"Good to see you, Hitman," the bartender called out to him as they pa.s.sed. "Can I get you anything?"

"No thanks. Not right now."

Chelsea bit the side of her lip. Hitman?

The Sports Ill.u.s.trated reporter sat on a red leather sofa in the back of the lounge; her long blond hair curled about her shoulders and shone in the subdued light. The reporter stood as they approached and moved from behind a large c.o.c.ktail table. She wore a red bird's-eye jacket and pencil skirt that hit her at mid-thigh. She was tall and gorgeous and perfectly proportioned, everything that Chelsea was not. Oh, Chelsea could buy that exact shade of blond and she planned to have her b.r.e.a.s.t.s reduced to fit her body, but she would never have those long legs.

"h.e.l.lo, I'm Chelsea Ross." Chelsea shook the woman's slender hand. "Mr. Bressler's a.s.sistant."

"It's nice to meet you," the reporter said, but her eyes were transfixed on the man behind Chelsea. "You're a hard man to pin down," she said as she dropped Chelsea's hand and reached for Mark. "I'm Donda Clark."

He switched his cane to his right hand. "Mark Bressler."

"Yes, I know." She smiled and motioned toward the seat next to her on the sofa. "I caught the game in Detroit last December."

A tight smile curved Mark's lips. "That was one of the last games I played." He moved to the sofa, placed his good hand on the arm, and slowly sat. The corners of his mouth tightened even more, and Chelsea wondered if he was up to the interview. He seemed so strong, it was easy to forget that he'd been near death just a few months prior.

"I thought Detroit might turn it over after Leclaire drew a double minor in the third frame, but the Chinooks' firepower clearly overwhelmed the Red Wings."

Wow, what an a.s.s kisser. "Can I get anything for the two of you before I go?" Chelsea asked.

"I'd like a Chablis," Donda answered as she sat and dug a tape recorder out of her bag. "Thank you."

"Mr. Bressler?"

He took the gla.s.ses from the top of his head and shoved one side down the collar of his T-shirt. "Water."

Chelsea moved to the bar and wondered if Donda noticed the pain etched in the side of Mark's mouth and if she'd write about it.

"What can I get you, sweetheart?" the bartender asked as his gaze landed on her chest. She was so used to guys' reaction to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, it didn't anger her as much as it once had. Annoy, yes. Anger, no.

Chelsea waited a few seconds before his gaze moved up to hers. "House Chablis and a gla.s.s of ice water." She looked at the name tag clipped to his blue polo. "Colin."

He smiled. The c.o.c.ky smile of bartenders worldwide who knew they were good-looking. "You know my name. What's yours?"

She'd been known to date a few c.o.c.ky bartenders. Most of them had been out-of-work actors. "You already know it. It's sweetheart."

He reached for a gla.s.s and filled it with ice. "It's nice to meet you, sweetheart. What brings you into the Spitfire?"

"I'm Mr. Bressler's a.s.sistant."

Colin lifted his gaze from the gla.s.s he slid across the bar and grinned. "I didn't think you were his date. You're not his type."

"How do you know his type?"

"A lot of hockey players hang out here. He used to come in with some of the guys."

He poured the wine, and Chelsea watched him for a few moments. "What's his type?" she asked, only because it was her job to know that sort of thing. Not because she was nosy or anything.

"He goes for models. Like the blond he's talking to."

"Ah." Figured.

"I prefer cute and s.p.u.n.ky. Like you."

Cute. She'd always been cute. For the most part, she was okay with that. Unless she had to stand next to a gorgeous supermodel and read for the same part. And because she was short, everyone a.s.sumed she was "s.p.u.n.ky." Or maybe it was her fashion flair. Although everyone always a.s.sumed the same about Bo, and Bo had the fashion sense of an undertaker. "What makes you think I'm s.p.u.n.ky?"

He chuckled. "It might as well be written across your forehead."

Which told her nothing. She reached for both gla.s.ses. "See ya, Colin."

"Don't be a stranger, sweetheart."

She moved back into the VIP lounge and set the gla.s.ses on the table in front of the sofa. Mark glanced up at her and slid his sungla.s.ses to one side of his neck. "I'll be back in an hour," she told him. "If you need anything, call."

"I'll take good care of him," the reporter a.s.sured her, and Chelsea waited until she turned before she gave in to the urge to roll her eyes. She moved through the bar and out into the warm afternoon air. The Metro rushed past, the sound of the motor and screech of brakes bouncing off the stone buildings. Seattle definitely had a different vibe than L.A. It had a faster pace. Maybe it was the cooler temperature. Or maybe it was because the Gore-Texclad, gra-nola-munching Starbucks drinkers jogged because they actually enjoyed it. Whatever it was, Chelsea liked it well enough. She wouldn't mind living in Seattle until after her surgery. She figured she'd need a few weeks to recuper-ate before she headed back to L.A. to take another shot at pursuing her dream.

She'd often told friends that casting directors hired her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, not her. She'd been forever type-cast as a bimbo or a s.e.xually promiscuous character. Once her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were no longer a factor, directors would have to take her seri-ously. They'd have to pay more attention to her talent than to her body.

What if you still don't make it? a tiny pessimistic part of her brain asked. She'd give herself two years. No, five. If she still hadn't landed anything significant by the time she was thirty-five, she'd find something else. She'd be sad, but she wouldn't have any regrets. Not about pursuing her dream. And certainly not about reducing her heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

It took her less than ten minutes to walk the five blocks to the Chinooks' offices. She'd been in the human resources offices last week and found it eas-ily. After she filled out her insurance forms, she headed to the public relations department where her sister worked. The second she stepped inside the offices, she could feel that something was up.

Bo sat on the edge of her desk with her hands covering the bottom half of her face. Jules Garcia stood in front of her. "You're worrying about nothing," he said.

"That's easy for you to say. You don't have to fix it."

"You don't have to fix anything."

"Yet."

"Hey all," Chelsea said as she approached.

Bo dropped her hands. "Hey, Chels."

"Hi there," Jules greeted, his gorgeous green eyes appraising her peac.o.c.k Gaultier. The other night when she'd first met Jules, she'd a.s.sumed he was gay. He was just too pretty and too concerned about the way he looked to be straight. His prison-ripped muscles screamed gay, but a few moments in his company had cleared up the confusion. Chelsea had been around a lot of gay men in her life. Straight men too. Jules was that rare breed that didn't easily fit in one camp or the other. Not like Mark Bressler. There was never a question for which team Mark played. His whole body leaked hetero toxins. Jules's s.e.x-uality was more covert, disguised behind hair gel and fashion risks. Like the lavender-and-pink-striped shirt he favored today.

"Is something wrong?" Chelsea asked.

Bo handed Chelsea the sports section of the Seattle Times. An enlarged photo of several men standing on a yacht, one of them pouring beer from the Stanley Cup onto bikini-clad women, took up most of the front page. The caption read: Chinooks celebrate near Vashon with Lord Stanley's Cup.

"They're partying with the Stanley Cup? Can they do that?" Chelsea studied the picture. It was a little fuzzy but clear enough. "I mean, is it allowed?"

"It's actually tradition," Jules a.s.sured her. "Each team member gets the cup for one day."

"They can just do what they want with it?" Now she understood some of Bo's concern.

"Within reason," Jules answered. "And a representative of the Hall of Fame has to be with it at all times."

Obviously pouring beer on women in bikinis was considered "within reason."

Bo slid off the side of her desk. "So there's going to be a lot of opportunity for shenanigans."

Jules shook his head. "You worry too much. After they all get their turn, it'll get taken away to have their names engraved on it and everything will settle down."

Chelsea tossed the paper on her sister's desk. "How many players get their turn with the cup?"

"All those who are eligible to have their names engraved on it. Off the top of my head, I think twenty-four," Jules answered. "Including Ty Savage and Mark Bressler. Even though neither played the full season."

"Mr. Bressler gets a day with the cup?" He hadn't mentioned it. Then again, he didn't say much. Except when he wanted to be rude.

"Sure. He was the captain until just before the playoffs. Any player who played in forty-one regular season games or five playoff games is eligible. Bressler played in well over forty-one games and is a huge part of the reason the team made it into the finals. He helped build the team and deserves as much credit for winning as anyone. It's just a shame he didn't get to play in the finals."

"When is his day?" She pulled her BlackBerry out of her bag to make a note.

"I don't know," Bo answered.

"I'm sure he can have it whenever he wants. Has he talked to anyone about what day he wants the cup?"

Chelsea shook her head. "I don't know. I'll ask him."

Jules reached out and brushed the sleeve of her shirt. "Nice."

"Thanks. It's a Gaultier."

"I thought it might be. I have a silk Gaultier in pewter and gold."

Of course he did. "Are you sure you're not gay?" She c.o.c.ked her head to one side. "Bo has no interest in fashion, and I'd love to find a gay best friend to shop with."

"I have more important things in my life," Bo protested.

"Like what?" Jules and Chelsea asked at the same time.

"Like...like my job."

Jules looked from one sister to the other. "If the two of you didn't look alike, I wouldn't know you're twins. You're so different."

Chelsea thought about the fight she'd had with her sister the night before. "Bo is a lot more responsible than I am."

Her sister gave her a tight smile. "I can be kind of uptight."

"That's an understatement." Jules chuckled. "You're bossy as h.e.l.l."

"Well, someone has to be or nothing would get done around here."

"Right. The whole organization would fall apart without a five-and-a-half-foot woman in PR telling everyone what to do and how to do it."

"I'm five feet, one and a half," Bo said as if they were in junior high and that half an inch was still important. She frowned and pushed her short hair behind her ears. "Why are you here, Jules? Just to fight with me?"

"As pleasant as fighting with you always is, I was going to see if you're free for lunch."

"I have a meeting in ten minutes," Bo grumbled.

He looked at Chelsea. "You free?"

She glanced at the clock on her phone. She didn't get the feeling that Jules asked because he thought she and Bo were interchangeable. He was a nice guy. They both had to eat, but she still had to run it by her sister since he'd asked Bo first. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

"Good, because I'm starving." She looked at Jules. "I have to be back at the Spitfire in half an hour."

"I know a sandwich shop not far. You can get something and eat it on the way."

"Okay." Chelsea glanced at her sister, who glared at Jules as if he'd done something wrong. "Are you sure you don't mind?" she asked.

"I'm sure." She turned to her desk and picked up the newspaper. "Some of us have to work."

"And some of us got the day off." Jules moved toward the door. "Sucks to be you."

"Yeah." She sighed heavily. "Sucks to be me."

"I'll see you at home later," Chelsea said as she moved to the door. Bo nodded but didn't turn around.

"Did something happen?" she asked Jules as they moved down the hall. "Bo is acting weird."

"Is she?" He held open the door for her, and as she pa.s.sed, she caught the scent of his cologne. "I think all this stuff with the cup is making her more uptight than usual. And she's usually wound fairly tight."

"Maybe." She dropped her phone into her purse and pulled out her sungla.s.ses. "What can you tell me about Mark Bressler?"

"I don't know a lot. I knew him a little bit when I worked for the Chinooks five years ago. I only recently started working for the organization again. I was rehired to a.s.sist Mrs. Duffy when she inherited the team. That would have been a month or two after his accident."

Chelsea didn't think she'd ever forget the game the other night. Not only because it had been fun to watch but because during the award ceremony, Mrs. Duffy had walked out onto the ice in a pair of pink skates, and the captain of the team, Ty Savage, had dipped her back and tongue kissed her for the world to see. The crowd inside the Key Arena had gone wild. "That was so romantic," she sighed.

"Yeah."

She looked up at him, at the sun shining in his spiky black hair. "You don't think so?"

"Sure." He shrugged his big shoulders. "I just hope Ty doesn't break her heart. She's a nice person, and I'd hate to see her get hurt."

"He retired for her. Not many men would do something like that. He must love her."

They walked a few more feet, and Jules opened the door to a little deli and the two stepped inside. The smell of fresh-baked bread made Chelsea's stomach growl. "Love doesn't always work out," he said.

She knew that well enough. She'd been in love a few times, only to be dumped flat on her behind. But she'd always picked herself back up and moved on. In the past, she'd let l.u.s.t and love get all mixed up in her head. She'd let a pretty face, hot body, and slick moves convince her that what she felt was love. The kind that lasted forever. The kind her parents had shared. It never had worked out for her, but she was sure she'd find someone someday. "You sound a little cynical."

He shrugged, and they moved toward the counter. "I always go for girls who don't like me or just want to be 'friends.' G.o.d, I hate it when a woman just wants to be friends."

She wondered if he was talking about his boss. She looked up at the chalkboard menu and asked, "Who just wants to be your friend?"