Hot Shots

Chapter 7

Liz St. John unlocked the door to their tiny suite of offices at nine o'clock on the dot. Dara had texted she'd be late because she had a stop to make to check on some decorations for an event that weekend. That meant Liz was on phone duty. Their budget didn't yet extend to a secretary, even part-time.

She hung up her jacket in the little room in the back that was a catchall for everything and fixed herself a cup of coffee from their single serving machine. Setting the mug on her desk, she booted up her computer and opened her calendar to see what her list was for today. They had four events coming up - she did a little mental jig - and she wanted to make sure everything was in order. Then she planned to call the people who'd given her their cards and see what kind of event they had in mind and when.

She had just taken her first sip of coffee when there was a knock on the office door. She frowned. No one ever knocked. Especially since on the frost glass it said Please come in.

"It's open," she called. When no one entered she called out again. "You can come right in."

Still no one entered, but there was another knock on the door. Finally, exasperated and annoyed, she got up and opened the door, and - stopped dead in her tracks. An enormous silver and nickel alloy cup, like the kind given at sporting events, stood front and center, the bowl-shaped top filled with more roses than she'd ever seen in one place before. Their scent drifted up to her and she drew in a deep breath.

Then she froze. Only one person had ever given her roses and could now afford them by the dozen. And only one person would have a trophy like this. She stared at the icon item, mesmerized. So this was the famous Cup, the damn piece of metal for which he'd walked away from her. The thing that had driven him to walk away from everything but the challenge of the game.

She supposed to the athletes who won it there was glory and exhilaration and a sense of achievement attached to it. But for herself, she had a hard time not resenting it. She still couldn't understand why he had to put everything they'd had between them on hold to chase after it.

She stared at the roses again, their delicate scent floating up to her nostrils. She knew only one person could have done this, only Matt could have delivered roses in The Cup to her door. But when she looked up and down the hall it was empty.

What the hell?

She was sure he wouldn't just leave something so valuable to him sitting out here in the hallway. Then the elevator dinged.

Oh, good. He's here. I cam give him a piece of my mind.

But it wasn't Matt who exited the elevator. Instead she saw George Flanagan, the attorney in the offices across the hall from her, walking down the hallway toward her.

"Wow." He stopped in front of her and nodded toward the flowers. "Someone must think a lot of you."

"Uh, well, maybe."

Then he stooped to take a closer look at the container.

"Wait a minute. Isn't that The Cup? The one the Cajun Rage won this year?"

She swallowed. "I, uh, guess so."

His eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "You guess so? Liz, if you know someone who plays for the Rage you'd better get me his autograph. I am a huge fan."

She c****d an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I lived in New Orleans when they got the franchise so I have a special feeling for the Rage." He looked at the piece of metal statuary again and snapped his fingers. "Wait. Matt Vorchak plays for the Rage, right?"

Liz tried to appear as nonchalant as possible. "Yes, he does."

"Rumor has it you and he were pretty tight at once time."

Liz kept the bitterness out of her voice. "Yes. We were."

George's face took on a sober expression. "Terrible thing what happened to him. He was a killer defenseman."

Since Liz actually knew only the bare details of Matt's injury she just nodded. "Yes. Too bad."

And again the question formed in her mind: Is that why he'd come crawling back?

"So, then, you must now him, right?" George drawled.

"Uh, we're friends." Maybe.

He nodded at the roses. "Obviously he thinks so. When he comes to get The Cup back, don't forget about that autograph."

She laughed, a sound that was phony even to her own ears. "I'll see what I can do."

Before he could engage her in further conversation she picked up The Cup and carried it into her office, kicking the door shut on the way. For a moment she just stood there, holding the giant iconic award. She was barely an average hockey fan. In fact, when Matt Vorchak chose hockey over her she came to bitterly resent the game. But here he was, holding his dreams in his arms.

So this was what he had focused his entire life on. She supposed the famous award symbolized being the best of the best, and she could empathize with that. She had her goals, too. But to shut out everything else in your life to achieve it? To walk away from someone who loved you?

Loved? Wait a minute.

Okay, so they'd never actually said the words. But they'd had something going that she knew in her heart was special. She never understood how Matt Vorchak could expect her to put everything on hold and sit around waiting while he chased a dream. Maybe she'd misread it. Maybe that was it. Except in her heart of hearts she knew that wasn't so, at least on her end.

She'd certainly tried hard enough to fill that void with someone else. Too bad the men she thought might do it for her turned out to be dull and boring compared to the wildness that was Matt Vorchak.