eiman Marcus,” she said. “I need Neiman Marcus.”

Mark glanced at the Neiman Marcus bags in the backseat of his car and buckled his seat belt. For her first day on the job, she sure was making herself comfortable.

“Where to, Chelsea?”

He looked at her, then at his navigation system. “What the hell?”

His “assistant” gave the GPS an address in Belltown, then looked across at him and smiled. “I didn’t think you’d mind if I programmed my name into the voice recognition. It kept calling me Mark, which was just confusing because I am clearly not you.”

“Turn right. 3.6 miles till destination.”

He leaned forward, brought up the menu screen, and turned off the sound. “Confusing for who?”

“The GPS.”

“The GPS doesn’t get confused.” He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He’d been right about her. She was nuttier than squirrel shit, and she was driving his ninety-thousand-dollar car.

“How was your appointment?” she asked, all cheery.

“Great.” Mark opened his eyes and looked out the passenger window at St. James Cathedral. But the appointment hadn’t been great. He hadn’t received the news he’d been wanting to hear. The doctor had seemed pleased, but the tendons weren’t healing as fast as Mark hoped and he had to wear the splint for at least another month. Which meant he couldn’t transfer his cane to his right side for better balance. It also meant he had to>Tu„ take the splint off to button his shirt or pants, take a shower, or eat a meal. Although he’d always shot left, trying to sign his name left-handed was like writing with a pen stuck in his toes.

A dull ache radiated from deep in the marrow of his femur and spread to his hip. At the moment, it wasn’t bad. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but in a few hours it was likely to get worse. He hadn’t brought any medication with him because he didn’t like to be doped up in public. He didn’t want anyone to think he couldn’t handle a little pain. He was Mark Bressler. He’d played hockey with a fractured ankle and a broken thumb. He’d played through concussions and torn and bruised muscles. He could handle the pain. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t get real bad until he got back home, where he could park himself in front of his big TV and knock back a bottle of his favorite medication.

The car turned on Madison, and Mark glanced across at his assistant. Despite her big sunglasses, two-tone hair, and hideous shirt, she was cute. Like a kitten was cute, but Mark didn’t like cats. Cats were sneaky. One second a cat looked all soft and harmless. All big blue eyes and innocence. One second you were just looking at it thinking, Huh, that’s kind of a cute kitten, then it sank its teeth into your hand and ran away. A sort of stealth blitz that left a guy stunned and wondering what the hell just happened.

Behind the mirror lenses of his glasses, he lowered his gaze down the side of her neck and shoulder to her breasts. She sure wasn’t built like a little kitty cat, more like a porn star. She’d said she was an actress. All porn stars thought they were actresses too. He wondered how much she’d paid for her boobs.

He closed his eyes and groaned. What had his life come to? Looking at a nice pair of tits and wondering how much she paid for them? Who gave a shit! In another life, his other life, he’d be thinking about how he was going to get face-deep in her cleavage. His only thought about kittens would begin and end with how he was going to get her little kitty cat naked and riding his lap.

For most of his life, Mark had been good at two things: hockey and sex. He’d only set out to be good at shooting pucks, but a guy couldn’t exactly live his life hip-deep in rink bunnies and not get to know his way around a woman’s body. Now he couldn’t do one and didn’t have any interest in the other. He’d never been a guy whose dick defined his life, but sex sure had been a big part of his life. Except for when he’d been married. Christine had used sex as a reward. When she got what she wanted, he got laid.

Hell, he’d always thought he should be rewarded because he’d been faithful, which, given the amount of time he’d spent on the road with women throwing themselves at him, had been damn tough.

“This appointment shouldn’t take more than an hour,” his assistant said as she turned onto First Avenue and headed north. “I should have you at the Spitfire and your interview with Sports Illustrated right on time.”

He couldn’t recall ever agreeing to the interview in the first place, but he must have. When he’d talked to his sports agent about it, he must have been high on morphine or he never would have agreed to be interviewed when he wasn’t one hundred percent. Normally his agent, Ron Dorcey, wouldn’t have pushed it either, but with Mark’s name fading from the sports pages, andot ts page endorsement deals drying up faster than a puddle of water in the Mojave, Ron had arranged one of the last interviews likely to come Mark’s way.

He would have much preferred the interview take place next month or even next week when his head was a little clearer. When he’d had a chance to think about what he wanted to say in what would likely be one of the last articles written about him. He wasn’t prepared, and he wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to get himself interviewed today. In person.

Wait—he did know. Somehow he’d let a little bit of a woman bully him into doing it. He didn’t care that getting the interview over and done was easiest in the long run, not to mention the right thing to do. He’d let her push him around like he didn’t outweigh her by a good hundred pounds. Now she was driving his car like her name was on the pink slip.

Earlier, when she’d offered herself as his assistant instead of a health care worker, for one brief moment he’d thought, Why the hell not? No more waiting around for a car service might make him feel less dependent. But in reality he felt more dependent and less capable of taking care of himself. Health care workers wanted to manage his pain. Chelsea Ross clearly wanted to manage his life. He didn’t need her and he didn’t want her around.

Mark brushed his thumb along the cool metal cane. Back to the original plan. No more Mr. Nice Guy. By the time he returned home that afternoon, he’d have her ready to quit. The thought of her peeling out of his driveway brought a genuine smile to his face.

“I got a text from the Sports Illustrated reporter a few minutes ago and she’s set up in the VIP room,” Chelsea said as she and Mark moved toward the entrance of the Spitfire. The sounds of the city surrounded them, and the cool breeze blowing off the bay brushed her face as she glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye. She’d done a good job. She’d had him in and out of the John Louis Salon in time for his Sports Illustrated interview. That had to count for something. Had to show him that she was good at her job and that he needed her. “Her name is Donda Clark and she said the interview shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

He looked good too. The back of his dark hair barely brushed the collar of his T-shirt and the tops of his ears. He looked clean-cut. Handsome. Manly.

She’d been worried.

The John Louis Salon catered to an alternative clientele. Edgy. Emo. And Chelsea had worried that Mark would come out with guyliner and Pete Wentz or Flock of Seagulls hair.

“After I get you settled with the reporter, I have to run over to the Chinooks’ offices.” She had to sign some insurance papers, and the offices were only about five blocks away. “Call me if you’re done early.”

“The last time I saw my cell phone was the night of the accident.” From behind his sunglasses, he glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the sidewalk. “I assume it’s in the mangled Hummer somewhere.”

She knew he had a home phone, but how could anyone live without text messaging for six months? She’d been in Seattle less than two weeks and she’d already changed her number and her plan. &17;d her p#8220;Who’s your carrier?”

“Verizon. Why?”

“I’ll get you a new phone,” she said as she opened the door to the lounge and followed him inside. “And put you on my friends and family plan.”

He pushed his glasses to the top of his head and said something about going ahead and killing himself. The scent and sizzle of carnitas and sliders hit her nostrils and made her stomach growl. The dim interior was lit with track lighting, white globes, and chandeliers. Forty-two-inch flat-screen televisions hung among local artwork and flashed with major sports events. The bar’s clientele was an eclectic mix of upwardly mobile and laid-back grunge. Knit hats and business suits all mingled inside the sports lounge.

A decent lunch crowd filled the tables and booths as Chelsea followed Mark through the bar. Heads turned as they passed, and she didn’t fool herself that all that attention was directed at her. Over the hum of voices, people called out his name. He lifted his bad hand in acknowledgment, the dim light shining on the aluminum of his splint.

Chelsea was used to walking into a restaurant and seeing all eyes turn to her employers. A time or two, she’d purposely created attention for them by posing as a fan or faux paparazzi. This energy was different from anything she’d ever experienced. This wasn’t superficial celebrity adoration. This was real and bigger than any of the B, C, or D listers she’d ever worked for.

“Good to see you, Hitman,” the bartender called out to him as they passed. “Can I get you anything?”

“No thanks. Not right now.”

Chelsea bit the side of her lip. Hitman?

The Sports Illustrated reporter sat on a red leather sofa in the back of the lounge; her long blond hair curled about her shoulders and shone in the subdued light. The reporter stood as they approached and moved from behind a large cocktail table. She wore a red bird’s-eye jacket and pencil skirt that hit her at mid-thigh. She was tall and gorgeous and perfectly proportioned, everything that Chelsea was not. Oh, Chelsea could buy that exact shade of blond and she planned to have her breasts reduced to fit her body, but she would never have those long legs.

“Hello, I’m Chelsea Ross.” Chelsea shook the woman’s slender hand. “Mr. Bressler’s assistant.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” the reporter said, but her eyes were transfixed on the man behind Chelsea. “You’re a hard man to pin down,” she said as she dropped Chelsea’s hand and reached for Mark. “I’m Donda Clark.”

He switched his cane to his right hand. “Mark Bressler.”

“Yes, I know.” She smiled and motioned toward the seat next to her on the sofa. “I caught the game in Detroit last December.”

A tight smile curved Mark’s lips. “That was one of the last games I played.” He moved to the sofa, placed his good hand on the arm, and slowly sat. The corners of his mouth tightened even more, and Chelsea wondered if he was up to the interview. He seemed so strong, it was easy to forget that he’d been near death just a few months prior.

“I thought Detroit might turn it over after Leclaire drew a double minor in the third frame, but the Chinooks’ firepower clearly overwhelmed the Red Wings.”

Wow, what an ass kisser. “Can I get anything for the two of you before I go?” Chelsea asked.

“I’d like a Chablis,” Donda answered as she sat and dug a tape recorder out of her bag. “Thank you.”

“Mr. Bressler?”

He took the glasses from the top of his head and shoved one side down the collar of his T-shirt. “Water.”

Chelsea moved to the bar and wondered if Donda noticed the pain etched in the side of Mark’s mouth and if she’d write about it.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” the bartender asked as his gaze landed on her chest. She was so used to guys’ reaction to her breasts, it didn’t anger her as much as it once had. Annoy, yes. Anger, no.

Chelsea waited a few seconds before his gaze moved up to hers. “House Chablis and a glass of ice water.” She looked at the name tag clipped to his blue polo. “Colin.”

He smiled. The cocky smile of bartenders worldwide who knew they were good-looking. “You know my name. What’s yours?”

She’d been known to date a few cocky bartenders. Most of them had been out-of-work actors. “You already know it. It’s sweetheart.”

He reached for a glass and filled it with ice. “It’s nice to meet you, sweetheart. What brings you into the Spitfire?”

“I’m Mr. Bressler’s assistant.”

Colin lifted his gaze from the glass he slid across the bar and grinned. “I didn’t think you were his date. You’re not his type.”

“How do you know his type?”

“A lot of hockey players hang out here. He used to come in with some of the guys.”

He poured the wine, and Chelsea watched him for a few moments. “What’s his type?” she asked, only because it was her job to know that sort of thing. Not because she was nosy or anything.

“He goes for models. Like the blond he’s talking to.”

“Ah.” Figured.

“I prefer cute and spunky. Like you.”

Cute. She’d always been cute. For the most part, she was okay with that. Unless she had to stand next to a gorgeous supermodel and read for the same part. And because she was short, everyone assumed she was “spunky.” Or maybe it was her fashion flair. Although everyone always assumed the same about Bo, and Bo had the fashion sense of an undertaker. “What makes you think I’m spunky?”

He chuckled. “It might as well be written across your forehead.”

Which told her nothing. She reached for both glasses. “See ya, Colin.”

“Don’t be a stranger, sweetheart.”

She moved back into the VIP lounge and set the glasses on the table in front of the sofa. Mark glanced up at her and slid his sunglasses to one side of his neck. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she told him. “If you need anything, call.”

“I’ll take good care of him,” the reporter assured her, and Chelsea waited until she turned before she gave in to the urge to roll her eyes. She moved through the bar and out into the warm afternoon air. The Metro rushed past, the sound of the motor and screech of brakes bouncing off the stone buildings. Seattle definitely had a different vibe than L.A. It had a faster pace. Maybe it was the cooler temperature. Or maybe it was because the Gore-Tex–clad, granola-munching Starbucks drinkers jogged because they actually enjoyed it. Whatever it was, Chelsea liked it well enough. She wouldn’t mind living in Seattle until after her surgery. She figured she’d need a few weeks to recuperate before she headed back to L.A. to take another shot at pursuing her dream.

She’d often told friends that casting directors hired her breasts, not her. She’d been forever type-cast as a bimbo or a sexually promiscuous character. Once her breasts were no longer a factor, directors would have to take her seriously. They’d have to pay more attention to her talent than to her body.

What if you still don’t make it? a tiny pessimistic part of her brain asked. She’d give herself two years. No, five. If she still hadn’t landed anything significant by the time she was thirty-five, she’d find something else. She’d be sad, but she wouldn’t have any regrets. Not about pursuing her dream. And certainly not about reducing her heavy breasts.

It took her less than ten minutes to walk the five blocks to the Chinooks’ offices. She’d been in the human resources offices last week and found it easily. After she filled out her insurance forms, she headed to the public relations department where her sister worked. The second she stepped inside the offices, she could feel that something was up.

Bo sat on the edge of her desk with her hands covering the bottom half of her face. Jules Garcia stood in front of her. “You’re worrying about nothing,” he said.

“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix anything.”

“Yet.”

“Hey all,” Chelsea said as she approached.

Bo dropped her hands. “Hey, Chels.”

“Hi there,” Jules greeted, his gorgeous green eyes appraising her peacock Gaultier. The other night when she’d first met Jules, she’d assumed he was gay. He was just too pretty and too concerned about the way he looked to be straight. His prison-ripped muscles screamed gay, but a few moments in his company had cleared up the confusion. Chelsea had been around a lot of gay men in her life. Straight men too. Jules was that rare breed that didn’t easily fit in one camp or the other. Not like Mark Bressler. There was never a question for which team Mark played. His whole body leaked hetero toxins. Jules’s sexuality was more covert, disguised behind hair gel and fashion risks. Like the lavender-and-pink-striped shirt he favored today.

“Is something wrong?” Chelsea asked.

Bo handed Chelsea the sports section of the Seattle Times. An enlarged photo of several men standing on a yacht, one of them pouring beer from the Stanley Cup onto bikini-clad women, took up most of the front page. The caption read: Chinooks celebrate near Vashon with Lord Stanley’s Cup.

“They’re partying with the Stanley Cup? Can they do that?” Chelsea studied the picture. It was a little fuzzy but clear enough. “I mean, is it allowed?”

“It’s actually tradition,” Jules assured her. “Each team member gets the cup for one day.”

“They can just do what they want with it?” Now she understood some of Bo’s concern.

“Within reason,” Jules answered. “And a representative of the Hall of Fame has to be with it at all times.”

Obviously pouring beer on women in bikinis was considered “within reason.”

Bo slid off the side of her desk. “So there’s going to be a lot of opportunity for shenanigans.”

Jules shook his head. “You worry too much. After they all get their turn, it’ll get taken away to have their names engraved on it and everything will settle down.”

Chelsea tossed the paper on her sister’s desk. “How many players get their turn with the cup?”

“All those who are eligible to have their names engraved on it. Off the top of my head, I think twenty-four,” Jules answered. “Including Ty Savage and Mark Bressler. Even though neither played the full season.”

“Mr. Bressler gets a day with the cup?” He hadn’t mentioned it. Then again, he didn’t say much. Except when he wanted to be rude.

“Sure. He was the captain until just before the playoffs. Any player who played in forty-one regular season games or five playoff games is eligible. Bressler played in well over forty-one games and is a huge part of the reason the team made it into the finals. He helped build the team and deserves as much credit for winning as anyone. It’s just a shame he didn’t get to play in the finals.”

“When is his day?” She pulled her BlackBerry out of her bag to make a note.

“I don’t know,” Bo answered.

“I’m sure he can have it whenever he wants. Has he talked to anyone about what day he wants the cup?”

Chelsea shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”

Jules reached out and brushed the sleeve of her shirt. “Nice.”

“Thanks. It’s a Gaultier.”

“I thought it might be. I have a silk Gaultier in pewter and gold.”

Of course he did. “Are you sure you’re not gay?” She cocked her head to one side. “Bo has no interest in fashion, and I’d love to find a gay best friend to shop with.”

“I have more important things in my life,” Bo protested.

“Like what?” Jules and Chelsea asked at the same time.

“Like…like my job.”

Jules looked from one sister to the other. “If the two of you didn’t look alike, I wouldn’t know you’re twins. You’re so different.”

Chelsea thought about the fight she’d had with her sister the night before. “Bo is a lot more responsible than I am.”

Her sister gave her a tight smile. “I can be kind of uptight.”

“That’s an understatement.” Jules chuckled. “You’re bossy as hell.”

“Well, someone has to be or nothing would get done around here.”

“Right. The whole organization would fall apart without a five-and-a-half-foot woman in PR telling everyone what to do and how to do it.”

“I’m five feet, one and a half,” Bo said as if they were in junior high and that half an inch was still important. She frowned and pushed her short hair behind her ears. “Why are you here, Jules? Just to fight with me?”

“As pleasant as fighting with you always is, I was going to see if you’re free for lunch.”

“I have a meeting in ten minutes,” Bo grumbled.

He looked at Chelsea. “You free?”

She glanced at the clock on her phone. She didn’t get the feeling that Jules asked because he thought she and Bo were interchangeable. He was a nice guy. They both had to eat, but she still had to run it by her sister since he’d asked Bo first. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Good, because I’m starving.” She looked at Jules. “I have to be back at the Spitfire in half an hour.”

“I know a sandwich shop not far. You can get something and eat it on the way.”

“Okay.” Chelsea glanced at her sister, who glared at Jules as if he’d done something wrong. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asked.

“I’m sure.” She turned to her desk and picked up the newspaper. “Some of us have to work.”

“And some of us got the day off.” Jules moved toward the door. “Sucks to be you.”

“Yeah.” She sighed heavily. “Sucks to be me.”

“I’ll see you at home later,” Chelsea said as she moved to the door. Bo nodded but didn’t turn around.

“Did something happen?” she asked Jules as they moved down the hall. “Bo is acting weird.”

“Is she?” He held open the door for her, and as she passed, she caught the scent of his cologne. “I think all this stuff with the cup is making her more uptight than usual. Anghthan usud she’s usually wound fairly tight.”

“Maybe.” She dropped her phone into her purse and pulled out her sunglasses. “What can you tell me about Mark Bressler?”

“I don’t know a lot. I knew him a little bit when I worked for the Chinooks five years ago. I only recently started working for the organization again. I was rehired to assist Mrs. Duffy when she inherited the team. That would have been a month or two after his accident.”

Chelsea didn’t think she’d ever forget the game the other night. Not only because it had been fun to watch but because during the award ceremony, Mrs. Duffy had walked out onto the ice in a pair of pink skates, and the captain of the team, Ty Savage, had dipped her back and tongue kissed her for the world to see. The crowd inside the Key Arena had gone wild. “That was so romantic,” she sighed.

“Yeah.”

She looked up at him, at the sun shining in his spiky black hair. “You don’t think so?”

“Sure.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “I just hope Ty doesn’t break her heart. She’s a nice person, and I’d hate to see her get hurt.”

“He retired for her. Not many men would do something like that. He must love her.”

They walked a few more feet, and Jules opened the door to a little deli and the two stepped inside. The smell of fresh-baked bread made Chelsea’s stomach growl. “Love doesn’t always work out,” he said.

She knew that well enough. She’d been in love a few times, only to be dumped flat on her behind. But she’d always picked herself back up and moved on. In the past, she’d let lust and love get all mixed up in her head. She’d let a pretty face, hot body, and slick moves convince her that what she felt was love. The kind that lasted forever. The kind her parents had shared. It never had worked out for her, but she was sure she’d find someone someday. “You sound a little cynical.”

He shrugged, and they moved toward the counter. “I always go for girls who don’t like me or just want to be ‘friends.’ God, I hate it when a woman just wants to be friends.”

She wondered if he was talking about his boss. She looked up at the chalkboard menu and asked, “Who just wants to be your friend?”

Jules shook his head. “Never mind.” He ordered a turkey and Swiss, tons of veggies, and no mayo. “How’s your first day of work?”

Chelsea ordered a ham and cheddar, hold the veggies, yes to mayo. “Are we changing the subject?”

“Yep.”

How was her first day? She’d survived and had even managed to find a Betsey Johnson skirt on sale at Neiman Marcus. But…“Mr. Bressler is difficult.”

“I’ve heard. In just over a month, he’s gone through five health care workers. You’re the sixth.”

She hadn’t known the exact number, but she wasn’t...

Chelsea scarfed her ham sandwich and made it back to the Spitfire at ten after two. She’d used the extra ten minutes to pull the Mercedes in front of the bar so Mr. Bressler wouldn’t have to walk the extra block. Surely he’d be grateful.

The crowd had thinned out, and she waved to Colin as she walked to the VIP lounge. Deep male laughter filled the back of the room, and it wasn’t until Chelsea saw Mark that she realized the laughter came from him. Donda sat on the edge of the red sofa, one of her hands resting on his knee as she spoke, gesturing wildly with her other hand. Several empty appetizer plates and glasses sat on the table in front of them. Chelsea pulled out her BlackBerry and looked at it as if she were consulting a schedule. “We have just enough time to get you to your next appointment,” she said. Celebrities loved looking important. Like they were always off to something bigger and better. Most of the time it was a little white lie.

“I just have a few more questions,” Donda said.

Chelsea glanced up and looked at Mark. His brows were drawn as if she was speaking a language he didn’t recognize. He was probably confused about the little white lie. He’d never had his very own personal assistant and wasn’t familiar with how she worked and what she could do for him. Soon he’d be singing her praises. “I’m double-parked in front, but if you need more time, I can come back.”

“I think we’re done.” He reached for his cane.

“Thanks for meeting me, Mark.” Donda rubbed her hand a few inches up his leg, and Chelsea wondered if that was professional behavior for a Sports Illustrated reporter. She’d bet not. “If I have any follow-ups, I’ll be in touch.”

He planted his good hand on the arm of the sofa and stood. He sucked in a breath, then clinched his jaw, and Chelsea wondered when he’d last taken his medication. If it had been that morning, she needed to get him home. Though surely he would have brought something with him. But as they moved through the lounge, his steps were a bit slower and more measured than they’d been an hour ago.

“Take care, sweetheart,” Colin called out to her. “Come back when you can stay.”

She flashed him a smile. “Bye, Colin. Don’t work too hard.”

As they stepped outside, Mark asked, “Boyfriend?”

“I’ve only been in Seattle a little more than a week. Not nearly long enough to find a boyfriend.” She shoved her sunglasses on her face and moved to the double-parked Mercedes. “Give me a few more days,” she said as she opened his door. Then she glanced at the street traffic and ran around to the driver’s side before he could complain about her opening his door. “Make it a week,” she addpan„ed as she slid inside the car.

He looked across the car at her and shut his door. “That long?”

She was sure he was being facetious, but she didn’t care. “Finding guys to date isn’t a problem. A boyfriend takes more time,” she said as she turned off the hazard lights. “There are lots of hot guys like Colin around. Guys who look good in a pair of jeans and a wife-beater. Those guys are fun, but they aren’t real boyfriend material.” She belted herself in.

“So poor Colin is off your list?”

“Nah. I’d go out with him.” She shrugged. “He thinks I’m spunky.”

“That’s one word for you.” He grabbed his sunglasses from the collar of his T-shirt. “Another word would be ‘pit bull.’”

“Yes.” She slid the car into drive and pulled away from the Spitfire. “But I’m your pit bull.”

“Lucky me.” He put on the glasses and buckled his seat belt.

He said it like he didn’t mean it, but he would. She glanced at the GPS and continued northeast. “Have you seen the front page of the Seattle Times sports section?”

He turned and looked out the passenger window. “’Fraid not.”

Which she found a little surprising since he’d been the captain of the Chinooks until six months ago. “Half the page is filled with a photo of a group of guys standing on a yacht somewhere, and someone is pouring beer from the Stanley Cup on women in bikinis.”

He didn’t respond. Maybe he was in too much pain. She’d broken her tailbone falling off a table once. At the time, she’d had one too many cherry bombs and had been convinced she was some sort of exotic belly dancer. Which was ridiculous since she’d never had a lesson and danced about as well as she sang. The next morning her tailbone had hurt like a son of a bitch and she could hardly move without swearing. So she could kind of relate to Mark’s mood. “At first I was a little appalled, but Jules told me that it’s okay and even allowed. Everyone on the team gets a day with the cup to do whatever he wants to do with it. Within reason, of course. There are rules. Although I think they’re pretty lax.” She glanced at the GPS and took a slight right. “But I guess you already know all that.”

“Yeah. I already know that.”

“So, what day do you want the Stanley Cup? Just let me know and I’ll make it happen.”

“I don’t want the fucking cup,” he said without emotion.

She looked over at the back of his dark head. “You’re kidding. Why? Jules says you’re a huge part of the reason the team made it into the finals.”

“Who the hell is Jules?”

“Julian Garcia. He’s Mrs. Duffy’s assistant. Kind of like I’m your assistant. Only Jules knows a lot about hockey and I know squat about the game.” She shrugged. “Jules said you deserve more credit for building the team than anyone else.” Okay, ms s8221; Oaybe she’d embellished a wee bit. But blowing smoke up celebrity butt was part of her job. In the spirit of smoke blowing, she added, “More credit than Ty Savage.”

“I don’t want to hear that asshole’s name.”

Okay. Someone sounded bitter. “Well, you’ve earned a day with the cup just like the other guys. Probably more because you were the captain and you—”

“I need to stop at a pharmacy on the way home,” he interrupted and pointed toward the left. “There’s a Bartell Drugs.”

She slowed, cut across three lanes, and pulled into the parking lot.

“Jesus Christ! You’re going to get us killed.”

“You wanted Bartell.”

“Yeah, but I thought you’d take a U at the light like a normal person.”

“I am a normal person.” She parked by the front doors and looked across the car into the mirrored image in his sunglasses. His jaw was clenched like she’d done something wrong. There hadn’t been any other cars that close, and everyone knew that a miss was as good as a mile. She was pretty sure she’d learned that rule in drivers’ ed class. “I thought maybe you need to fill a prescription? Like right now!”

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I have my prescriptions delivered.” He grabbed two twenties and handed them to her.

She guessed that meant she was going in by herself. Which was okay. It would take them longer if he got out. “What do you need? Toothpaste? Deodorant? Preparation H?”

“Box of condoms.”

She closed her eyes and mentally pounded her head on the steering wheel. Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars. “Are you sure you don’t want to get those yourself?”

He shook his head and smiled. His straight teeth were unusually white within the shadows of the Mercedes. “As you keep reminding me, you’re my assistant. Lucky you.”

Buying condoms was so embarrassing. Worse than maxi pads and only slightly better than the monthly Valtrex prescription she’d had to pick up for a certain young actress with a sitcom on the WB. “What size?”

“Magnum. The ribbed kind.”

Magnum? But of course he wore magnums. Being a big prick and all. For the hundredth time that day, she forced a smile on her face and turned once again to look at him. “Anything else?”

“Some of that warming KY and a vibrating ring. Make sure it’s a big one.” He raised his hip and stuck the wallet back in his pocket. “I don’t want it too tight and cutting off my circulation.”

“No. You wouldn’t want that.” This was about the longest conversation they’d had and it was about circulation to his penis. She was almost afraid to ask. “Is that it?”

“A bag of Red Vines.” He thought for a moment and added, “I guess I better /spess I bhave some Tic Tacs.”

Yes, because God forbid his breath wasn’t minty.

By the time Mark made it home, his bones throbbed and his muscles ached. It took him only a few minutes to get rid of his little assistant. Most likely because she seemed more than happy to go. With any luck, she wouldn’t return. If the look on her face when she’d come back from buying condoms was any indication, she was probably looking up help wanted ads on Craigslist and calling for interviews at that very moment. Sending her into Bartell had been damn funny. A flash of pure brilliance and quick thinking on the fly.

Mark downed six Vicodin straight from the bottle, grabbed his bag of Red Vines, and headed for what the Realtor had called the leisure room at the back of the house. He picked up the remote to the sixty-inch flat screen and sat in a big leather chaise that Chrissy had found somewhere. Most of the other furniture she’d bought was long gone, but he’d kept the chaise because it fit his body and was comfortable.

With his thumb on the remote button, he flipped through the channels without really paying attention. He’d had a doctor’s appointment, haircut, and hour-long interview. It wasn’t even three yet, but he was exhausted. Before the accident, he used to run five miles and work out with weights, all before hitting the ice for practice. He was thirty-eight years old but he felt like he was seventy-eight.

Dr. Phil flashed across the screen and he paused to watch the good doctor yell at some guy for yelling at his wife. He tore open the bag of licorice and pulled out a few. As far back as he could remember, he’d always loved red licorice. It reminded him of the Sunday matinees at the Heights Theater in Minneapolis. His grandmother had been a huge fan of the movies and had bribed him with Red Vines and root beer. Even though it was something he’d never admit out loud, he’d seen many a chick flick in the late seventies and early eighties. Everything from Kramer vs. Kramer to Sixteen Candles. He and his gran had always gone to the Sunday matinees because he’d usually had hockey games on Saturday, and also there was less of a chance that one of his friends would see him walking into a sappy movie on Sunday. His dad had usually been working second and third jobs to support him and his grandmother and to make sure Mark had the best hockey skates and equipment. One of the best days of Mark’s life was the day he signed his first multimillion-dollar contract and set up his dad so the old man could retire.

Mark took a bite of his licorice and chewed. He’d never known his mother. She’d run off before his third birthday and had died a few years later in some car accident thousands of miles away in Florida. He had a vague memory of her, more faded than the few cards she’d sent. She’d write to tell him that she loved him more than anything, but he hadn’t been fooled. She’d loved drugs more than him. Her husband and her son hadn’t been enough for her, and she’d chosen crack cocaine over her family and even over her life, which was one of the reasons he’d never been tempted to do drugs.

Until now. Not that he was addicted. Not yet, but he certainly had a clearer understanding of how easily it could happen. Of how drugs took away the pain and made life tolerable. Of how easy it would be to slip over the edge and become a full-blown addict. But he wasn’t there yet.

He’d been fighting pai He fightin all day, and as the Vicodin kicked in, he felt his muscles ease. He relaxed and thought of the photo in the sports section his little assistant had told him about. It sounded like the guys were having a fine old time, and if he’d won the cup with them, he probably would have been there. But he hadn’t and he didn’t want to drink from the cup and celebrate as if he had. And giving him a day with the cup anyway felt like pity.

Sure, there had been several guys he knew who hadn’t played in the cup finals for one reason or another and had still celebrated. Fine. Good for them. Mark just didn’t feel the same way. For him, looking and touching and drinking from the cup was a big, shiny reminder of everything he’d lost. Maybe someday he could get past the bitterness, but not today. Tomorrow didn’t look good either.

The reporter from Sports Illustrated had asked him his plans for the future. He’d told her that he was just taking life one day at a time. Which was true. What he hadn’t mentioned was that he didn’t see a future. His life was a big blank nothing.

Before the accident, he’d thought of his retirement. Of course he had. He had enough money so that he didn’t have to work for the rest of his life, but he hadn’t planned on doing nothing. He’d planned on getting hired as an offensive coach somewhere. It was what he knew. Seeing plays in his head before they happened was what he’d been good at. Finding lanes through traffic and scoring goals had been a talent that had made him one of the top ten goal scorers for the past six years and was something he’d helped teach the guys on his team. But to coach offense, or defense for that matter, the coach had to skate. There was no way around it, but Mark could hardly walk a hundred feet without pain.

He ate a few pieces of licorice and tossed the bag on the table next to the chaise. As a Burger King commercial came on the air, Mark closed his eyes, and before Dr. Phil returned, he drifted off into a peaceful, drug-induced nap, the remote still in one hand. As with most of his dreams, he was back at the Key Arena, fighting it out in the corners. As always, he heard the roar of the crowd, the slap of graphite sticks on ice, and the shh of razor-sharp blades. He could smell sweat and leather and the unique scent of the ice. The cold breeze brushed his cheeks and neck as thousands of pairs of eyes watched from the seats. The anticipation and excitement in their faces were a blur as he skated past. Adrenaline bit the back of his throat as his heart and legs pounded down ice. He glanced at the puck in the curve of his stick, and when he looked back up, he saw her. A clear face in a blurry sea. Her big blue eyes simply looked back at him. The light bounced off her two-toned hair. He turned his skates to the side and stopped. Everything around him fell away as he continued to stare at her though the Plexiglas.

“Why are you here?” he asked, beyond annoyed that she’d shown up and disrupted the game.

She smiled—the full-lipped tilt of her mouth that he recognized after one day of being around her—but she didn’t answer. He skated closer to the wall and his stick dropped from his hands. “What do you want?”

“To give you what you need.”

There were so many things he needed. So many. Starting with the need to feel something other than constant nagging pain and the void in his life.

“Lu Keem">cky you,” she whispered.

Mark’s eyes flew open and he gasped for breath. He sat up too fast, and the remote fell to the floor. His head spun as he glanced at the clock on the bottom left of his television screen. He’d been asleep for an hour. Jesus, she’d intruded in his life. Now she’d infiltrated his dreams. Of all the faceless people in his dreams, why was her face clear?

He reached down and grabbed his cane resting on the floor. Thank God the dream hadn’t been sexual. He didn’t even want to think about getting it up for his assistant. Not even in a dream.

The splint on his hand itched, and he tore it off. Tossing the Velcro and aluminum aside, he slowly stood and made his way from the room. Why her? It wasn’t that the little assistant wasn’t cute. She was plenty cute, and God knew she had a body that could stop traffic, but she was just so damn annoying. The rubber tip of his cane thumped across the stone floor and his flip-flops slapped the heels of his feet. Rested and his pain somewhat dulled, he walked with relative ease.

In the kitchen, the Bartell sack with the condoms, KY, and vibrating ring lay atop the granite island. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do with that stuff. It wasn’t like he was going to use it anytime soon. He opened a drawer and shoved it inside.

He didn’t know what he was going to do with his assistant either. Too bad he couldn’t shove her in a drawer and lock her inside. He thought of her driving his new Mercedes like she owned the road. He thought of her face when she’d first slid into the leather driver’s seat. She’d looked like she’d been about to orgasm. Under different circumstances, he might have pulled her into his lap. Under different circumstances, he might have thought the way she’d caressed his leather was about the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Under current circumstances, it had been just one more thing to irritate him.

More than likely, the woman would be back tomorrow. His optimism of a while ago faded. For reasons that he couldn’t begin to understand, she seemed to actually want to be his assistant. Maybe she was a little off in the head. No, she was definitely off in the head because why else would she buy condoms and KY when she clearly didn’t want to?

Chelsea would put up with a lot for ten thousand dollars. “He made me buy him condoms,” she told the back of her sister’s dark head. “And warming KY.”

Bo looked over her shoulder and reached for a half gallon of milk. “Well, he’s a hockey player,” she said, as if that explained and excused it. “And he always did have a lot of different girlfriends. At least he’s using protection.”

“And a vibrating ring.”

“What’s that?”

“A cock ring that vibrates.”

Bo glanced about the dairy aisle at Safeway to make sure no one could overhear them before she set the milk in the cart. “They make those?”

“Apparently, and in case you ever need one, there are three different kinds available at Bartell drugstore. The duo, the magnum, and the intense pleasure. The duo has two pleasure buttons, one onm ottons, each side. The magnum is self-explanatory, and the intense pleasure vibrates faster for—you know, intense pleasure.”

“You read each package?”

“It’s my job.” Although, really, she’d read out of curiosity more than anything else. It wasn’t like she was a vibrating ring expert.

“Have you ever…” Bo lowered her voice and glanced around one more time. “…used one?”

“No.” But if she ever got a boyfriend she might. Buying those condoms today reminded her that it had been seven months since her last relationship.

And because Bo was as nosy as her twin, she asked, “Which did you buy Mark?”

“He made me buy the magnum because he was concerned about cutting off his circulation.”

Bo’s brows rose up her forehead. “Magnum? That’s scary.”

Chelsea pushed the cart farther down the produce case. “You’ve seen one?”

“Not in person.” Bo shook her head. “Just in the porn movies David used to watch,” she said, referring to a past boyfriend. “Do you think he’s really a magnum or he just wanted to shock you?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it. It’s too disturbing.”

“That’s true,” her sister agreed. “You have to work for him tomorrow, and that’s the last thing you want to be thinking about when you walk into his house.” They moved a few more feet down the dairy aisle, and Bo glanced at her list. “I know Mark isn’t really mobile, but making you buy him condoms and stuff was really uncalled for.”

“I thought so, but I’ve had to do worse.”

Bo put her hand on the cart and stopped it next to the butter. Concern etched her brow. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what?”

“Well, taking back designer dresses to places like Saks with big armpit stains was always embarrassing. Picking up prescriptions for various sexually transmitted diseases was mortifying, and breaking up with someone else’s girlfriend or boyfriend was sad.”

“Oh.” Bo sighed and reached for some cottage cheese.

Her sister looked so relived, Chelsea had to ask, “What did you think I was going to say was worse? That I was working for a madam in the Hollywood Hills?”

“No.” They continued beneath the fluorescent lights of the Safeway. “I just hoped that you never had to do anything illegal.”

There was illegal. Then there was illegal. She’d mostly just committed your ordinary illegal stuff. Run a red light. Drove too fast. Hopped aboard the ganja train at a few parties in the past. “Do we need some butter?” she asked, purposely changing the subject before her sister could ask any specific questions.

Bo shook her head and checked milk and cottage cheese off her list. “Jules never came back after lunch.”

“Hmm.” Chelsea picked up several containers of fat-free cherry yogurt.

“Did he go to the Spitfire with you?”

“No.” She dumped the yogurt into the cart. “Do you want string cheese? We used to love string cheese.”

“I don’t want any.” Bo moved to the eggs. “What do you think of Jules?”

“I think he works hard to look good.” She grabbed some key lime yogurt too. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Except he’s full of himself.”

Chelsea hadn’t gotten that impression. “If you work hard on your body, you kind of have the right to brag about it. If I worked out, I’d brag. But I don’t, because I hate pain.”

“He’s rude too.” Bo opened the egg carton and checked for breakage. “And obnoxious.”

A harried mother with three kids hanging out of her cart wheeled past, and Chelsea looked at her sister. “I didn’t think so. Maybe he’s a little cynical.”

Bo looked over at her as she shut the carton. “Why do you say he’s cynical?”

“Because he said something about love not working out. My guess is that he’s had his heart broken a few times.” She leaned forward and rested her forearms on the handle of the cart. “But haven’t we all?”

“He used to weigh a lot, and I think he still sees himself as the fat kid in school.”

“You’re kidding. He doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him now,” Chelsea said as Bo put the eggs in the seat of the cart next to their purses. “He’s ripped and he has those beautiful green eyes. You should date him.”

“Jules?” Bo made a gagging sound.

“You should. He’s very cute, and you two have a lot in common.”

“What are you planning to do tomorrow?” her sister asked and changed the subject.

“I’m not sure.” Chelsea recognized the maneuver and let her. “I’ve never worked for someone who doesn’t have a list as long as my arm and expects the impossible. Mark said something about wanting to move out of Medina. So maybe I’ll start looking at real estate options for him. His house is too damn big for one guy anyway.”

“Most of the athletes around here live downtown, or on Mercer, or in Newport Hills.” She pushed the cart toward the butcher block. “At least I think a lot of the Seahawks and Chinooks still live in Newport. That’s how it became known as Jock Rock.”

Chelsea made a mental note to check real estate listings in those areas. “What movie are we going to watch tonight?”

“How about something with aliens?” Bo suggested and grabbed a package of hamburger.

Chelsea reached for a produce baggy above the chicken. “Something not cheesy, like Independence Day? Maybe a little cheesy, like Men in Bl220>Menack? Or heavy on the cheese, like Critters?”

“Heavy, like Mars Attacks!”

“Good call. A little black comedy and with a dash of political satire, all wrapped up in B-movie parody. Gotta love Tim Burton.”

“You aren’t going to quote dialog throughout the whole movie are you?” Bo sighed. “I just want to kill you when you do that.”