She glanced at the snoring players sacked out in the team jet. How could she earn their trust or their respect if they wouldn’t speak to her? How to resolve this issue so her job and her life were easier?
The answer came in the form of Darby Hogue. The night they arrived in San Jose, he phoned her room to tell her that some of the players were getting together at a bar somewhere downtown.
“Why don’t you come with?” he said.
“With you?”
“Yeah, and maybe wear something girly. That way the players might forget you’re a reporter.”
She hadn’t packed anything girly, and even if she had, she didn’t want the players to see her as a girly girl. While she needed them to know she respected them and their privacy, they needed to respect her as they would any professional journalist. “Give me about fifteen minutes and I’ll meet you in the lobby,” she said, figuring interaction with the players away from the game might help and couldn’t hurt.
Jane dressed in stretch wool pants that had two rows of buttons up the front like a sailor, a merino sweater set, and boots. All in black. She liked black.
She moved into the bathroom and gathered her hair at the back of her head. She didn’t like it hanging in her face, and she didn’t want Luc to think his opinion mattered. She looked in the mirror and dropped her hand to the counter. Her hair fell to her shoulders in dark shiny waves and curls.
He’d walked her to her hotel room. He’d thought she was sick or drunk, and he’d walked her back to make sure she got there safely. His one act of unexpected kindness affected her more than it should, especially since he’d only walked her to her door so he could thoroughly enjoy himself at a nudie bar. Or to yank her chain. That one simple gesture slid within her chest and warmed her heart, no matter if she wanted to be warmed or not. And she didn’t.
Even if she were stupid enough to fall for a man like Luc, with all of the emotional and professional ramifications, he would never fall for a woman like Jane. And it wasn’t because she thought herself unattractive or uninteresting. She didn’t. No, she was a realist. Ken hooked up with Barbie. Brad married Jennifer and Mick dated supermodels. That was life. Real life, and she’d never been one to purposefully set herself up for heartache. She never wanted to be the one left behind when the relationship was over. She always got out first. It hurt less that way. Maybe Caroline was right about her. She thought about it a moment and shook her head. Caroline watched too much Dr. Phil.
Jane reached for the brush once more and pulled her hair back. She smeared Chap Stick on her lips, grabbed her purse, and met Darby in the lobby. Upon seeing him, she almost ran the other way. Jane knew that she herself was not a fashion goddess, and she didn’t try. Darby, on the other hand, wasn’t a fashion god, but he did try. Only the results were unfortunate.
This evening he wore black leather pants and a silk shirt with red flames and purple skulls on it. Leather pants on any man but Lenny Kravitz was a huge mistake, but she doubted even Lenny could pull off the shirt. Looking at him, Jane understood why the Chinooks might question Darby’s sexual orientation.
They took a taxi from the hotel to Big Buddy’s, a little bar more on the outskirts of the downtown area. The sun was just setting on a cloudless night, and the wind carried a hint of rain and dust. A crisp breeze brushed Jane’s cheeks as she and Darby exited the taxi. A faded sign above the door read, “Voted Best Ribs.” She almost tripped on the uneven sidewalk and wondered why the Chinooks had chosen such a dive.
Inside the building, several television sets hung suspended in the corners, while behind the bar a red and blue Budweiser sign glowed. A string of lights left over from Christmas was still taped to the mirror. It smelled of smoke and booze, barbeque sauce and roasted meat. If Jane hadn’t already eaten, her stomach would have growled.
Jane knew that by being seen with Darby, she ran the risk of adding fuel to the rumor that they were lovers, but she also figured that there was nothing she could do about it. And she wondered which was worse, being seen as the lover of a man who dressed like a pimp, or as the mistress of Virgil Duffy, a man old enough to be her grandfather.
Pinball machines pinged and flashed and she recognized two Chinooks playing air hockey in the corner. About five Seattle players sat at the bar, watching the Rangers battle it out with the Devils. Another half dozen sat at a table with a pitcher of beer, empty tubs of coleslaw, and Fred Flintstone-sized piles of stripped rib bones.
“Hey, guys,” Darby called out. At the sound of his voice, they turned their attention toward Darby and Jane. The hockey players looked like cavemen after feasting on a woolly mammoth, all full and content and sluggish, but they didn’t look too happy to see Darby, and even less happy to see her.
“Jane and I felt like a beer,” he continued as if he didn’t notice. He pulled out a chair for her, and she sat next to Bruce Fish and across from the rookie with the blond Mohawk. Darby sat to her left at the head of the table. The red flames and purple skulls on his shirt were subdued somewhat by the dim lighting.
A waitress with a tight Big Buddy’s T-shirt set two cocktail napkins on the table and took Darby’s order. As soon as he uttered the word Corona, he was instantly carded. A scowl drew his red brows together as he flashed his identification.
“That’s fake,” someone down the table said. “He’s only twelve.”
“I’m older than you, Peluso,” Darby grumbled and shoved his driver’s license back into his wallet.
The waitress turned her attention to Jane.
“Bet she orders a margarita,” Fishy said out of the corner of his mouth.
“Or one of those wine spritzers,” someone else added.
“Something fruity.”
Jane looked up into the shadowy face of the waitress. “Do you have Bombay Sapphire gin?”
“Sure do.”
“Fabulous. I’d like a dirty martini with three olives, please.” She glanced at the stunned faces around her and smiled. “A girl’s gotta get her daily allowance of green veggies.”
Bruce Fish laughed. “Maybe you should order a Bloody Mary for the celery.”
Jane grimaced and shook her head. “I don’t like tomato juice.” She looked across the table at Daniel Holstrom. The lights from the bar cast a reddish pink glow in his white-blond Mohawk. She wondered if the young rookie was twenty-one yet. She had her doubts.