Czytaj książkę: «Everybody's Hero»

2

BY THE TIME Claire stowed the bike around the back of the arena, leaving it under the envious eye of a security guard, the rest of the contingent from the magazine was already inside, clustered by the home team’s bench.

She walked over quickly, blowing on her fingers as she went. As requested, the management had lifted the basketball flooring, leaving the rink bare. With only a handful of people in the cavernous space, the building was cold. Figured. It seemed that Claire had felt cold for the last five years or so.

She rubbed her hands together and approached the group. Trish was busy talking on her cell phone. Her assistant, Elaine, also clad in fur and leather—though how she could afford it on an assistant’s pitiful salary was beyond Claire—was talking to a heavy-set man in a blue suit. He, in turn, was carrying a large walkie-talkie. Must be the Garden’s manager, Claire figured.

Meanwhile, a small gaggle of young males was huddled near or on the ice. One row up, on his own cell phone, was an intense-looking, well-groomed man in his thirties. Slicked-back hair. Black cashmere coat. The type of coat that owed its origins to well-groomed sheep and top negotiating skills. Claire would bet her newly purchased fifty-dollar tube of moisturizer that he was Jason Doyle’s agent.

And within an easy, fifteen percent reach of that well-tailored arm was the man himself. Why else would a throng of men be acting with the giddiness of acneriddled adolescents at a high school mixer? Claire heard snatches of conversation as she approached. Phrases such as “Stanley Cup play-offs,” “number of assists” and “babes” punctuated the talk. Boys will be boys, no matter what age, she thought.

“Hey, guys, I hate to break up this little group, but business is business,” Claire announced. One of the technical crew, a young fellow with an earring and the requisite straggly goatee, stepped out of the way, revealing a clear sighting of Jason Doyle, who was signing a few autographs. He looked up at the sound of her voice.

Unconsciously she tucked the gray lock of hair behind her ear. Her chin-length bob was chosen strictly for practicality. More often than not, she cut it herself; a habit that seemed to distress the hairdressers she visited intermittently. Their hand-waving bursts of enthusiasm about letting her thick, wavy hair frame her prominent cheekbones and accentuate her heart-shaped jaw, and their coloratura songs of praise for the wonders of highlights, didn’t seem to justify the many hours required to spend sitting in a hairdresser’s chair, draped in a plastic cape that invariably made Claire sweat in places she didn’t know she had glands.

“Sorry to interrupt, but could you just show me where you’ve stowed the gear?” Claire asked. “I also need to talk to someone about the lighting. If we’re shooting this in color, I’d like to have more light.”

“Righto.” The lanky techie bounded off, taking huge steps, to speak with Mr. Walkie-Talkie.

“I’m impressed.”

Claire didn’t need to look over to know who was talking. Even without raising his voice, Jason Doyle’s delivery had enough firepower to knock a tin can off a fence railing from twenty feet away. She turned her head and felt caught in the crosshairs of his stare. “It’s my naturally authoritative air,” she said, no longer feeling quite so confident.

“It certainly made me snap to attention. Siegfrid and Roy could learn a thing or two from you.” Jason walked toward her, the hangers-on peeling away reluctantly.

“Well, I usually draw the line at large animals with claws.”

“You sure about that?” He held out his hand. Claire noticed that his nails were clipped short, but the sinews on the back of his large hands attested to a sizable strength. “I didn’t realize outside that you must be—”

“Claire Marsden.” Someone else’s well-manicured hand reached Claire’s first. “I’m Vernon Ehrenreich, Jason’s agent. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Though I must confess, I’m a little surprised to see you’re the photographer for the story. I thought you were more a newsperson.”

Claire gave Vernon a pinched smile and was just about to give him something else when Trish rapidly descended on them, a remarkable accomplishment considering her spike heels.

“Vernon, Claire, I see you’ve already made the introductions.” Trish snapped shut her cell phone. “I can’t tell you how lucky we are to have Claire. Didn’t I tell you we wanted to capture a journalistic flair for the art? After all, what better way to portray a man of motion like Jason? In fact, when I mentioned Claire’s name to Jason, he jumped at the opportunity.”

That last bit of information was news to Claire. And for all she knew, it was also news to Jason Doyle, but he didn’t appear to question the statement. Claire shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited. Trish could talk a vacuum cleaner salesman into buying brooms. Not that she felt she needed to be defensive. Claire was proud of her credentials. True, sports had never been her beat, and she was not a celebrity photographer by any stretch of the imagination. But the Claire Marsden photo credit carried a lot of weight in the publishing world. And Trish had assured her up and down, left, right and center, that her background would not be an issue.

So here was Vernon, clearly angling to protect the bankable quality of his star.

“Action is one thing. But I thought we were talking sports photographer. No offense, Claire.” Vernon held up a deferential hand. Claire nodded coolly. What she wouldn’t give for a stray pigeon to suddenly drop a not so little gift on Vernon’s gelled head. No, maybe on his coat. The sight of blemished cashmere might send him into anaphylactic shock.

“I supposed a Pulitzer counts for nothing?” Trish interjected.

Jason turned to Claire. “A Pulitzer?”

Claire shrugged. “Actually, it’s two.”

“Well, you may not value Claire’s news experience, but I’m sure you saw January’s Focus Magazine with Clyde Allthorpe on the cover?” Trish went on.

Claire saw Vernon’s jaw drop. Who hadn’t seen the magazine cover showing the running back, dripping with water, with a giddy grin adorning his face and, what appeared to be, little else on the rest of his body? The issue had set a record for the most newsstand copies ever sold. It had made every television entertainment show, and even become the running joke of late-night television hosts. Public radio had wanted to do an analysis of the phenomenon. What more could a girl ask for in the way of fame and fortune?

Well, she could have the fame and fortune of Clyde Allthorpe, who, as Vernon knew only too well, was the proud possessor of the largest endorsement contract among professional athletes. It was even an endorsement contract that eclipsed Jason’s, which as timing would have it, was due for renegotiation. And speaking of renegotiation, Clyde had signed that contract after the cover photo had hit the stands.

“You took that photo?” Vernon asked Claire.

“I did,” Claire said. “But you’ve got to understand—”

“What’s to understand?” Trish interrupted. “I think Vernon fully appreciates how lucky we are to have you on this job. Now why don’t you and Jason get to work while I talk to Vernon about what we’re planning next.” Trish shooed Claire and Jason along as if they were naughty puppies. There were times when well-manicured French tips definitely made a statement.

Claire turned to Jason. “Well, I guess we’ve got our marching orders. As you’ve already heard, I’m Claire Marsden, but I never got a chance to properly introduce myself.” She held out her hand.

Jason took it. “You’re freezing.” He placed both her bare hands in his and started to rub. His hands were large, his skin rough. Claire didn’t know about her hands, but her toes, which usually were frozen nubs despite two layers of woolen socks, were definitely getting hot. “You should wear gloves,” he said, and rubbed more briskly.

Claire swallowed. “Can’t. It’s an occupational hazard. I can’t wear gloves with the camera. I’m just always cold.”

Jason lifted her hands in his and started to blow. “Better?”

Actually, she was feeling warm, quite warm. “I’m not sure better is the exact word I’d choose.”

Jason peered over their hands. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” He didn’t look the least bit concerned.

“How about maybe you stop?”

“How about maybe you blow on my hands and I’ll see how I feel?”

Claire was just about to tell Jason what he could do to his hands when he released hers. He held up his hands in surrender. “Just kidding.”

“Something tells me you’re going to be bad news, Jason Doyle.” She shook her head and searched for the technician who was to bring her cameras. He was over by the entrance to the ice rink. Bags of equipment were piled on a bench nearby. She motioned for Jason to follow.

“So how do you want me?” he asked.

Claire made a show of rummaging through her camera bag.

“Does this mean we’re not going to be close friends?”

She looked up. “I think this photo session will be perfectly cordial. We’ll relax, have fun. Afterward, we’ll probably exchange Christmas cards for a year or two. I’ll send you a congratulatory e-mail regarding your next Stanley Cup victory. You might send me pictures when your first child is born. But after that, even the most casual communication will peter out, and five years from now, you’ll think, ‘I wonder what ever happened to that lady photographer, Claire something? I remember she was good at her job, but, boy, was she ever lousy at taking a joke.’”

He listened in silence, and when she’d finished, took a step closer. His hulking frame was mere inches from hers. The worn leather of his jacket sleeve brushed against her sweater as he circled to get in her view. “Is it just me, or are you always this uptight, Claire Marsden?”

She turned, her face now mere inches from his. The color of his eyes had deepened to a midnight hue. Not good. She chickened out. Lowered her gaze. And saw his chest heave in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Even the molecules of air that barely separated their bodies seemed to twitch and tremble in a sharp staccato.

She fixed what she hoped was an aloof gaze back on him, and, working hard to keep her voice calm, said, “Why don’t you put on your skates and team jersey? We’ll get you on the ice, doing your thing.” The soul of business, she turned back to her camera bag and searched around for rolls of film. She stuffed them into the pockets of her jeans, and swung the camera strap over her neck with an ease borne of having repeated the motion at least a million times.

“Where do you want my hands?”

Claire nearly dropped her telephoto lens. So much for instinct.

“What do you want me to do with my hands—on the ice?” Jason had doffed his jacket and pulled on a jersey. He was sitting on the bench, lacing up his skates, something he, too, had done more than a million times.

The act should have been merely mechanical. Why was the sight of his strong fingers working with deft speed so sexy? Until she looked down at her own hands, Claire hadn’t realized that she was unconsciously outlining the protruding camera lens. She quickly let go. The weight made the strap bite into the back of her neck

Claire straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Well, I think we’ll have you holding a stick and taking a few shots at the net.” She wet her lips. “I understand that’s what you’re good at.”

Jason finished lacing up. “Wait till you see me in action, Claire Marsden.”

“Oh, I think I already have.”

SHE WAS WRONG. In action—in motion—Jason Doyle was beyond great. Barely harnessed power positively radiated from his being. Dynamite was too passive an adjective. It was like being on the surface of the sun with those vortices of energy swirling in every direction.

Which only irritated Claire more because she was convinced she wasn’t capturing it all on film. For a good forty-five minutes, she directed the crew while he swiftly skated up and down. He took slap shot after slap shot, pausing only when the lights needed repositioning—a process that was annoyingly time-consuming to Claire. She was used to capturing the photo as quickly as possible. But the professional and perfectionist in her knew that the technical adjustments were key to getting these color shots right.

“Would you move them to either side of the goal? That’s it, a little higher on the stands. And, Jason, take the shots right on goal, okay?” She moved behind the net.

“Don’t trust me enough to stand in front? I hardly ever miss a stationary target, you know?” He leaned on his stick.

“I’m not concerned for me, but my camera. Any loss of concentration might do it in.”

“Always the ready excuse to keep from getting close.” He lined up a row of pucks.

“Gosh, I don’t know why the thought of having a speeding puck fly within millimeters of my face just doesn’t do it for me.” Claire held up her camera and crouched behind the net.

“Must be a testosterone thing.”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Among other things.”

Claire lowered her camera, but before she even finished uttering, “Hey,” he stepped up to the first puck and with machinelike precision sent each one in the line hurtling toward her face.

She quickly raised her camera and focused. Natural instinct had her flinching the first time the shot came flying toward her, only the loose mesh protecting the bones of her face. It was like being in front of a firing squad. She held firm and let the shutter whir, determined to get her shots of his shots.

Ten minutes later, soaked with as much sweat as he was, Claire wasn’t convinced. She chewed on her lower lip. She wanted the reader to not just see the power, but to actually feel it. She shook her head and rewound, opening the camera and flipping the roll into her bag.

Jason skated up, spraying ice chips as he came to a screeching halt next to her. He was breathing hard. The cold air made his breath cloud. Claire looked up. She quickly popped in a new roll of film. “That’s it! Keep doing that. And get more light in here. Now. Fast. And keep doing that heavy breathing.”