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than thrilled to have her covering for Chris. His reception of her was so cold, he could have chilled a glass on his forehead. He introduced her to the three other sports reporters, and their welcome wasn’t much warmer than Kirk’s. Except for Jeff Noonan’s.
    Even though Jane was hardly ever in the Seattle Times building, she’d heard about Jeff Noonan. He was known by the female staff as the Nooner and was a sexual harassment lawsuit just waiting to happen. Not only did he believe a woman’s place was in the kitchen, he believed it was on her back on the kitchen table. The look he gave her told her he was thinking about her naked, and he smiled like she should be flattered or something.
    The look she returned told him she’d rather eat rat poison.
    The BAC-111 lifted off from SeaTac at six-twenty-three A.M . Within minutes, the jet broke through the cloud cover and banked left. The morning sun shot through the oval windows like spotlights. Almost as one, the shades were slammed shut against the brutal glare, and a good number of hockey players put their seats back and sacked out for the four-hour flight. A mix of aftershave and cologne filled the cabin as the jet finished its ascent and evened out.
    Without taking her eyes from the itinerary in her lap, Jane reached over her head and adjusted the air. She turned its full force on her face as she looked over the team schedule. She noticed that some of their flights left right after a game while others left the next morning. But except for the flight times, the schedule was always the same. The team practiced the day before each game and had a “light” run-through the day of the game. It never varied.
    She set aside the itinerary and picked up a copy of the Hockey News . The morning light broke over the NHL team reports, and she paused to read a column concerning the Chinooks. The subhead read, “Chinooks’ Goaltending Key to Success.”
    For the past few weeks, Jane had crammed her head with NHL stats. She’d familiarized herself with the names of the Chinooks and the positions they played. She’d read as many newspaper articles on the team as she could find, but she still didn’t have a firm grasp on the game or its players. She was going to have to fly by the seat of her pants and hope she didn’t crash and burn. She needed the respect and trust of these men. She wanted them to treat her as they did other sports journalists.
    In her briefcase, she’d stashed two invaluable books: Hockey for Dummies and The Bad Boys of Hockey . The first gave her the rudiments and the how-tos, while the second told the dark side of the game and the men who played it.
    Without lifting her face, she glanced across the aisle and down a row. Her gaze followed the emergency lights running down the dark blue carpeting and stopped on Luc Martineau’s polished loafers and charcoal trousers. Since their conversation at the Key Arena, she’d done more research on him than the other players.
    He’d been born and raised in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. His father was French-Canadian and divorced his mother when Luc had been just five years old. Luc had been drafted sixth overall into the NHL at the age of nineteen by the Oilers. He’d been traded to Detroit and finally Seattle. The most interesting reading had come from The Bad Boys of Hockey , which had devoted an entire five chapters to Luc. The book had gone into detail about the bad boy goalie, claiming he had the quickest hands on and off the ice. The photos had shown a string of actresses and models on his arm, and while none of them had come right out and claimed they’d slept with him, they hadn’t denied it either.
    Her gaze rose to his big hand and long fingers tapping the arm of his seat. A sliver of his gold Rolex showed from beneath the cuff of his white-and-blue-striped shirt. She took in his shoulder and the profile of his high cheekbones and straight