Pebbles walked in three tight circles next to Faith’s hip, then stretched out alongside her thigh. Faith dug her fingers into the dog’s thick fur as tears filled her eyes. She missed Virgil. She missed his friendship and his wisdom, but it wasn’t her deceased husband she saw when she closed her eyes. It was another man. A man who didn’t smile easily, but who did other, wonderful things with his mouth. A beautiful, strong man who had made her feel safe within his arms as he’d held her against the solarium glass and made love to her. A man who looked at her from across the room and made her stomach go light and heavy and tingly all at the same time. A man who made her want to walk over to him and lay her head on his bare chest.
Faith opened her eyes and brushed a tear from her cheek. She’d just buried her husband and she couldn’t stop thinking about another man. What did that say about her? That she was a horrible person? As horrible and without morals as Landon had always accused her of being?
A book she’d read about grieving said that a person should wait a full year before dating or getting involved. Although could she really call what had happened with Ty the other night “dating or getting involved”? No. Not really. It had been about having sex. About scratching an itch. About letting go and finding release.
But if that’s all it was about, why the warm little tingles tonight? Why the urge to walk across the room and lay her head on his bare chest? After scratching that particular itch four times in one night, shouldn’t she be all scratched out? Shouldn’t she be over letting go? If it had been just about sex, shouldn’t she be good for a while? Especially considering how long she’d gone without?
She ran her hand down Pebbles’s fur and the dog turned over and exposed her belly. There was something deeper than the sex. Something else going on that scared her. It wasn’t love. She did not love Ty Savage. She’d been in love a few times and knew what it felt like. Love felt nice and warm and comfortable—like the love she’d had with Virgil. Or it was hot and consuming—like the love she’d felt for previous boyfriends. It didn’t feel wrong. As if one false move and the bottom might fall out of your life.
That wasn’t love. That was a disaster waiting to happen.
The next morning, Faith met with the director of the Chinooks Foundation. Her name was Miranda Snow, and she seemed genuinely happy to be meeting with Faith. “My assistant is out of the office today,” she said as she handed Faith several brochures. “These are the Chinooks Foundation’s different charities.”
Faith looked them over and was impressed. Every year, the Chinooks held a celebrity golf tournament to raise money for players and former players who’d suffered injury and needed extensive rehabilitation beyond their personal medical coverage.
“We’re currently paying Mark Bressler’s hospital bills that aren’t covered by Blue Cross,” she explained. “And for any additional rehabilitation he might need.”
“How’s he doing?” Faith asked about the former captain, whom she’d met a few times at the Chinooks Christmas parties.
“Well, he broke half the bones in his body and he’s lucky he isn’t paralyzed.” Miranda tossed a pen on her desk. “His caregivers say he’s being a real pain.”
The second charity Miranda told her about was a scholarship program to send eligible children to ice hockey camps. It was based on three criteria. Eligible children had to maintain a 3.0 grade average in school, play above-average hockey, and be of a lower income.
The third charity, the Hope and Wishes Foundation, raised money to aid children’s hospitals throughout the state of Washington with a three-pronged approach: research, financial aid, and community awareness of childhood diseases. Faith read the assembled press clippings and promotional notes about each charity event and had several questions and a comment. She wanted to know how much money each charity raised. She wanted to know how much money was spent on overhead and administrative costs, and what the foundation had planned for the near future.
“I think the PR on this is overboard,” she commented as she read some of the clippings. “We should give back to the community because they support us. Not because we get good PR out of it and might sell more hockey tickets.” It was something she’d learned from the Gloria Thornwell Society and something she just happened to agree with. A person or charity should give for the right reasons and not for the glory. There were those who would argue that it didn’t matter as long as the result was the same. Faith could understand that argument, but she’d known too many socialites who chaired events or donated money to get their photos on the society pages.
Miranda looked shocked. “I agree, but I’ve been the lone voice around here. There’s a little girl in that department who is very aggressive about promotion.”
Bo. Faith smiled. “I’ll take care of it.”
The following night, she met Bo and Jules at a sports pub to watch the Chinooks play in Detroit. The first period started off fairly even, with ten shots on goal for the Chinooks, twelve for the Red Wings. With two minutes left on the clock, the Red Wings scored on a 5-on-4 goal.
During the first intermission, Faith told Bo and Jules about her meeting with Miranda and her intention to become more involved with the organization charities.
“You getting more involved will be good PR,”
Bo said as she raised a bottle of Beck’s to her lips. “I’ll get on it.”
“I don’t want to be part of the PR for the charities.” Faith smiled. “I’m sure we’ll need some promotion and advertising for each event, but I think we want really targeted campaigns. I’ll get together with you and Jim when we’ve got something more tangible.”
Bo shrugged. “The celebrity golf tournament is in July, so let me know how much you’re going to be involved in that.”
Jules tore his gaze from the big screen above the bar as the second period began. “Do you play golf?”
She thought of the putting green in Ty’s house. Of the night she’d worn his shirt. The cotton against her bare skin and scent of his cologne on the collar beneath her chin. Of him standing behind her while she’d swung at the ball. “No, but I can drive one of those golf cars,” she answered and took a drink of her merlot. On the screen above the bar, she watched Ty skate across ice with the puck in the curve of his stick. He passed off to Sam, then he skated behind the net to the other side and Sam passed the puck back to him as a Detroit defenseman collided with him just inside the blue line. The two fought for possession, shoving and throwing elbows. Ty’s head snapped back and the whistle blew. The ref pointed at the defenseman as Ty raised one gloved hand and covered his face.
“He was hit with the butt end of a stick,” Jules said, leaning across the table toward the bar.
Ty lowered his glove and blood ran down his cheek from the outside corner of his left brow.
“Not his face!” Faith yelled before she even realized she’d spoken out loud. “Don’t hurt his face.” She felt as if someone had hit her in the stomach. The Red Wing fans simultaneously cheered and booed as Ty skated from the ice and the Detroit defender skated to the penalty box. One of the Chinooks trainers handed Ty a white towel and he held it to his eye as he turned and watched the replay on the big screens suspended high above mid-ice.
“Shouldn’t he go to the hospital?” Faith asked.
Bo and Jules both looked at her like she was nuts. “It’s just a cut,” Jules pointed out.
Ty pulled the bloody towel away as the trainer looked at the corner of his eye and Faith’s stomach tilted a little more.