A Match Made in Texas- By Arlene James Page 0,35
out of the lineup could have also taken the wind out of the team’s sails. That, to the team’s credit, had not happened. After the loss, the team captain had, in fact, admonished his team to go out there and win the next one for the Hangman.
Smiling, Kaylie tossed the paper onto the bed. “Well,” she said blithely, “that ought to lighten your mood.”
Those gray eyes tried to freeze her where she stood. “I have good reason for my mood.”
“Mmm, and I suppose the same goes for your attitude,” she ventured softly. Those icy eyes narrowed, but for some reason Kaylie found herself smiling.
“What’s wrong with my attitude?”
“Oh, please. A little honesty, now.”
“Meaning?”
“Has no one ever told you that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”
“Has no one ever told you that you look better with your hair down?” he sniped.
Kaylie’s hand went automatically to the heavy twist of hair at her nape. She almost always confined it when she was working. Otherwise, it got in the way. Self-consciously, she dropped the hand, dismayed to find that her first impulse had been to dig out the pins and clips that maintained the chignon. She didn’t know what was worse—that he thought her unattractive with her hair confined or that she cared what he thought about her looks.
“Sorry,” Stephen muttered, having the grace to shoot her a sheepish glance. “You look fine. I only meant that you have gorgeous hair. How you wear it is none of my business.”
He thought she had gorgeous hair! Her hand once more sneaked up to touch the offending chignon, and she quickly turned away, unwilling to let him see how much his opinion affected her. “Thank you,” she murmured, trying not to feel too pleased.
“I said I’m sorry, all right?” he grumbled.
Nodding, she bent to check the drip rate on his intravenous unit. “No problem.”
“Arrrgh!”
She turned to find him beating his fist against his forehead. Alarmed, she asked, “Are you in pain?”
He dropped his hand, glaring at her. “No, I’m not in pain. Not much, anyway. I am in a foul mood. I admit it. Okay? I hate hospitals, and I hate not being able to get out of this bed! I’m bored out of my gourd and I’m worried—” He broke off.
“Worried about your career,” she surmised.
“Wouldn’t you be?” he shot back.
Kaylie didn’t bother answering that. Instead, she sent up a silent prayer as she sifted through the second newspaper on the bed. Finding the sports section, she thumbed through it until she came to the hockey report. Quickly scanning the article, she saw that this reporter was not nearly as sanguine about the loss and the team’s chances, for one pertinent reason. Reading aloud from the article, she pitched her voice to a strong, authoritative level.
“As thrilled as the fans may be at the team’s long overdue entry into the playoffs, the hope of the Blades began and ended with goalie Stephen Gallow, who has had his problems off the ice in the past but rarely on it. Hurry back, Hangman! We need you.”
She looked up in time to catch a look of raw emotion on his face. It was an expression of relief and pride and abject longing. Understanding struck. In an instant, she saw what Stephen Gallow would likely never admit even to himself, that like everyone else in this world, deep down, he needed to be needed. That’s what playing for the Blades was really about for him. He just wanted someone to need him. She, who had felt the needs of so many and counted them a burden, felt suddenly ashamed.
Chapter Seven
Folding the paper neatly, Kaylie passed it to Stephen for his own perusal. He seemed to soak in every word. A faint smile curved his lips, but the face that he presented to her clearly showed concern.
“This helps, but sports writers and team management are not the same.”
“No, they’re not,” she agreed, “but neither one is God. Why don’t you leave the future to Him and concentrate on getting well?”
“Easy for you to say,” Stephen muttered, looking at the article again.
“Yes,” she said meaningfully. “Yes, it is.” When he made no response to that, she changed the subject. “When’s the next game?”
The frown came back to Stephen’s face. “Tomorrow night.” He glared at the television in the corner. The folded sheet of newspaper dropped to the bed. “You think there’s any chance I can get out of here before then?”
Kaylie smiled. “We’ll see what the doctors