just a second, she thought she saw something in his gaze. Something that took her breath away and kicked up her pulse rate.

Compassion. Surprise. Vulnerability.

No. No, no, no. Derek Caulton didn't possess compassion. And vulnerability? Absolutely not. He was the golden child, born into a world of privilege, not used to responsibility off the ice. She couldn't let herself think she had glimpsed anything even close to vulnerability in his clear gaze. She couldn't. If she did, that would put her one step closer to falling.

If it wasn't already too late for that.

Bridget blinked and tried to look away, telling herself she needed to move. She should call out to the kids, should step further into the room—or turn around and run.

But it was already too late because Derek was pushing to his feet, his gaze never leaving hers as he stepped toward her, closing the distance between them. And then he was standing in front of her, standing too close, looking down at her with those clear eyes, his expression still open, unguarded.

For one crazy second she thought he might kiss her, right there in front of everyone. She felt herself leaning closer, leaning forward, wanting to feel his lips brush against hers.

No. This was insane.
She
was insane. Bridget blinked again and started to look away but her gaze snagged a flash of red just under Derek's chin. A tiny smear of blood, barely noticeable from a small cut.

"You're bleeding."

Derek jerked back, just catching himself before he stumbled. His brows lowered over his eyes and he shook his head, like he hadn't heard her correctly. Was it her imagination, or was the faintest blush tingeing his cheeks?

She reached up with her hand, her finger not quite touching his chin. "It looks like you have a cut. Right there."

Derek brought his hand to his chin and wiped at it, creating a small smear. He glanced at his finger then brushed his hand on his pants leg with a shrug. "Hockey can be a dangerous sport."

"Yeah. Taken out by an eight-year-old. The horror." Bridget didn't bother hiding her smile. How could she, when Derek was looking at her like that, with his boyish grin and the tiny smear of blood on his chin?

She reached into her pocket, her fingers closing over the crumpled packet of tissues and pulling one out. Without thinking, she brought the tissue to her mouth and dampened it with the tip of her tongue then moved to wipe the smear from his chin. Derek's hand closed around her wrist, stopping her.

"Are you really spitting on me?"

Bridget paused, mortification spreading through her. Oh crap. Crap, crap, shit. What was she doing? She hadn't even stopped to think, had just acted. Her gaze darted to Derek's hand, wrapped loosely around her wrist. Warmth spread through her at the touch, a different heat from the flush of embarrassment coloring her face.

She tugged her hand free from Derek's hold and, trying not to think about what she was doing, dabbed at his chin with the moist tissue. "Stop whining. It's not like we haven't already swapped bodily fluids."

Derek's face turned a shade pinker but he didn't say anything. Or maybe he just didn't know what to say. Good, that made two of them because neither did she.

Had she really just said that? What had she been thinking? She hadn't been, that much was obvious. But it wasn't like she could take the words back, not now. And did it really matter anyway?

She took once last swipe at his chin then crumpled the tissue in her hand, staring at it for a few seconds. Throw it away? Or shove it back into her pocket? The decision was taken from her when Derek took it from her hand and shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans.

Bridget glanced to the side, away from his studying gaze. The kids were still playing hockey, completely oblivious to her presence, to her turmoil and confusion. But Derek's teammates noticed her, of that she was sure. It wasn't like they were even trying to hide their curious glances.

Bridget nodded toward both of them, hiding her smile when Brad blushed and looked away, no doubt embarrassed at being caught staring. And why wouldn't he stare? Here she was, dressed in her typical comfort uniform of jeans and a baggy sweater, standing close enough to Derek to kiss him.

And oh crap. Where did that particular thought come from, just now? She didn't need to be thinking of kissing Derek, didn't need to be remembering what his mouth felt like against hers, what his body felt like—

Bridget took a hurried step back, trying to put distance between them. The way he was looking at her, like he was thinking about devouring her right there, certainly didn't help. She cleared her throat and looked away, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"So why are you here, anyway?" She should have asked him that right away, as soon as she saw him. It didn't make sense, him being here. With his teammates. If she had been thinking clearly, she would have realized that earlier, would have said something as soon as he came over to her.

Derek shrugged, his boyish grin chasing away some of the heat in his eyes. "Something you said last week, about spending time with the kids. Plus, I knew you'd be here and thought it would be a perfect time to see you."

Cold fury seared her at his words, sudden, unexplained. Maybe unwarranted, but no less lethal. Could he be so callous, so uncaring, to actually do something so hurtful? Whether he realized it was hurtful or not. "You're using the kids to get to me?"

"What? No. I—no, that's not what I meant."

"Really? Because it sure sounded that way. You knew I'd be here so you figured you'd just show up and wait? Is that it?"

The boyish grin disappeared, replaced by a frown. A flash of anger turned his eyes a stormy gray. He glanced over his shoulder then just as quickly looked back at her. "That's not what I meant."

"Do you have any idea what these kids have been through? How many times they've been abandoned and shit on and tossed to the side?" Bridget swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Do you know why Dionne walks with a limp? Her mother used to throw her down the stairs when she cried. Her leg has been broken so many times she'll never walk normally. And Jerry. Do you want to know why he's in a wheelchair? His father—"

"Bridget, stop."

"His father—his
drunk
father—backed over him on his way to the bar and left him there. He almost died, right there in his own driveway. But that didn't matter as long as his father could catch his next drunk."

"Bridget—"

"Don't touch me." She jerked away from his reaching hand and blinked back the tears burning her eyes. "Every single one of these kids has been abused and abandoned. Tossed to the side when they got in the way. And now here you are, doing the same thing. Using them to get what you want. This isn't a game, Derek. It's a responsibility—something you know nothing about."

God, how she could have been so stupid? To think she might actually like him, to think that maybe he was different than she first thought. But he wasn't. If anything, he was worse. She swiped her hand across her cheek, brushing away a stray tear in anger.

"Bridget—"

"Screw you, Caulton. You're no better than the other people in their lives." She turned away and hurried to the door. She couldn't stay, not now, not when all she wanted to do was scream in frustration and anger.

And hurt.

She pushed through the door, ignoring the sound of someone calling her name. Yes, it hurt.