Page 1 of The Blame Game
CHAPTER ONE
With a soft whoosh, the elevator doors closed quietly behind Dominic Olson as he stepped into the corridor of the mid-rise building.
He strode quickly, footfalls silent on the plush carpet.
When he reached 571, he glanced furtively over his shoulder to be sure no one was behind him. He slipped the key into the knob, unlocked it, then ducked into the condo, feeling foolish.
The secrecy was completely unnecessary.
Dom had a perfectly valid reason to be here, but paranoia clung to him like smoke, pervasive and difficult to wash away even now.
Still, he breathed easier once the door was closed behind him.
In the apartment, the lights were on and a hockey game played on the TV in the other room.
Sawyer was already here.
Dom’s heartrate kicked up, arousal pooling low in his belly, anticipating what was to come.
He slipped off his shoes, then hung his long wool coat on the peg nearby. His toque came off too and he used the mirror by the door to settle his chin-length hair into place before he walked into the open-plan condo.
The lights of Toronto gleamed through the expansive windows and the room was dominated by the wide-screen TV and the large sectional Sawyer Barnett sprawled across.
The building wasn’t particularly trendy or ostentatious, but a quiet, more subtle upscale. Nothing that would attract attention. Nothing that would stand out in any way.
Sawyer, on the other hand, was something else entirely. Big-bodied and muscular with thick sandy-brown hair and lightly tanned skin, he stood out in any crowd.
He glanced over, expression warm, even white smile gleaming. “Hey. You made it.”
“Hey,” Dom echoed, nodding at the TV. “What’s the score?”
“5-3, Portland. Detroit had the lead in the first period but they totally blew it.”
Dom laughed. “Don’t they always?”
“Mmm, you have a point,” Sawyer admitted. He waved the remote. “You want me to …”
“Nah. Game’s almost over,” Dom said with a quick glance at the time clock. He took a seat on the other end of the sectional. “I don’t mind watching the end.”
Sawyer snorted. “Better hope it doesn’t go into overtime like yours did last night.”
“Tell me about it.” Dom stretched, feeling the tight ache in his shoulder lingering after the cross check from Dallas’ defense.
The Fisher Cats had won. No thanks to him, but the team had picked up two points, putting them that much closer to a playoff spot.
“Sore?” Sawyer asked with a lift of his eyebrows.
“Yeah.” Dom huffed, annoyed that he’d noticed. “When aren’t I, anymore?”
That was what he got for playing a young man’s game at the age of forty.
Sawyer winced. “Infrared isn’t helping?”
“No. I mean, maybe? It’s hard to tell.”
The organization had invested in top-of-the-line infrared saunas and installed them over the All-Star break.
“Well, it’s not a cure-all.” Sawyer frowned. “Only another tool for your recovery.”
