Page 90 of Dating Goals
“My position being…potential prison inmate if this goes sideways?”
She smiles. “I meant a handsome man, alone on a luxury train with a woman who finds him attractive.”
I nearly choke on air. “Subtle.”
“I’m never subtle when I see something I want.” She places her hand on mine. Her touch is cool, calculated.
I gently withdraw my hand. “I’m flattered, but…no. Just no.” I stand up abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom,” I announce, desperate to escape this awkward situation. “Too much champagne.”
“Of course.” She slides back to her seat, crossing her legs. “Don’t be long. We have strategy to discuss.”
I nod and make my hasty retreat down the swaying corridor of the luxury train car.
The bathroom at the end of the car is mercifully empty and ridiculously fancy. I splash cold water on my face and stare at myself in the mirror. “What have you gotten yourself into?” I mutter. “Just wanted to play hockey, ended up in a spy movie.”
After a few deep breaths, I exit the bathroom feeling marginally more composed…until a man materializes from nowhere, blocking my path back to the compartment.
He’s tall and bulky with close-cropped black hair. Built like a defenseman, with broad shoulders and a neck thick as a tree trunk. His face is so comically fierce, if he were an actor, he’d definitely get typecast as henchman number three. Right down to the thin scar that runs from his left temple to his jaw. And of course he’s wearing all black, probably so he can hide bloodstains.
Also, he’s holding a knife, pointing directly at me.
Not a cute little pocketknife either. This is a serious,killed people in seventeen countrieskind of blade.
“Um, I think you have the wrong guy,” I stammer, backing up slowly.
His face remains expressionless.
“Hockey man,” he says in a thick accent I can’t place. “You come with me now.”
“I’m actually good right here, thanks,” I reply, looking desperately for an escape route.
He responds by lunging at me with the knife.
I yelp and stumble backward, the blade missing my chest by inches. Thank goodness for goalie reflexes!
“Whoa! Personal space, buddy!” I shout, backing up as he advances.
He slashes again, this time aiming for my throat. I duck, and the knife embeds itself in the wooden panel behind me. While he’s yanking it free, I bolt down the corridor in the opposite direction from my compartment.
“Help! Crazy knife guy!” I yell, but no one seems to notice.
The train takes a curve, throwing me off balance. I stumble into an empty compartment, which turns out to be a stroke of bad luck as Scarface follows me in, closing the door behind him.
“Look, I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I try, raising my hands in surrender. “I’m just a hockey player.”
“You talk too much,” he growls, reaching into his jacket again.
This time he pulls out what looks like brass knuckles, but with nasty little spikes on them. Great. Because the knife wasn’t enough.
He swings at my face. I duck, and his fist smashes into the window, cracking the glass. While he’s momentarily stuck, I dive between his legs like I’m sliding to catch a puck.
I scramble to my feet and burst through the compartment door, sprinting down the corridor. Behind me, I hear him roar with frustration.
The dining car is ahead. I dash through it, dodging waiters carrying trays of champagne and apologizing profusely as I go, because I’m still a nice Canadian, even when running for my life.
I glance back to see Scarface hot on my heels, now flinging what appear to be honest-to-goodness ninja stars. One embeds itself in a cheese cart, sending a wheel of Gruyère flying.
“Sorry about the cheese!” I call out, ducking as another star whizzes past my ear.
