“You liked that?”
“Like I said, it was interesting. What was the team’s motto? ‘If you can’t beat ’em, beat ‘em up?’”
“Something like that,” he said with a laugh. “What’s with all the gray and black you always wear?”
She glanced down at herself. “I look good in black.”
“No, sweetheart, you look like the archangel of doom.”
She took a sip of her coffee and said totally urbanely, as if he hadn’t hit a nerve, “I could live the rest of my life without fashion commentary according to Lucky Luc.”
Or at least she tried for urbane. The bloom in her cheeks and her narrowed gaze behind those ugly glasses gave her away. “Okay, but…” He stopped and shook his head. He looked up at the sky and waited for her to take the bait.
He did not wait long. “I know I’m going to regret this,” she sighed, “but what?”
“Well, I just think that a woman who has trouble getting a man might have better luck if she dressed up the package a little. Didn’t wear ugly sunglasses.”
“My sunglasses aren’t ugly, and my packaging is none of your business,” she said as she raised her coffee to her lips.
“So only my business is open for discussion? Your business is off limits?”
“That’s right.”
“You little hypocrite.”
“Yeah, sue me.”
He glanced down into her face and asked, “How’s the coffee this morning?”
“It’s fine.”
“Still taking it black?”
She looked up at him out of the corner of her eye and placed a hand over the lid. “Yes.”
Chapter 4
Good Wood: Jabbing with the Butt End of a Stick
Jane was almost afraid to glance around her. This morning, looking at some of the Chinooks was kind of like looking at a train wreck. Horrifying, but she was unable to turn away. She sat near the front of the plane across the aisle from Assistant General Manager Darby Hogue, a copy of the Dallas Morning News opened to the sports page in her lap. She’d sent off her report of the previous night’s bloodletting, but she was interested in what the Dallas reporters had to say about it.
Last night, she and the area sports reporters had gathered in the media room to wait for their chance to enter the Chinooks’ locker room. They’d drunk coffee and cola and eaten some sort of enchilada concoction, but when Coach Nystrom had eventually come out, he’d informed them all there were to be no postgame interviews.
During the wait, the Dallas journalists had joked with her and shared war stories. They’d even told her which athletes gave them a break and always answered their questions. They also told her which players never answered questions. Luc Martineau topped the arrogant-pain-in-the-ass list.
Jane folded the paper and stuck it in her briefcase. Perhaps the Dallas reporters had been nice because they hadn’t seen her as a threat and weren’t intimidated by a woman. Maybe they would have treated her differently if they’d been in the locker room competing for an interview. She didn’t know and really didn’t care. It was just nice to discover that not all male reporters resented her. She was relieved to know that when she wrote one last column about her experiences, she could report that some men had evolved and not everyone viewed her as an assault to their egos.
She’d sent off two columns to the Seattle Times now. And she hadn’t heard a word from her editor. Not a word of praise or criticism, which she was trying to take as a good sign. She’d seen her first article passed around among the players, but none of them had commented either.
“I read your first column,” Darby Hogue said from across the aisle. In his bare feet, Jane estimated Darby Hogue to be five-foot-six. Five-nine in his cowboy boots. By the cut of his navy blue suit, she’d guess it was custom-made and would probably cost most people a month’s salary. His spiky gelled hair was the color of carrots and his complexion was even whiter than hers. Although she knew he was twenty-eight, he looked about seventeen. His brown eyes were intelligent and shrewd, and he had long sweeping red lashes. “You did a good job,” he added.
Finally, someone commented on her article. “Thank you.”
He leaned across the aisle to give her some pointers. “Next time you might want to mention our goal attempts.” Darby was the youngest assistant GM in the NHL, and Jane had read in his bio that he was a member of Mensa. She didn’t doubt it. Although he appeared to have taken great pains to shake his nerddom, he hadn’t quite been able to give up the pocket protector stuck in his white linen shirt.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Hogue,” she said through what she hoped was a charming smile, “I won’t tell you how to do your job, if you don’t tell me how to do mine.”
He blinked. “That’s fair.”