Firebird (The Firebird Trilogy #1) Read Free

tourist souvenir from his first trip to Niagara Falls, and filled it with Chopin. Gulped it, refilled. Better.
    At least until tomorrow.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Two
     
     
    Stephanie
     
    The Seattle Earthquakes’ public relations department had a reputation for being one of the best in pro sports. Most writers speculated it was a suck-up for good coverage of a team that had failed to meet expectations. At seven thirty a.m., Stephanie received an email with the password for Amazon Arena’s wireless network, as well as parking information for both the morning skate and the game itself.
    Stephanie set her phone back on the nightstand. The wedding was a few months away and larger than she’d have liked, to match Joe’s conception of appropriate nuptials. And on Valentine’s Day, because he wasn’t above a little sentimental cheesiness. The dress, the flowers, the cake, too many guests, and never-ending drama.
    “Tonight’s the big night, huh?” Joe emerged from the bathroom. He’d been up for forty-five minutes already.
    “It’ll be a big night if he agrees to an exclusive interview.”
    “Of course he will. Who could resist that face?” Joe grinned and kissed her.
    “I’ll have to be pretty damned irresistible. The guy doesn’t like media.”
    “Or anyone, from what I’ve heard.”
    Except for her. Or at least, he had. But it was a long time ago. “Every jerk has a weak spot. I’ll find it. I just have to get the initial yes.”
    “You’re so ruthless. It’s kind of sexy.” Joe bent over to kiss her again. She tossed the covers aside and swung her legs out of bed. “Good luck. I’ll make sure I watch the post-game show.”
    “He’s six feet five. I’ll be the blonde with the stunning forehead.”
    Joe chuckled. “It is stunning. Now go get ready. Make me proud.” He shooed her into the bathroom.
     
    ***
     
    Stephanie pulled out her notepad and pen as she and the other journalists entered the arena to watch the morning skate. There she’d find out the starting goalie, the scratches, and the projected lines. The team coasted by the glass, warming up, and her subject sailed past with them. Six feet seven on skates, impossible to miss. The infamous Number 19. He stopped short of the boards, spraying snow, then looked right at her. She had watched him play for years during nationally televised games but hadn’t seen him in person for a long time. And time, as People had proven, had been nothing but kind and generous to him.
    Pained recognition dawned over his face. His lips became a thin, grim slash. He skated away.
    “Let’s go!” Coach, an ashen-haired, gum-chomping former defenseman named Eric LeClair, shouted. The men gathered as he displayed the whiteboard with a drill drawn on it. Mouths moving, voices out of earshot. Nods.
    Three forwards played below the tops of the circles against two defensemen. The forwards attacked on a three-on-two rush played out in a down-low cycle. Once the defensemen gained puck possession, they passed it to a new set of forwards, who attacked two new defensemen.
    Coach shouted, “Attack through the neutral zone! Attack through the seams! Okay, good! Cycle! Take it to the net! Get out in front!”
    Volynsky did, being an effective goalie screen based on size alone. Then he hopped off the ice with a glance over his shoulder at her and spoke to one of the assistant coaches to discuss his options on the play. The drill continued. His glances became glares.
    She debated approaching him after the skate rather than waiting until tonight. If he didn’t look as though he’d choke her, maybe. His stare pierced her as he swooped past before retreating to the flock of reporters gathered by the short glass.
     
    ***
     
    At five p.m., Stephanie, her press badge displayed on her suit jacket, rode the elevator to the press box overlooking the ice. After she entered the arena through the media-and-press door, a staff member greeted her and handed her a