Game On

chapter 11


CLARA FINGERED THE KEY CARD, mentally repeating her room number over and over while waiting for the lift to descend. Despite the tantric breathing she’d done on the flight from New York to Chicago, the butterflies in her tummy continued to jitterbug. The very thought of seeing Luc again had her nervous system on overdrive. Would she find him as attractive now as she did a week ago, when she was a sleep-deprived bundle of despair, or would he be knocked from his demigod status by the light of a new day?

Just as the metal door scraped open, she heard someone call, “Clara?”

Luc dashed toward her, tugging his suitcase, the attached laptop bag causing it to list to one side.

Her hand shot out to stop the doors from sliding shut. Déjà vu.

“Hey, you made it,” he said and gave her a lopsided grin.

Clara had hoped he’d sprouted a chin wart or an acne rash, anything to mar the hotness and prevent her from going all drippy at the very sight of him. No such luck. Demigod he remained.

“Hey back,” she replied, returning his smile.

“Good flight?”

Drip… Oh, that voice. Deep and sexy. She’d almost forgotten how gooey it made her. “Long and uneventful.”

“Best kind,” he said as the door closed. “The uneventful part, I mean.”

He regarded her with a curious expression, head cocked slightly to the side. It was only when his glance moved to the panel of buttons that she realized she had control over the car.

“What floor are you on?” she asked quickly, her finger poised to punch the number pad.

“Fourteen.”

Drip, drip…“Oh, me too,” she said and pressed the button with her knuckle. Germs and all that.

“Yeah, I know. I told Shelagh to book adjacent rooms.”

“Oh?” Drip, drip, drip…

“In case we need to compare notes. Or whatever…”

“Of course.” Total meltdown.

Clara could see Luc’s reflection in the steel doors, and knowing he was likely regarding her right back made her fidget like a flea-infested cat.

Thankfully, she’d taken a few moments to freshen up between flights at La Guardia. She’d thrown on a fresh shirt, touched up her makeup, and reapplied her deodorant. But she still felt like a rumpled mouse next to Luc’s poster-perfect-sports-hero self, who managed to turn an ensemble of jeans and white tee under a pale–blue, vee neck sweater into something that could easily be seen in a fashion ad.

The first thing that hit her when she noticed him was how he moved, smooth and assured, in absolute control over every muscle, bone, and nerve in his body. The soft, worn denim clung in all the right places, and the thin sweater, shades lighter than his eyes, accentuated his broad shoulders and chest.

The time away from him hadn’t dimmed her visceral reaction. Memories of his strength, his kisses, his maleness, caught her with full force. She tried to shake it off, but her skin tingled, her nipples puckered, her lips twitched for need of his kisses. She yearned to drop her bags and wrap her arms around him, absorb his warmth, and lose herself in him, like last time.

He cleared his throat. She turned to him, eyebrows raised, waiting for whatever blessed words escaped his mouth. He only pursed his lips and readjusted the hold on his garment bag.

The doors opened and they stepped into the hall together, both silent.

The parallels between this and that other night made her squirm.

“I got your email the other day,” he said as they slowed to look at the numbers on the doors.

“Oh, good,” she said.

“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to respond. I went up north to see my folks for couple of days and my mother sucked up every ounce of free time.”

“That’s fine. I just wanted to make sure we were okay.”

“Of course we’re okay.” Luc stopped in front of his door and slid the key card into place. “We’re more than okay.” He pressed the levered handle and the door clicked open.

“That’s…good,” she said.

“You’re across the hall.”

Clara turned and sure enough, her door was facing his. “Oh, right. Here I am.”

“So we’re checking out Daniel’s Grille tonight?”

Clara slid the card into the slot. “Mmm-hmm. See you in the lobby at ten to seven.” She slid the card out but the little indicator light remained red.

“No. I changed the reservation to five.”

“Five? That’s rather early.” She slid the card in again, quicker this time.

“It’s Friday. We’ll want to beat the after-work crowds.”

Bugger! Still red. “Alright then, I’ll see you at ten minutes to five in the lobby.”

“Or maybe you’d like for me to wait here, in the hall? I’m really very good at pacing hallways.”

Clara ignored him, slammed the key card into the slot and hammered at the stupid lever. Why wouldn’t the little green light go on? She blew an exasperated breath and tried again.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

Green!

“No, thank you.” She pushed her way in, waited for it to slam closed, then threw herself on the bed and screamed into the pillow.

Breathe, Clara, breathe, she told herself. It wasn’t that bad. Stop being a silly cow. You are a grown adult, well-travelled, worldly even. So why did she feel like a bumbling sixteen-year-old in love with the captain of the rugby team? She wished she never found out about his career, about his gold medal, about the knee replacement he’d had after being shot in the leg on his way to the Stanley Cup Finals by some unstable fan who thought the other team should win.

She wasn’t embarrassed that she’d used her week at home to hibernate in her cubby at EuroNow and draw on the archives of every newswire service at her disposal to find any and all mentions of Luc “The Biscuit” Bisquet. She read about his NHL recruitment when he was barely seventeen, his quick rise to the top as he scored and assisted goal after goal. Her heart soared when twenty-year-old Luc was picked for the Olympic hockey team and twisted in despair at the account of a brutal attack that ended his career almost eight years later at the peak of his career. To have his dream, everything he’d worked so hard for, ripped away in a meaningless act of violence was unconscionable.

Clara repeatedly watched news footage of the event until it was burned on her retinas: Luc being wheeled away on a stretcher, the crowd in a hysteric frenzy around him as arena security and police tried to hold them back. Witness accounts, voiceovers on a highlight reel, she watched them all. Her heart broke for him. At some point during the third or fourth hour of viewing, she stopped being mad at him.

Charlie found Clara asleep in her cubby the morning after, a mound of damp tissues covering her keyboard, and assumed she was mourning Biscuit.

In a way, she was.

Yet the Luc she met didn’t seem affected by his past. She watched for a limp, tried to recall one from the last time they were together, but there were no outward signs of his physical trauma. She didn’t even sense an air of bitterness or regret. To recover from something so horrific showed incredible strength of body and character.

No wonder her nerves were jittered. She spent too much time obsessing about him, knew too much about his career and had begun to look for things that weren’t there. He was clearly over it, had moved on to a new stage in his life, that of hockey analyst.

But still…

Eyes closed, Clara replayed every word of their exchange, looking for some sign he felt as drippy around her as she was around him.

Nope.

He was all smooth confidence. Lanky, sexy, untouchable maleness. And she was squirming, alone, on a bed, thinking about him.





“Hey, Luc Bisquet, right?” Luc’s head snapped around, the familiar panic rising in his chest. His body went taut as two men approached, smiling, empty handed, harmless. Nothing unusual; fans approached him all the time. He just didn’t want to do this, right here, right now, not in the lobby of the hotel. And not when Clara was about to make an appearance.

Full of pent-up anxiety, like he used to get before a big game, Luc took a deep breath, willed his heart to restart, and forced his tight lips into a smile.

“Hey, can we get your autograph, man?”

“Yeah, sure.” Luc paused to swipe his arm across his forehead. He didn’t want Clara to see him dripping with anxiety.

“Sign this to ‘my buddy Joe,’ ” he said, handing Luc what appeared to be his hotel bill.

“And this one,” the other guy said, rummaging in his pockets and withdrawing a five dollar bill, “to ‘my buddy Keith.’ ”

Luc obliged.

“So are you here for the Blackhawks game?”

“I… uh…” Luc could feel the blood drain from his face. How to answer? No. Yes. No! He didn’t want anyone to know he was here. What if word got out?

He shook his head. “Nah, other business.”

“Oh. Cool. Well, we miss you on the ice, man. And we read your stuff. I like how you came down on the Leafs for being a totally shit team even with all the money and fan support. Eh, Keith? Remember that one? Laughed my goddamned ass off.”

Keith nodded but kept his eyes on the autographed bill, probably wondering how to flip it on e-Bay.

“Yeah, thanks,” Luc said. “It never ceases to amaze me—”

His mind blanked. Clara walked out of the elevator, swivelled her head a few times until she found him, and broke out into a resplendent smile. Luc wondered if anyone else heard the choir of angels sing “Aaaaah!” when she stepped into the lobby.