Focus, man. Come on.

Coach checks his expensive watch. “Let’s do this, Bayer. We’re starting. Get out there.”

I vault over the wall to get in a couple of warmup laps as my teammates troop down the chute to join me. I lean into my glide, lengthening my stride and stretching my legs. But as I round the ice, something silver glints at me from the surface. I stop, lean down, and remove my glove to pluck some kind of hairpin off the ice. It must have escaped when the world’s most sensuous goalie shook out her hair.

So much for avoiding her. I straighten up and skate hastily toward the end of the rink where I’d seen her disappear. And there she is, helmet under her arm, watching my teammates warm up. She’s wearing a frown now, which puts a crease in her forehead. I have the urge to smooth it out with my fingers.

But that would be creepy and weird, so I speak to her instead. “Excuse me, miss? I think you might have dropped this when you were giving that little girl the puck. Nice move, by the way. You made her whole year.”

The beauty turns, and her eyes widen slightly. “Sorry. Are you speaking to me?”

“Yeah. I don’t know your name. But I found this on the ice.” I hold it out, and her eyes widen again.

“O-oh,” she stammers. “I didn’t…” She catches herself. “Never mind. thank you. I hope you didn’t trip on it.”

“Nah. No worries.”

She reaches out and takes the pin from me, brushing my palm with her fingertips. And just that small contact ripples through me like an electrical current. “Welcome to Brooklyn,” I hear myself say in a husky voice. “Was today your first practice?” That would explain the number of journalists.

“Yes,” she says with a quick smile that I feel right in the center of my chest. “Was it that obvious?”

“What? No.” I laugh. “I didn’t see any of it.”

Behind me, an assistant coach blows the whistle, calling for the first drills.

“But I’m about to have my own practice now,” I add.

“Well, good luck to you, then. I hope it goes better than mine.”

“Thank you.” Still, I linger a moment longer, staring into those soft brown eyes. “You have a nice day,” I say stupidly. Then I force myself to turn and skate away.

I didn’t even get her name.

SEVENTEEN

Like the Caribbean Sea

SYLVIE

It isn’t until he skates away that I remember to breathe. Everything about my encounter with the big, blond hockey player was strange.

In the first place, I didn’t know a man’s eyes could be that brilliant shade of turquoise-blue. I missed the first thing he said to me, because I was wondering how that color was possible.

And then there’s the hairpin. I don’t wear them, but my mother did. We had the same thick hair, which she wore in pretty up-dos, while I’m more of a ponytail girl.