Page 64 of Conrad

Conrad’s stomach started to roil.Not here. Notnow?—

He got up and shoved through the players to the edge of the bleachers, then out and around to the back?—

There.A garbage drum. He gripped the sides and bent over, and just in time, because he lost it.

Not a lot to lose, but still—not his finest moment. He spat, wiped his mouth, completely grossed out now, and then turned to find a place to hide?—

“Conrad? You okay?”

There she stood, concern in her beautiful eyes, hands in her pockets.

Aw . . .So much for purging her from his brain. Especially when she came over, put her hands on him, and said, “C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.”

* * *

She probably deserved the cold look he gave her at her suggestion that he escape prying eyes, but the man clearly had something going on.

Conrad shoved his hands into his jacket, shivered suddenly—and why not? The temps hovered just below freezing a crisp day with blue skies and brilliant sunshine. A glorious afternoon for a hockey tournament in Minnesota, so maybe the forecasters had been wrong.

No dark storm clouds huddling on the horizon.

Unless she counted the ones in Conrad’s expression.

“Conrad. Really. People are watching. Let’s get you inside.”

She reached out for him, but he drew in a breath, glanced at the game now resuming on the ice, then closed his eyes, shook his head as if in pain.

“You’re breathing funny?—”

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

“You’re clearlynotfine.” She’d dropped her voice, leaned in. “You nearly got run over by a Zamboni.”

He opened his eyes, emotion sparking in them, and then his mouth tightened and he nodded.

Okay then. It felt a little like bringing a buffalo to heel.

She made to take his arm, but he stiffened, so she just walked with him around the rink, toward the Quonset hut. Except a crowd gathered there, watching them, so she gestured toward the parking lot. “I have water bottles and sandwiches in my car.”

“You brought sandwiches?”

“I called Simon—he said the kids would need lunch after their game, so yeah.” She dug her fob out of her purse and unlocked the car.

He walked over, got in, and she opened up the back hatch and retrieved a couple water bottles. She’d wait on the sandwich, given the tragedy over at the garbage can.

Clearly a response to the adrenaline, the near miss.

She got in and handed him one of the bottles. From here, they could see the game, although the boards hid most of the action. Still, his gaze stayed on his team even as he cracked the top of the water bottle and guzzled it.

“Go easy there?—”

He lowered the bottle and looked at her.

“Sorry. Just . . . you know.”

“I’m fine.” He leaned back, closed his eyes, his breathing hard.

Almost looked like . . . “Are you having a panic attack?”

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