Bruce sucked in his breath, and she suspected he might have put a protective hand over his crotch if she hadn’t been sitting next to him. “That’s harsh,” he said. “My rookie season was spent in Toronto, and I got thrown outside in my underwear a lot. Talk about colder than a well digger’s ass.” He shivered to prove his point.
“Wow,” Jane said and took a sip of her drink. “Now I feel lucky that you boys just left me a dead mouse and call me all night.”
Several pairs of guilty eyes looked at her, then slid away.
“How’s Taylor Lee?” she asked Fishy, deciding to let them all off the hook-for now. Just as she suspected he would, he launched into his daughter’s most recent accomplishments, which began with toilet training and ended with a repeat of the telephone conversation he’d had with his two-year-old earlier that evening.
Since she’d met Bruce that first morning, she’d done a little reading on him. She’d discovered that he was going through a real messy divorce, and she wasn’t all that surprised. Now that she’d live a small sample of their lives, she imagined it would be difficult to keep a family together while on the road so much. Especially given the rink bunnies that hung out in the lobby bars.
At first Jane hadn’t noticed them, but it hadn’t taken her long to pick up on who they were, and now she spotted them easily. They dressed in tight clothes, their bodies on display, and they all had that man-eater look in their eyes.
“Anyone want to play darts?” Rob Sutter asked as he approached the table.
Before anyone could speak, Jane was on her feet. “I do,” she said, and by the scowl on the Hammer’s face, it was clear he’d meant anyone but her.
“Just don’t expect me to let you win,” he said.
Hustling darts had helped Jane put herself through college. She didn’t expect anyone to let her win. She made her eyes go wide as she reached for her drink. “Aren’t you going to go easy on me because I’m a girl?”
“I don’t give quarter to girls.”
With her free hand, she took the extra set of darts and headed across the bar. The top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder. The Hammer didn’t know it, but he was about to get the big hurt he so richly deserved. “Will you at least tell me the rules?”
He quickly explained how to play 501, which, of course, she already knew. But she asked questions like she’d never played before, and he was magnanimous enough to let her go first.
“Thanks,” she said as she put her martini on a nearby table and took her place at the taped toe line. Nailed to the wall a little over seven feet away, the board was lit from above. She rolled the shaft of the cheap house dart between her fingers, testing the weight. She preferred a ninety-eight percent tungsten dart with an aluminum shaft and Ribtex flights. Like the set she owned. The difference between the brass darts she held in her hands and the darts resting in their custom-made box at home was the difference between a Ford Taurus and a Ferrari.
She leaned way over the line, held the dart wrong, and glanced down the shaft as if she were sighting in a rifle. At the last second before release, she stopped. “Don’t you guys usually bet or something?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to take your money.” He looked at her and smiled as if he’d thought up something really funny. “But we could play for drinks. Whoever loses has to buy all the guys a beer.”
She contrived to look worried. “Oh. Hmm. Well, I’ve only got a fifty. Do you think that will cover it?”
“That ought to be enough,” he said, with all the arrogance of a man assured of his own success. And for the next half hour, Jane let him think he was winning too. Some of the other players gathered around to watch and heckle, but once she was behind by two hundred points and Rob was beginning to feel sorry for her, she got to work and beat him in four turns at the board. Darts were serious business, and she took serious pleasure in trouncing the Hammer.
“Where did you learn to play like that?” he asked.
“Beginner’s luck.” She downed the last of her drink. “Who’s next?”
“I’ll take you on.” Luc Martineau stepped out of the darkness and took the darts from Rob. The light from the bar chased varying degrees of shadows across his broad shoulders and the side of his face. Raindrops shone in his hair and the scent of the cool night breeze clung to him.
“Watch out, Luc, she’s a hustler,” Rob warned.
“Is that right?” One corner of Luc’s mouth lifted. “Are you a hustler, Ace?”
“Just because I beat the Hammer, I’m automatically a hustler?”
“No. You let poor Rob think he was winning and then you coldcocked him. That makes you a hustler.”
She tried not to smile, but she failed. “Are you scared?”
“Not hardly.” He shook his head and a short lock of dark blond hair fell across his forehead. “Ready to play?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You’re a really bad sport.”
“Me?” He placed a big hand on the front of his ribbed navy sweater, drawing her attention to his wide chest.
“I’ve seen you whack the goalposts when a puck gets by you.”
“I’m competitive.” His hand fell to his side. “Not a bad sport.”
“Right.” She tilted her head and looked into his eyes, the light blue barely discernible within the dark bar. “Do you think you can stand to lose?”
“I don’t plan to lose.” He motioned toward the tape line. “Ladies first.”
When it came to darts, she took no prisoners and was both competitive and a bad sport. If he wanted her to go first, she wasn’t going to argue. “How much money are you willing to bet?”
“I’ll put my fifty against your fifty.”
“You’re on.” Jane doubled on with her first throw and scored sixty points by the time she was through.
Luc’s first throw bounced back and he didn’t double on until his third dart. “That sucked.” With his brows drawn together, he walked to the board and retrieved the darts. Standing within the pool of light, he studied the tips and flights. “These are dull,” he said, then looked across his shoulder at her. “Let me see yours.”
She doubted hers were sharper and moved next to him. He took them from her open palm and, with his head bent over hers, tested the points with this thumb. “Yours aren’t as dull as mine.”
He was so close, if she leaned forward just a little, her forehead would touch his. “Fine,” she said, managing to sound halfway normal, as if the clean scent of him didn’t make her breath catch in her throat. “Pick whichever three you want, and I’ll take the others.”
“No. We’ll use the same darts.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “That way, when I beat you, you can’t cry.”
She looked into his eyes, so close to hers, and her heart thumped in her chest. “I’m not the one who threw a bounce-back on the very first throw, then blamed the darts.” And while her heart was thumping, he appeared totally unaffected. She took a step back and put distance between him and her silly reaction. “Now, are you going to talk all night, Martineau, or are we going to get busy so I can kick your butt?”
“You’re cocky for such a short little thing,” he said and slapped the three darts he’d deemed the sharpest into her hand. “I think you have one of those short-girl syndromes,” he added, then joined some of his teammates who’d moved to the table several feet away.
She shrugged as if to say, Yeah, so? and walked to the line. With her weight perfectly balanced on both feet, her wrist loose and relaxed, she shot a double, a triple, and a single bull. Luc strode to the toe line as she retrieved the darts from the board. “You’re right,” she said as she walked toward him, “these are much better.” She placed all three in his outstretched hand. “Thanks.”