No Defense

By David H. Hendrickson

After giving up the worst goal of his NHL career and at the worst possible time – overtime of the Stanley Cup Championship Game 7  -- Tyler McKenzie flees to Africa. But even a safari into the famed Serengeti can't wipe away the sting of his failure. He sees it everywhere he looks.

 

Except when he looks into the eyes of Angie Smolinski, an outspoken, bull-in-the-china-shop firecracker he finds far more interesting than any of the beauties back home. They fall head over heels for each other until the firecracker explodes like a bomb.

 

"David H. Hendrickson is one of my favorite writers." -- USA Today bestselling author Kristine Kathryn Rusch

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pentucket Publishing
• Release date: Dec 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223265856

Book preview

1

ANGIE FELT LIKE a caged bird set free.

Following a seven-hour red-eye into Amsterdam and then an eight-hour flight into Tanzania’s Kilimanjaro Airport—in middle seats with oversized passengers spilling into her from both sides—she escaped to the airport hotel, the Hallelujah Chorus ringing loud and clear in her mind.

Relief washed over her. There was even an hour before the safari group’s kickoff dinner, the perfect opportunity to blow off all that accumulated steam.

In lightning fashion, she changed into her exercise clothes, praying she’d escape to the fitness center before her ex-boyfriend Kurt—who’d flown in first class, of course—arrived in the room and turned her into a serial killer by virtue of simply opening his arrogant, belittling mouth.

The prayer was answered.

She dashed down the short hallway, caught the elevator down, and while it stopped on every intervening floor, she tied her long brown hair into a ponytail and tried to loosen her tight, cramped muscles. She might have managed the time on the planes more easily if she were tiny, but Angie stood almost six feet tall, all arms and legs and elbows and knees. Awkward Angie, as she’d been called so many times, mostly by herself. Some women were elegant, showy peacocks; others, beautiful cardinals, blue jays, or even robins. She knew herself to be a crane, all spindly legs, gawky, anything but elegant. And she’d been an oversized crane cooped up for fifteen hours that had felt like fifty.

She signed in at the desk just outside the fitness center, turned down the ornately dressed African woman’s offer of a massage that Angie neither had time for nor could afford—this trip had tapped her out and then some—and raced inside. The square-shaped room, roughly forty-by-forty, was tightly packed with equipment but not claustrophobic. It smelled of new sweat and was almost uncomfortably warm, the air heavy and humid. Not at all like the near-freezing fitness centers back home with their air conditioners blasting. Weight machines lined the wall on the right. On the left were a stationary bike, an elliptical machine, and two treadmills, the far one taken by a profusely sweating middle-aged man wearing a gray Nike T-shirt and shorts.

Angie pushed her iPod’s earbuds into place and cranked up her favorite running playlist, each of its titles featuring a pounding beat to urge her on. Let’s Get It Started boomed in her ears. She darted for the empty treadmill, glanced at the clock centered at the wall before her, then at the TV angled in the right corner showing a soccer match. She stepped onto the treadmill and—

Angie’s feet shot out from under her. She crashed hard onto the treadmill’s rough, grainy surface, barely throwing one arm up fast enough to avoid landing nose first. Her nose still crunched painfully against her forearm, which bounced momentarily beneath her on the treadmill’s rapidly rotating, abrasive belt. Then the machine flung her into a heap on the thinly carpeted floor.

What the—

Ooooow! Pain shot up Angie’s arm and radiated from her nose. She sat bowlegged on the floor, wondering what the hell had happened.

A tall—very tall—Adonis rushed to her side. Dark brown, tousled hair. Pale gray eyes. About her own age of twenty-five.

Striking.

He bent down on one knee, and over the booming Black Eyed Peas, she heard him ask, Are you all right?

She yanked the earbuds out and winced. She gingerly touched her nose, then observed the road rash inflicted on her forearm by the still rapidly rotating treadmill. Some damned fool had left the machine going. And at an insanely fast speed.

Angie peeled her eyes off the Adonis. From her position on the floor, she looked up at the settings displayed in red block numbers.

10.0

Ten miles an hour. She did the quick calculation and frowned.

Insanely fast. A six-minute-mile pace.

Who the hell left a treadmill going at all, not bothering to shut it off? And what kind of totally inconsiderate a-hole left it going at that speed? No wonder it shot her feet out from under her with a speed that had seemed almost rocket propelled.

She climbed to her feet, ignoring the Adonis’s assistance, and pointed to the offending piece of equipment.

Who’s the jerk who left the treadmill going like that? Angie demanded loudly, ready to rip somebody’s head off.

Actually, that would be me, the Adonis said, and blushed. I jumped off for a second to get a towel. He gestured toward three rows of wooden shelves mounted on the wall behind the door. They were stacked with hand towels, bath towels, and bottled water. My back was turned. I didn’t see you come in.

You left it running like that?

I was still using it, he said, spreading his hands, palms out. I was doing intervals. I figured I could grab a towel during a recovery.

Angie blinked and shook her head. He was mouthwatering, no doubt about it, even with sweat beading on his forehead. He had to be six feet, five inches tall, maybe even six-six, with the most athletic physique Angie had ever seen. Other than the lack of a deep tan, he was a walking advertisement for fitness centers everywhere. Rippling muscles without being muscle-bound. A gold tank top. And those haunting pale gray eyes.

He looked vaguely familiar. Probably some movie actor she couldn’t quite place, either on location or here in Africa to get away from the paparazzi.

Mouthwatering, she corrected herself, if she were into one-night stands, which she most decidedly was not. Still, there was no denying it. What a hunk! Why couldn’t she bump into guys like this back home?

Of course, if she did, he’d either be gay, dumber than a bucket of bolts, or duller than dirt. Or even worse, a player, one who used women like her, then ripped their hearts out.

Not that she’d gotten cynical about guys or anything.

She tore her eyes away from him and reminded herself that he was the a-hole who’d left the machine running.

The total a-hole.

With that firmly in mind, Angie viewed his drop-dead good looks—hell, his drop-panties good looks—in a different light. He was just another selfish pretty boy. The kind who thinks the world revolves around him and he can do no wrong.

Just like Kurt.

The evidence might center on a fitness center treadmill, like with this guy, or it might involve a woman named Michelle, like with Kurt. According to him, she hadn’t really meant anything, just a harmless plaything, even though he’d been sleeping with her almost from the moment that he and Angie had been getting serious.

At least, Angie had been serious.

No, she didn’t need another pretty boy, another Kurt; this one even better looking than Kurt and probably even more heartless and inconsiderate. Her mouth wasn’t watering anymore for this jackass.

Don’t you think that was pretty inconsiderate? Angie asked. She pointed to the road rash on her forearm. That could have been my face. She touched her nose and realized she’d been talking in a more nasal tone. I could have broken my nose.

I’m sorry and I hope you’re all right, but— he spread his hands again in a show of innocence it wouldn’t have happened if you’d been paying attention. How did you not see the belt was moving? How could you not hear it?

Of course, Angie thought. The pretty boy is never wrong. Just like Kurt.

Although she had to admit, he did have a point. If her iPod hadn’t been blasting, she’d have heard the treadmill running, and she’d have seen it if she hadn’t been checking out first the clock and then the TV, which had been showing a soccer match she hadn’t cared a thing about. Who doesn’t at least glance at a treadmill they’re stepping on?

Okay, maybe it’s partially my fault, she conceded.

He smiled a pretty-boy, mouthwatering grin, showing perfect bright white teeth. Partially?

She thought of Kurt and stuck to her guns. Yeah, partially. What if a kid came in here? He could have gotten hurt.

Kids aren’t allowed. He grinned again, oozing with charm. The expectation is that everyone here is a mature adult who pays attention to what they’re doing.

The jab was obviously playful so Angie laughed in spite of herself.

You should get an antibiotic on that, he said, pointing to her forearm. And rinse it off only with bottled water.

Angie remembered the caution about taking showers while here in Africa. Keep your mouth shut and don’t swallow any water. She wondered if that also meant keeping shower water off open cuts. It probably did, although she was probably safe until they left the big city hotel for the bush.

Great. Just great.

My name is Tyler, he said, and flashed another smile that would have melted her heart if she didn’t know better.

Angie, she said grudgingly, and headed for the towels.

She was just about finished rinsing her arm off when the middle-aged gentleman on the other treadmill stopped his machine. He toweled it off, stepped down, and pointed to it with the flourish of a game show hostess.

All yours, my lady, he said with a grin. But watch that first step. It’s a doozy.

Angie shook her head. Everyone’s a comedian.

2

ANGIE RACED BACK to her room, the clock inside her head ticking away the number of minutes she’d have for a quick shower. She slid the room key into its slot, opened the door, and groaned.

Kurt, her former boyfriend and regrettably her roommate for the entire trip, was in the shower. They’d been going out more than a year ago when they signed up for the safari, and after the breakup four months ago, had decided to stick with the trip. Angie didn’t want to lose her deposit, and had looked forward to the safari as the trip of a lifetime, one she didn’t want to forego just because she didn’t want to spend her life with Kurt. Switching to individual accommodations would have cost each of them another thousand dollars. That was money she didn’t have; she couldn’t even borrow it off a credit card. Every last available cent had gone into this trip. And although Kurt, a trust fund baby, could have paid it out of his beer money, he’d made it no secret that he wanted to get back together. He was more than delighted to share rooms.

Angie had stressed that nothing was going to happen between them. Not now. Not ever again. Double beds and never shall the twain meet.

He’d nodded, and then continued to talk about a trial reconciliation. When it came to listening to things he didn’t want to hear, Kurt qualified for a full lack-of-hearing disability.

But then again, weren’t all men that way?

She knocked on the bathroom door, just feet away from the room’s entrance. Kurt, can you finish up? We’ve got to be downstairs in thirteen minutes. I went for a quick workout, and now I’m drenched in sweat. I didn’t expect you to hop in there at the last minute.

Come on in, he called out, his voice muffled by the closed door and the sound of running water. We’ll shower together.

In her mind’s eye, Angie could see his lecherous grin. It was just the kind of shit women had to put up with all the time. And to think her mother wondered why Angie was such a diehard feminist.

Don’t be an ass! she said, and to emphasize her point, she slammed her flat palm hard against the door. You promised I wouldn’t have to deal with that shit!

Okay, okay, get your panties in a bunch.

Angie walked past the TV set and desk, above which hung two thin, long pieces of abstract African art, swirls of bright red, blue, and yellow, encased in dark wood. From beneath the desk, she pulled out the trash bucket, hoping to find a clean, unused plastic bag to cover her arm beneath the one in use.

Instead she saw both of the room’s large bottles of water lying in the bag, empty. Angie licked her dry lips and wanted to scream. She’d meant to bring an extra bottle back from the fitness center, but in her hurry had forgotten. Still, Kurt had drank both bottles?

Wasn’t that just typical?

What the hell had she been thinking, agreeing to share a room with him? She didn’t have the extra thousand dollars, of course, but wasn’t that what deals with the Devil were for?

3

DESPITE HER NONE-TOO-SUBTLE suggestions that Kurt go ahead without her, he lingered anyway so the two arrived as a pair at precisely two minutes after the hour. Close enough for government work and African safaris. Angie’s hair was still wet, but she thought she looked presentable enough in her yellow, flowery blouse, tan shorts, and sandals, her wet hair tied back in a ponytail.

Kurt looked pretty good, too, she had to admit. He was freshly shaven, every lock of his jet black hair blown dry and in place. He wore a blue button-down shirt that bore not even the hint of a wrinkle thanks to his trick of taking his clothes straight from the luggage to the shower rack where they’d hang as the water steamed. Worked every time, he always said. She should have known he’d be late crawling into the shower himself.

His only fashion concession was the lightweight safari khakis he wore, the type that unzip into shorts. They were ideal for a trip in which the bush planes limited them to only a single bag of no more than thirty-three pounds, but still formed a jarring departure from Kurt’s usual stylish GQ fare. He’d bellyached in several e-mails about the strict weight limit and not being given the option to pay an overweight surcharge. It had to have killed him, Angie thought, to pack at most four or five sets of clothes, relying on the promised laundry service, and actually resign himself to being observed in the same clothes twice or even a ghastly three times on the trip, sure the fashion police would be arresting him and tossing him in jail with the commoners.

Yes, he looked good. He always looked good. That wasn’t his problem. He could even be charming when he wanted to be, when he wanted to impress. Kurt’s ugliness lurked strictly beneath the surface.

A buffet spanning three long tables was laid out for them with glittering chrome covers on all the dishes. A handsome African waiter clad in immaculate all-white garb and chef’s hat stood behind the middle serving table, presumably waiting for the late arrivers so he could remove the chrome covers with an accomplished flourish.

Their own table was in the middle of the modest-sized room, parallel to the serving tables. Angie took a seat in the middle and Kurt, not surprisingly, sat down next to her, on her left. Still dying of thirst, she pounced when a waiter descended, opened a water bottle, and filled her glass. She chugged it like a college freshman experiencing her first drinking game, and was asking for a refill when the tall stranger from the fitness center appeared, towering over everyone, and sat down opposite her.

Her jaw dropped. I didn’t know you were with our group, she said, momentarily flustered.

Likewise, he said, grinning.

She tried to recall his name and got it almost instantly.

Tyler.

And then: Pretty boy. A-hole.

He wore khaki safari pants, like Kurt, but unlike her stylish ex, wore a plain gray T-shirt with the easily recognizable logo of the Boston pro hockey team, the Blades.

Ugh.

Not that he didn’t still look good in the T-shirt. He looked great in a male model kind of way, filling it out with that phenomenal physique of his. But Angie loathed hockey. She loved football and the Olympics and tolerated most other sports, but she’d hated hockey ever since she was a kid and her little brat of a brother had played the sport and she’d gotten dragged to every freezing-cold rink within a hundred miles of Boston.

As a result, she despised hockey. The tall stranger—Tyler—might approach physical perfection, but his obvious affection for that sport formed for Angie what amounted to a big, honking zit on the tip of his nose. Not that he needed anything like that to push her away after the fitness center episode.

Of course, that didn’t mean she needed to be rude. So she decided to make conversation.

I didn’t see you at the dinner a month ago, Angie said. The safari company had put on a get-acquainted dinner a month earlier at a downtown Boston restaurant so all the strangers on the trip would get to meet each other beforehand. Angie recalled now that three of the twenty hadn’t attended, two because they were coming from the West Coast, and one because, well, she’d assumed the name was spoken with such reverence because he was some kind of a hotshot in business, too busy to adjust his schedule like everyone else did.

I had a conflict and couldn’t attend, he said, and looked away.

Angie gave herself a pat on the back. Her suspicions were dead-on. He was a prima donna. Too good for everyone else. Zit number two. No surprise there. Drop-dead good looks, a smile that could melt the panties off most girls, and rich to boot. But a self-important a-hole through and through.

Quite the conflict, Kurt said with a chuckle, elbowing her.

Angie didn’t understand, but another waiter appeared, also clad in all-white garb, also African. Well duh, Angie told herself. Of course he was African; this was Africa. Everyone they would be meeting would be African. There were two African American couples in the safari group, one younger and one older, but everyone else’s light skin would stand out in stark contrast to those around them. They would be the exception, the tiny minority.

The waiter asked for her drink order. She requested a Diet Coke, no ice, stressing the no ice, and seconds later, another waiter announced that everyone could make their way to the buffet table and help themselves.

Angie skipped the first table. It was loaded with sumptuous fruits and raw vegetables. There was an enticing salad loaded with carefully arranged cucumbers, peppers, delicious-looking slices of tomatoes that she just knew would taste nothing like the kind she bought at the supermarket back home; more tomato slices laid out with cheese on crackers; watermelon; what looked like papaya; red bananas about half the size of what Americans ate back home; yellow bananas both full-sized and tiny, finger-sized ones. The list went on and on with other fruits Angie couldn’t identify.

None of which she’d touch, except for the bananas, even though everything was making her mouth water. For the same reason that all non-bottled water was prohibited, so, too, were all raw vegetables and fruits, except those which could be peeled. Peel it or leave it, her doctor’s office had said, and she was taking no chances.

She took a red banana, curious as to how it would taste compared to the familiar yellow variety, then helped herself to rice and covered it half with what looked like a variation on beef stroganoff and half with a vegetable stew that had to be safe since it was cooked.

The food smelled and tasted delicious, especially the beef stroganoff variant, which was spicier than the American equivalent. Better, she thought. It packed a punch. The red banana was…different. It tasted mostly the same as the yellow version, but exhibited the firm texture of a not-yet-ripe one. Not an improvement, she thought. She’d skip the red ones the rest of the trip.

You should check with the front desk to see if they can get you an antibiotic for your arm, Tyler said.

I’m all set, Angie said. I brought a tube of it.

He nodded. You were prepared for an attack of the killer treadmill.

Angie decided on one last jab. I won’t comment on the thoughtless individual who turned it into a killer.

Good. He smiled. How’s your nose? It looks a little puffy.

It’s okay. Angie reflexively touched it and thought of making some snarky remark, something about cancelling her photo shoot for Vanity Fair or some equally lame alternative, but Tyler beat her to it.

Angie the Nose, he said. It has a ring to it.

Angie laughed, thinking the nickname made her sound like a fierce gangster, wanted by the FBI.

What does that make you, Treadmill Tyler? she countered, and then immediately topped herself with another layer of alliteration. Terrible Tyler of the Treadmill.

He grinned and winced at the same time. You should write headlines for the papers.

Angie raised an eyebrow. She took another bite of the spicy beef stroganoff. Is that a compliment or an insult?

It’s not a compliment.

Amused, Angie asked, Are you from Boston? Most everyone on the trip was from the New England area.

The hint of a smile formed at the corners of his lips, but before he could answer the sound of tapping on a glass broke out from the end of the table.

The tour guide, Frank Delaney, was standing, looking up and down the table, waiting for the chatter to fall silent.

I hope you’re enjoying our sumptuous feast, he said. In his mid-seventies, Delaney was short with gray hair, glasses, and a weathered but kind face. He wore the same safari khakis as everyone else and a thin, gray vest over a long-sleeved, khaki-colored shirt. Don’t forget the dessert table. There’s a papaya tart and Manyara pudding, both of which are delicious either with the caramel or the white chocolate sauces.

Angie groaned. She felt perpetually compelled to lose the nasty final ten pounds that kept her from her ideal weight. She jogged five days a week and most of the time ate sensibly, but as soon as she thought she’d vanquished The Nasty Ten, they came back, Dracula-like, from the grave. The Nasty Ten would become The Terrible Twenty if she wasn’t careful on this trip. Without vegetables and fruits, staples of her diet, she’d be eating mostly high-calorie foods, and today’s stint on the treadmill would be her last exercise for two weeks. Only a fool jogs through the Serengeti. If she hit the dessert table, too, she’d resemble the Goodyear Blimp by the end of the trip.

But a papaya tart covered with a caramel sauce amounted to an almost sadistic temptation. Angie tried to push it out of her mind.

I thought we could have some fun and get to know each other better, Delaney said, by going around the table and having everyone say three things about themselves. He held three fingers aloft. Keep eating and don’t forget that dessert table, but give us your name and tell us one thing you love, one thing you hate, and the one thing you most hope to see on this trip.

He began to sit down, but popped back up. I’ll tell you my three and then we can start in the middle of the table with Kurt Summerfield. He pointed to Kurt and smiled pleasantly. "I’m Frank Delaney, as I hope you all know, and I love Africa. I’ve been coming here for thirty years, and I hope all of you fall in love with this beautiful place as much as I have.

"I don’t have many hates, but I do hate poachers. I’ll have more stories about them as the days go by, but suffice it to say that among other things, they’ve decimated the herds of rhinos almost to the point of extinction. So my hatred is well-deserved.

As for what I want to see, I hope to see the look of amazement on all your faces throughout this trip. That’s why I do this—to see that look of wonder fill your eyes.

He nodded and sat down. Kurt, you’re up.

Beside Angie on her left, Kurt rose. He gave his name and drew in a deep breath. What I love? There’s only one answer that comes into my mind and even though I hesitate to say it, it’s blocking out every other answer. I love Angie, this lovely lady beside me. He put a hand on her shoulder.

Angie froze. Her eyes widened and her heart hammered. As women around the table went, Awww, she saw a look that might have been disappointment flash across Tyler’s face. Her cheeks grew flaming hot. How could Kurt do this to her? He had promised he’d leave her alone. This paled in comparison to the ugly harassment cases she saw back home as a volunteer for three local women’s rights groups, but it still amounted to unwanted advances. She was tired of it, and the trip was just starting.

Angie didn’t even hear what it was that Kurt hated and it only barely registered that what he hoped to see was a crocodile taking down a zebra. She heard her name called and made no move until Kurt, who’d sat down, elbowed her and said, You’re up, sweetheart.

Angie stumbled to her feet. She looked up and down the table, saw everyone looking back at her expectantly. Her mind spun in wild, dizzying circles.

She heard herself say her name, then fall silent. What