Calling the Shots

In all his years watching his daughter play hockey, Bryan had never once noticed how good another player’s mom looked in jeans. He’d never wondered how hot she’d look if he had the chance to see her in a skirt—or out of a skirt, for that matter. Now he couldn’t be near Clare for five minutes before his thoughts skated down paths they hadn’t taken since he got married…or since the divorce.

He looked back at the action on the ice. He was not, under any circumstances, going to let himself think about Clare that way again. They had to get along to help the kids through this mediation thing.

And he’d be willing to bet the counselor didn’t expect them to sleep together as part of the deal.

Dear Reader,

I wrote the first scene of this book long before I knew exactly what the story would be about. I had an idea for a dad and a daughter he loved fiercely but couldn’t quite connect with, and from that scene grew Calling the Shots.

I love to write about the complicated, messy side of relationships. In the book Clare says that she can’t trust herself and I can relate to that idea. How do lovers, or even parents and children, move past the fears and doubts that get in the way of satisfying connections? How does anyone have the courage to try again when they’ve been badly hurt in the past? When is it worth taking a risk and when is it smarter to run?

I hope you’ll enjoy reading along as Bryan and Clare wrestle with these issues.

Extras, including behind-the-scenes facts, deleted scenes and information about my other books are on my Web site, www.ellenhartman.com. Look for other Harlequin Superromance authors and readers on our Facebook page at www.facebook.com/HarlequinSuperromance. I’d love to hear from you! Send e-mail to [email protected].

Happy reading!

Ellen Hartman

Ellen grew up in Pennsylvania where she played many sports including baseball, basketball and track. (Her efforts for the cross-country team were more comical than athletic.) After graduating from Carnegie Mellon with a degree in creative writing, she spent the next fifteen years writing technical documentation. Eventually, she worked up the courage to try fiction and has been enjoying her new career as a romance author.

Currently Ellen lives in a college town in New York. She and her husband spend much of their free time watching their sons play baseball, soccer and, of course, hockey.

This book is dedicated to the parents and volunteers who share their time, talent and enthusiasm with kids through youth sports, especially my brother, Jerry.

In his first outing as a stand-in coach, he led our sister’s basketball team to their only “almost-win” of the season. The story of that game is a family favorite!

I would also like to thank the parents of the Ithaca Youth Hockey Squirt travel team who answered my questions about hockey terms and technique. Chris Thomas was especially helpful, and I regret that I wasn’t able to include some of his hilarious cheers in the book.

Finally, I continue to rely on the expertise and support of my critique partners, Diana, Harriett, Leslie, Liz and Mary. They were particularly helpful at the beginning of this project when Tim underwent a much-needed personality makeover.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

BRYAN WAS BEYOND LATE. He’d missed Allie’s entire practice. He just hoped she was still at the rink. He’d texted her, but she hadn’t replied. His sister, who watched Allie when he was gone, wasn’t picking up, either.

Not good.

So not good. People weren’t almost an hour late to pick up their thirteen-year-old kids from hockey. At least not people who were good at being parents.

He was going to have to arrange a backup plan for the nights he was coming from out of town. One more arrangement to get this whole precarious mess he and Allie were calling a family under control.

He sure as hell hoped Erin’s new life was worth it.

He pulled into the drop-off circle at the front of the rink. It was past nine o’clock—no one was going to complain if he left the Lexus there for a few minutes.

He took the stairs three at a time, his bad knee twinging as he landed on the icy top step, but he ignored the old pain. Bryan yanked the doors open, the blast of warmth hitting him hard after the bitter cold air. He was already scanning the lobby, checking the worn, tweed couches for his daughter when Danny Jackson, the rink manager, popped his head out of his office.

“Bryan,” Danny said. “I need to talk to you.”

Bryan glanced over but kept walking toward the locker rooms. “I’ll be back in one sec. I’m late picking up Allie,” he called. She wasn’t in the lobby but she had to be here somewhere. She wouldn’t have asked someone to drop her at the apartment. Not when she knew he was out of town.