Chapter Four

Reeve

The minute I stepped through Oakley's tonight, my attention caught on the woman with dark auburn hair standing next to Oakley behind the bar.

I did my part to scare Charlie away but I can't do anything about the other guys in the bar who have their eyes on her.

I don't remember the last time a woman caught my interest like this. The kind of attention that makes it physically hard to look away.

Something tells me that Keely is exactly the kind of distraction that could derail my plans for a winning championship season.

Still, I couldn't pass up the opportunity when Oakley asked me to walk Keely to her car.

I follow closely behind her as we head for the door.

"You're from Arizona, right? What brings you to Seattle besides crusty ol' Oakley?" I ask, watching her ponytail swish in the dimly lit bar.

Deep shades of auburn highlights catch in the lighting.

"Crusty ol' Oakley?" she asks, flashing a look over her shoulder with a downturned eyebrow and a lopsided grin.

A fan in a Tomlin jersey is headed in the opposite direction from us with a beer in his hand not paying attention to the fact that he's about to bump into her. Her attention is on me and she hasn't seen him.. Grabbing her shoulders, I steer her around him just in time.

I take her by surprise as she quickly looks back in front of us to see that she narrowly missed the inebriated bar patron whose attention was on the table full of his friends instead of the gorgeous redhead he just about ran into.

"Whoa, thanks for that," she says, but doesn't glance back this time as she keeps walking. This time she's a little more aware of our surroundings. "So I'm guessing there's a story behind how Crusty Ol' Oakley got his name."

"There is," I tell her, though it's not technically my story since I wasn't here when it all started. "When the guys first started coming to Oakley's years ago, before even I had joined the team, Oakley was a little crotchety with the players showing up after the game and packing his small sports bar with a rowdy crowd of Hawkeyes fans. He's warmed up since and I promise, his nickname is a term of endearment. We love the guy—he treats us all like family."

I can't see her face, but her ponytail nods as we get closer to the front door.

"Now I want to hear about you. Why Seattle?"

We make it to the door and she stops and faces me, pulling her jacket from under her arm to put it on before we head out into the rain.

"Here, let me help you with your jacket," I say, hoping to buy us more time for her to give me some backstory on what she's doing here.

"That would be great, thanks," she says, handing me the thin cotton sweater material.

It's not like the waterproof windbreakers that most people in the bar all brought with them to keep dry tonight.

I pull it open for her while she slips one hand at a time through the arm holes. I lift the jacket up over her shoulders and then I release the material, letting her take it from there as she begins to zip it up.

"I moved out here to spend more time with my uncle. And I've been looking for a job as a sports Physical Therapist."

"You're a doctor?" I ask, my voice a little higher pitched than I intended.

She smiles, "Are you surprised?"

I hate to admit that I am.

Not because she's a woman. There are a lot of female PTs, and I've had a number of them work with me on my sports injuries over the years. It's just that Keely looks too young to have gone to school for long enough to be a PT. She doesn't seem older than twenty-three to twenty-four, but I guess she could be close to her thirties.

The older I get, the worse I am at guessing ages, it seems.

"No… not exactly, I just…"

Before I can finish my thought, a small group pushes through the bar's entrance, allowing for a gust of cold, wet air to swirl past us. A shiver races through Keely's body.

"Are you going to be warm enough? I can find a bigger coat for you if you need it. You're going to end up waterlogged by the time we make it to the car wearing this," I say, about ready to snag a windbreaker off any one of my teammates for her.

I'd give her mine, but it's just a hoodie that I had stuffed in my locker, which I changed into after we finished with the media.

None of the players on the team want to hit the bar in a suit and tie, so we all bring a change of clothes to go out after. I must have left my jacket back at my apartment earlier today.

My hoodie isn't waterproof either, though it's thicker than her jacket, and it would at least provide her with another layer to keep her warm. The only drawback is that I can't remember the last time I washed it.

A week ago?

Two weeks ago?

I'm not completely sure.

The best case: It smells like my deodorant and a mild tinge of sweat.

The worst case: It smells like month-old used gym socks left in a gym bag for far too long.

She glances down at her jacket and then back to me. Her green eyes are the color of jade and framed by thick black lashes; they sparkle up at me. It's the first time I notice the light dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose.

"Oh…No," she says, waving her hand up to dislodge any concerns that she needs more layers. "I'm fine. It's not that far of a walk to my car. I found a spot right across the street. Besides, if I'm going to be living in Seattle, I'd better get used to the rain."

She's got a point.

If it's not raining, then it's at least misting in Seattle for more days of the year than not.

The door opens again as someone walks out of the loud crowded bar with their cell phone up to their ear to take a call. Another gust of wind hits us and she shivers again.

I knew she wasn't telling the truth about the jacket being warm enough. I yank my hoodie up over my head, my t-shirt pulling up with it. I pull it down to make sure it doesn't come off with my hoodie, but I notice that Keely's eyes drop to my bare torso—her eyes widening quickly in surprise.

I smile to myself.

The interest goes both ways. I wasn't sure until now.

Instead of asking for a second time if she wants another layer, only to be shot down again, I pull my hoodie down over Keely's head.

"What are you doing?" I hear her muffled voice against the fabric of my sweatshirt until her head pokes through the top. More flyaways around her hair pull out from her ponytail and frizz around her face and I've never seen anyone look as cute as she does in my hoodie. "You're going to catch a cold out there in just a t-shirt, and then how will you play in tomorrow's game?"

She's worried about me.

I can't stop a small smile from pulling at my lips.

"Don't worry about me. I could play on my deathbed. You, on the other hand… I need you not to get sick so that you can interview well tomorrow, doc."

She chuckles. "Doc, huh? Are you planning on making that nickname a habit?" she asks.

I help her hands find the armholes, and now she looks as if my sweatshirt swallowed her.

"Oh, it's warm," she says, crossing her arms around herself, like she is hugging it.

I knew she was cold.

"A habit would suggest that I call you Doc more than once. Does that mean I'm going to get to see you again?"

I reach out for the bar door and pull it open for her to exit first.

Her eyes don't meet mine as she walks past me. Instead, her attention locks onto the outside world that I just opened the door to as she takes steps through the bar's exit.

We both step out into the midnight air and onto the cement sidewalk.

It's still sprinkling outside but it's not coming down as hard as before. My t-shirt will be damp when I return to the bar and take back over for Lake, but I won't be soaked. It wouldn't matter to me either way.

I grew up in Alaska and I play Hockey for a living. The cold and the wet don't bother me.

"Did I say something wrong? I didn't mean to pressure you into seeing me again, I just—"

Her eyes flash back up to mine as we walk down the sidewalk heading for the crosswalk, and she shakes her head. "No, you didn't say anything wrong. I would like to see you again too. It's just that…" she trails for a second. "Right now, I'm trying to focus on this new move and getting myself established in Seattle. It's just a little too soon for me to get involved with anyone."

I'm in the same situation—It's too soon for me too.

In seven months, the season will be over, and if the team works its ass off, we should have a Stanley Cup to show for it. If she plans on living here permanently, I'll get my chance later. There's no reason to rush into anything.

"You don't have to explain yourself. It's not a big deal. You're busy, and the season is in full swing for me. I wasn't trying to push anything on you."

"I know that you weren't. I just have a lot I'm dealing with right now."

I promised myself that I wouldn't get into a relationship until after this season was over and I have a championship win.

I should be happy that my moment of weakness is met with Keely's lack of availability at this time in her life.

I should be relieved, but I'm not.

I'm disappointed, but I won't let her see that.

"Have you had any luck with job interviews?" I ask.

"Not yet but I have an interview tomorrow that's promising. It's not exactly where I want to be but it's a start. I'd be working with middle school athletes at an all-girls private school, which would be cool since I was about that age when I found my love of physical therapy after my soccer injury."

"You used to play soccer?"

I like finding out all these little pieces of information about Keely.

"Yes, before I tore my ACL."

"I'm sorry to hear about your injury—that sucks. Have you been able to play since?" I ask.

"No, I haven't. But my uncle thinks I should join a city league soccer team to make friends."

"The man gives good advice. The city leagues around here take it pretty seriously. There are a bunch of good teams," I tell her. "You said that working at the all-girls school isn't where you want to be. If you could do anything, what would you do?"

Her lips purse, and her shoulders shrug, as if she's too shy to tell me. But then her lips part, and she speaks.

"My dream is to be a PT for a professional team. I don't care which sport, I just want to be a part of something big even if I only get to watch from the basement," she says, digging her hands deeper into the front pocket of my hoodie.

Watch from the basement?

Who would hide someone like Keely away?

We finally make it to the crosswalk and wait until the walk sign turns green. It's late and dark out, and the whiteness of the asphalt makes visibility poor.

The WALK pedestrian sign illuminates and we step off the curb.

I glance both ways to make sure no cars are coming even though we have the right of way. The road is eerily quiet for a busy Thursday night due to the Hawkeyes home game but the monsoon from earlier may have kept some people from coming out.

As we cross, I can't help but glance over at Keely. The yellow Street lamp illuminates her face, and the rain gives everything around us a dream-like blurred effect.

Without warning, headlights bounce across the wet asphalt, and the sound of screeching tires and a roaring engine fills my ears. Without thinking, I react—shoving Keely as hard as I can—no time to give her warning.

I hear her make a sound the moment she hits the asphalt further out of the way with an "oof" sound just before impact when the car hits my side and I'm thrown up on the hood of a vehicle I barely saw coming.

And then I feel it--the sharp pain explodes through my entire body and then I slide off the car, hitting my head on the asphalt as it brakes to a dead stop.

The last thing I hear before passing out is the screeching tires of the car as it accelerates away from me--and Keely's voice screaming for help.

"Someone called 911. He's hurt! He's hurt!"