The Man Upstairs

So far the only resident who took advantage of that rule was Krystal Graham, the hairstylist who occupied the other half of the second floor. She had a steady stream of visitors, and Dena could understand why. Krystal was a people person. From what her brother was saying, the man upstairs probably wasn’t.

“You might want to think of another item for the charity auction,” Ryan said, reaching for a napkin to dab at hot chocolate that had dribbled down Luke’s chin. “We don’t know this guy. For all we know, his persona off ice could be the same as it is on ice.”

“He’s not going to be mean to his neighbor,” Lisa insisted. “Stop trying to discourage her.”

“You don’t think I can get the stick, do you?” Dena said to her brother.

“It’s going to be difficult,” he warned her.

“Yeah, so what else is new?” she retorted.

“So you’re going to go for it?” Lisa wanted to know.

“Yes. I want my donation to the auction to stand out from the others. I just have to figure out a way to get the stick.”

“The Cougars have a game at the Excel Center tomorrow, which means Quinn Sterling is in town,” Ryan announced.

“Now’s your chance,” Lisa encouraged her. “If you don’t want to knock on his door, you could always bump into him on the stairs.”

An equally unsettling thought for Dena, who knew that she was right. It was now or never. The auction was only a little over a week away. If she didn’t get to him this weekend, there was a good chance he’d be on the road and she wouldn’t have another opportunity.

“You’re right. I’m going to do it. Wish me luck.”

BEFORE DENA COULD DO SOMETHING so bold as to introduce herself to a professional hockey player and ask for an autographed stick, she needed to be prepared. That’s why she made sure to leave her brother’s house early enough so that she had time to stop at the library on her way home.

Later, armed with a stack of periodicals and a couple of videotapes, she climbed the stairs to the second floor at 14 Valentine Place. Once she was in her room, she slipped a tape cassette into the VCR and pressed Play.

As scenes of hockey players flashed across the screen, a voice announced the featured segments of the weekly sports program. If she watched the entire thirty minutes she could get an analysis of the games played the previous week, hear an interview with the head coach of the Minnesota Cougars hockey team and watch a demonstration of stickhandling at its best. Since she’d checked out the tape for one reason only—to see the player profile feature—she pressed the fast-forward button until she found that particular segment.

Images of bodies being pushed into the boards and sliding across the ice as skaters battled for the small black puck flashed on the screen. “Every team has one…a big, mean skater who patrols the blue line using his physical presence as a weapon,” the narrator said as a player rammed another against the boards. “He’s as tough as nails, adding muscle and strength to a defense that is out there for one purpose—to keep the puck away from the guys who want to stuff it in the net.”

Dena grimaced as two men collided with a thud that could be heard above the noise of the crowd. “Around the league he’s established a reputation for being a leader on and off the ice, and with good reason,” the narrator continued. “With a solid work ethic and an attitude that conveys he’s going to get the job done, he’s what every head coach wants a defenseman to be—rough, tough and ready to do battle. This week we profile number thirty-two…”

The hockey player who’d been banging bodies into the boards stopped in the center of the rink, the camera catching the action of his blade on the ice at the same moment the narrator said, “Quinn Sterling.” It was then that Dena saw for the first time the face of the man who lived upstairs.

The first word that came to mind was gladiator. Maybe it was the helmet he wore. Or it could have been the rugged features that seemed to be all angles. Dena frowned as she realized that it was also a familiar face. Where would she have seen him before? Maybe as a professional athlete he’d done a commercial she’d seen. He certainly had the kind of look that could sell products.

As the profile continued, Dena listened to stats and figures that had little significance to someone who didn’t follow hockey. Then the question was raised. “Is Quinn Sterling one of the meanest guys on the ice?”

The camera moved to one of Quinn’s teammates, who grinned and said, “All hockey players have a mean streak. It’s just that Quinn wears his on his jersey.”

The next shot was of Quinn. He stood with his helmet off, his dark hair damp from exertion, defending the accusation. “It’s my job to make sure my teammates are safe and protected on the ice. If that means I’ve got to get rough to do it, then I’m gonna do it. No one’s going to run up on one of my guys.”

Footage of him getting rough followed. Dena winced as a sequence of collisions was shown, all of them resulting in bodies being knocked to the ice. When a brawl erupted, gloves dropped and fists were raised. Dena decided she’d seen enough and stopped the tape. She didn’t need to watch grown men who were supposed to be professionals behave like little boys on the playground.

She looked at the stack of sports magazines and wondered if she should even bother to read any of the articles on Quinn Sterling. Curiosity had her flipping one open and reading a brief bio. He was born and raised in St. Paul and played his first hockey game at the age of five. He’d left college early to enter the NHL draft. Now he made his living fighting on the ice.

She heaved a long sigh and tossed the magazine aside. The task of having to ask him for the donation seemed to be an even more unpleasant one than it had earlier in the day. She wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to simply go buy an autographed stick or jersey from a sports shop. Of course it would be easier, but it would also be costlier.

Lisa could be right. Quinn Sterling might be happy to donate the stick simply because she was his neighbor. She just had to work up her courage and ask him for it.

As she scooped up the periodicals scattered across the floor, she noticed one was a woman’s magazine. Whoever had pulled the magazines for her from the library stacks must have accidentally included it. She looked again at her request slip and saw that it wasn’t a mistake.

According to the guide to periodicals, Quinn Sterling was in the magazine. Dena flipped through the glossy pages until she came to the article called, “Why We Love Those Bad Boys.” It didn’t take long to find his name in boldface type.

“What could be more tantalizing than a professional hockey player who plays rough?” the writer asked. “He’s cold and cruel on the ice, but what we want to know is what he’s like when he’s not slamming bodies up against the boards. This thirty-one-year-old bachelor may look like every girl’s dream with those baby-blue eyes, but don’t expect him to behave like the boy next door. Taming this bad boy is definitely going to be a challenge. He’s been quoted as saying that the woman hasn’t been born yet who can tempt him to hang up his blades.”

Dena rolled her eyes and groaned. “And this is the guy I have to ask for a donation for a charity event?” As she turned the page a photograph of Quinn Sterling stared back at her. Without his helmet he still looked rugged. And tough. And handsome.

He also looked familiar. Again she asked herself why. Her answer came as she noticed the small scar along his jaw—a scar that hadn’t been noticeable on the videotape.

She had seen him before. The night of Maddie’s wedding. In the men’s rest room. Dressed in a suit, he’d looked very different from the man in the hockey uniform. He’d flirted with her, and she smiled as she remembered their encounter.

The question was, would he remember her? She doubted it, not with the number of women who probably came and went in his life. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t even be a blip on his memory radar.

All weekend she watched for a sign that he was home, but not once did she see him or his silver SUV parked out back. His absence made her do something she hadn’t done on previous Monday mornings. She went into the kitchen on the main floor.

“This is a nice surprise,” Leonie Donovan greeted her. “I was beginning to think you didn’t eat breakfast.”

Dena didn’t want to admit that she often skipped breakfast and simply said, “I usually grab something on the way to work.”

Leonie nodded in understanding. “You put in long hours, don’t you?” She didn’t expect an answer to her question and continued, “Krystal’s the same way. I haven’t seen much of her lately, either.”

“What about Mr. Sterling? Does he use the kitchen much?” she asked as she busied herself getting a cup of tea.

“Quinn? No.” There was a hint of regret in her voice. “When I had the third floor remodeled, I put in an efficiency kitchen up there, but I doubt he does much cooking. He’s seldom home.”

Dena filled the kettle and set it on the stove. “I noticed. Actually, I’ve been trying to connect with him.”

Leonie raised her eyebrows. “You have?”

She nodded. “I have a favor to ask him. Maybe you can tell me if you think he’d be interested in this.” She sat down across from Leonie and told her about the charity event being held at the high school, including what items had already been donated to the auction. “I was hoping he’d be willing to autograph a stick or some other hockey memorabilia for the event.”

“I don’t see any reason why he wouldn’t do it, especially since he went to the same high school as Aaron Jorgenson,” she said over her cup of coffee.

“He did? I knew he was from St. Paul, but I didn’t realize that.”

She nodded, then set her cup back in its saucer. “His family used to live right around the corner. He was always over here with my boys, slapping pucks around on the small skating rink my husband would make in the backyard every winter.”

Which would explain why he was at Dylan and Maddie’s wedding, Dena concluded silently. “Did you ever think he’d get to the NHL?”

“I knew he loved the game,” she admitted, then smiled. “Lots of young boys dream of becoming professional athletes. I think mine did at one time, too. It’s nice to see that dream come true for Quinn. If anybody deserves it, he does. He’s worked hard to get where he is.” There was admiration and respect in her voice, which had Dena wondering if Leonie realized the kind of player Quinn was.

“You sound very fond of him,” she commented.

Leonie smiled. “I am, and with good reason. He’s a good guy. I’m going to have to introduce you two.”

An alarm rang in Dena’s head. One of her reservations about moving into 14 Valentine Place had concerned her landlady’s occupation. Maddie had told her Leonie was a romance coach, but she had also assured her that her mother-in-law wasn’t the kind to try to do any matchmaking with her tenants. Now Dena wasn’t so sure Maddie had been right about that.

As if Leonie could read her mind, she said, “Don’t look so frightened. I’m not going to throw you two together with a couple of candles and some Barry Manilow music. I just meant you should know each other because you’re neighbors. I like to think that my tenants look out for one another.”

Dena gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion.”

“It’s all right. I should have explained to you when you moved in just what it is a romance coach does. I help people put romance in their lives. Have you seen my column in the paper…Dear Leonie?”

Dena nodded.

“Then you know what kind of questions people bring to me about romance. I also teach a class on making relationships last. And I’m thinking about adding one on flirting.”

Dena thought, judging by the way Quinn Sterling had flirted with her, he’d be a good resource, but she didn’t tell Leonie that.

“I also do one-on-one counseling. When it comes to romance, some people really don’t have a clue, and sometimes all they need is a little push in the right direction. My goal has always been for people to discover the joy romance can bring. There’s nothing more wonderful than the right somebody to love.”

Dena didn’t want to tell her that so far that particular pleasure had evaded her. Not that she was looking for it. The romantic relationships she’d had thus far had suited her just fine. Not exactly romantic, but they hadn’t left her brokenhearted, either.

“So you see, Dena, I’m really not a matchmaker,” Leonie concluded.

She smiled in relief. “That’s good to hear. I’m really not looking for the right somebody to love.”

She held up one hand. “I understand. I told you when you moved in that I regard all of my tenants as just that—tenants. Their personal lives are their own, as is mine. When we’re in this house, we’re simply friends. Fair enough?”

Dena nodded. She could see why Maddie had come to regard Leonie as a mother long before she’d married Dylan. Dena knew it would be tempting to let this woman mother her, especially since her own mother had never really filled that role.

“Now, back to Quinn. With all the Cougar road trips, it’s no surprise the two of you haven’t met,” Leonie said thoughtfully.

“We both have busy schedules, I’m sure.”

Leonie nodded. “And he keeps to himself. I know Krystal talks with him occasionally, but then Krystal can get anyone to talk. Quinn values his privacy. It’s one of the reasons he lives here. With the success he’s had, he could afford a fancy penthouse apartment anywhere, yet he chose to rent the third floor of my house.”

“This is a lovely place,” Dena told her. “It has a charm you don’t find in newer housing.”

“Why, thank you, Dena. I’m glad you like it here.”

“I do.” It was the truth. She’d had her reservations about sharing a bath and the kitchen with the other tenants, but she’d discovered that Maddie had been right. There was something about the big old Victorian house that made her feel comfortable.

“I figured if you were a good friend of Maddie’s that you’d fit in with us,” Leonie said with a twinkle in her eye.

Dena was beginning to think she would, too. At least with Krystal and Leonie. As for the man upstairs…she guessed it really didn’t matter whether they liked each other. He was never around, and once she got the hockey stick she could forget about him, which reminded her she still had to get the auction item.

“If Dylan’s a private person, I probably shouldn’t bother him about the stick,” Dena commented.

“I don’t think he’ll see it as a bother, but if you’d like, I could ask him for you.”

Dena said a prayer of thanks right then and there. “You wouldn’t mind?”

Leonie took a sip of her coffee, then said, “No, not at all. I’ll see what I can do.”

TRUE TO HER WORD, Leonie talked to Quinn. The very next day when Dena arrived home from work, she found a hockey stick propped against her door. Attached to it was a note that said, “Leonie told me about the auction for the Jorgensons. If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.” It was simply signed with a capital Q.

Leonie knew she needed to thank the man. Taking a deep breath, she took the stick and climbed the stairs to the third floor. To her relief, there was no answer to her knock on his door, and she went back to her apartment, where she studied the signature on the hockey stick.

The writing was bold and confident, the Q a big flamboyant circle compared to the rest of the letters, which weren’t much more than a series of upward strokes and wavy humps. His entire name was underscored.

She propped the stick against the wall, then sat down at her desk. She pulled a note card from the drawer and began to write.

“Mr. Sterling, Thank you so much for the auction donation for the Aaron Jorgenson benefit. It was very kind of you and your generosity is appreciated. Sincerely, your neighbor, Dena Bailey.”

She went back upstairs and slipped the note beneath his door.

The next day, when she brought the stick with her to work, it raised more than a few eyebrows of admiration. As the auction drew nearer and other donations arrived, Dena was confident that hers would bring the highest bid. Unfortunately, she was disappointed. As much as the fans in St. Paul loved Quinn Sterling, they were willing to pay more for lunch with the lovely Channel 8 news anchor than for an authentic, autographed hockey stick by their hometown hero.

Dena had hoped that her donation to the auction would get the creative director’s attention, but other than a personal thank-you note, it didn’t. What it did do, however, was give her a small amount of fame. Male co-workers made a habit of stopping by her cubicle to inquire about her neighbor.

Her popularity, however, was short-lived, and within a few days, it was business as usual. She forgot about the man who lived upstairs from her, and she put all of her energy into her fast-approaching deadline.

CHAPTER TWO

IT HAD BEEN A GRUELING ROAD TRIP. Quinn was tired and his body ached. He’d been tripped, elbowed, punched and banged into the boards during the past three games, and he could feel it in his muscles and bones. In addition to a black eye, he had a bandage on his cheek and a contusion on his right quadriceps. Hazards of the trade, he told himself as he dragged his weary body up the stairs to his apartment.

Judging by the way his body felt, he would have thought there were only a couple of weeks of the regular season left, not two months. Maybe it was age catching up with him. He was, after all, on the wrong side of thirty—at least for a hockey player. But he wouldn’t think about that now. He’d just had one of the best games of his career. There was no reason to think about that.

Aware that it was close to three in the morning, he moved as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb the other residents of the house. He grimaced as the stairs creaked with his weight.

It was at times like this that he wondered if he’d made a mistake moving into 14 Valentine Place. Although it afforded him plenty of privacy, he’d been reluctant to accept Leonie Donovan’s offer to rent the third floor of the house, because he worried that his irregular hours might disturb her other tenants.

She’d had no such reservations. Not that she would have expressed them if she had. Leonie had been like a second mother to him most of his life. As a teen he’d eaten just as many meals at her house as he had at his own. That’s why, when he’d been traded to the Minnesota team, she’d been one of the first people he’d contacted.

“Shane is going to be so happy you’re coming home,” she’d gushed when he’d announced his return, hugging him as if he were one of her own children.

So far he’d only seen Shane once—the day he’d moved into the house. They’d been the best of buddies as kids, but now it was evident that their lives had gone in very different directions. Shane’s life centered around his wife and son. Quinn’s life was hockey. Not that Shane wasn’t still interested in talking about the sport, but Quinn could see that the passion they’d once shared as kids was now a thing of the past.

He didn’t understand it. Nothing had ever come close to replacing the love he had for the game of hockey. There was nothing like the sound of cold, hard steel cutting through ice, the clash of sticks sending the puck gliding across the rink, and the cheers of the crowd urging him on.

Now the sound he heard was a loud thud, thud, thud. A thick glass mug that had been tucked in the side pouch of his duffel bag tumbled onto the floor, falling down the stairs like an errant hockey puck. It was a souvenir molded into the shape of a western boot. The mug had been given to him by Smitty, the young goalie who’d bet him that he couldn’t shut down the shooters on the opposing team. Quinn had won the bet and the goalie had refilled the heavy glass half a dozen times as they’d sat in the bar celebrating the team’s victory.

That had been on day one of their road trip. Today was day five and Quinn still had the mug. It had been dropped numerous times and knocked off several hotel tables, but nothing had caused it to break. As solid as a rock was how Smitty had described it, which was why he’d insisted Quinn take it home with him. It was how the goalie viewed Quinn—able to take a heck of a beating and not break.

Now the glass boot was once again tumbling along the floor. Any hope that its clumping wouldn’t awaken his neighbors vanished when a light appeared beneath a door. Quinn knew he’d disturbed someone on the second floor.

Within seconds a door opened. Staring at him with a startled look on her face was a woman. She wore a long-sleeved white T-shirt and a pair of red pajama bottoms that had tiny penguins all over them. Her blond hair hung in total disarray around her shoulders. Looking as if she’d just been awakened from a deep sleep, she stood in the doorway, her feet bare.

Leonie had told him a new tenant had moved into Maddie’s old apartment. What his landlady hadn’t told him about the woman was that she was a sight for sore eyes. Not that she was beautiful in a Hollywood sort of way, because she wasn’t. What she had was a refreshingly natural look. His mother used to use the term “plain pretty,” and he’d never understood how someone could be plain and pretty, but now he knew what she meant.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a voice still husky with sleepiness, but also carrying a note of alarm.

“I’m sorry. I was on my way upstairs and I dropped something.”

“What?”

“A mug. It’s at the bottom of the stairs,” Quinn answered, trying to figure out why it was that when she spoke he had the feeling they’d already met.

She eyed the duffel bag over his shoulder suspiciously, then she focused on his face and grimaced. “Ooh. Your eye!”

He knew his skin had darkened to a motley black and blue. “It looks worse than it feels.” He moved closer to her. “I know we haven’t met before, but you look familiar.”

Self-consciously, she pushed her hair out of her eyes, then offered him her hand. “I’m Dena Bailey.”

“Quinn Sterling.” He took the soft hand in his. It was warm.

“Oh, of course.” As if it suddenly registered who he was, she said, “Quinn Sterling, my neighbor.” A tiny smile of embarrassment made her cheeks dimple. “You donated the hockey stick.”

“I did.”

“Thank you.” She shuffled her feet either in nervousness or because the floor was cold.

“You’re welcome,” he said with a smile meant to put her at ease.

“That stick was a very popular item.”

“I’m glad.” He watched her, trying to gauge her reaction to learning his identity. He’d been a professional hockey player long enough to know that being Quinn Sterling could bring out the phoniness in a woman. So far, this woman didn’t appear to have a fake bone in her body. “How long have you lived here?”

“Not quite a month. Why?”

“I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before now.”

“I’m not here much,” she told him, then quickly added, “because of my work—I’m a graphic designer.”

Leonie may have told him that but he didn’t remember. Come to think of it, he hadn’t paid much attention when she’d talked about the new tenant and her request for an autographed hockey stick. Now he wished he had.

Dena stifled a yawn, then said, “I’m sorry. You’re really going to have to excuse me. I have to be at work at seven tomorrow and it is late.”

So much for his concern that she might be a groupie eager to get to know him. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“It’s all right.” She dismissed his apology with a flap of her hand, then started across the hall.

“Isn’t your apartment behind you?”

She paused. “Yes, but the bathroom isn’t,” she answered. “Krystal and I share.”

Bathroom. That was it. Now he knew where he’d seen her. The night of Maddie and Dylan’s wedding, she was the woman he’d seen in the men’s room at the hotel. “Were you at Dylan’s wedding?”