Game On

chapter 14


“CLARA!” HE SAID WITH SUCH enthusiasm, her heart skipped and tossed flower petals. “Come on, girl. We’re already a drink ahead of you.”

“Hello,” she said and bussed Luc’s cheek as he rose to greet her. “Didn’t know we were having a party,” she said between her teeth.

“You said it was better with a group, so I invited a few friends,” he whispered back. He turned to introduce her to his companions, a stunning redhead with eyes so green they had to be artificially enhanced, and a blonde, whose legs were so long, they stuck out the side of the booth.

“Clara, meet Kaitlyn and Caitlyn.”

Sure she’d misheard, she proceeded with polite care. “I’m sorry, did he say you’re both Kaitlyn?”

“I’m Kaitlyn with a K,” explained the redhead.

“And I’m Caitlyn with a C,” added the blonde.

“Okay,” Clara replied, sure her eyebrows had met her hairline. She looked around suspiciously, wondering if she was on one of those gotcha television shows. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you. Both.”

“Oh, you’re English!” The redhead’s green eyes got bigger. “That is so cool. Luc,” she said, tugging him down to sit next to her while Clara slid into the horseshoe next to the blonde. “You didn’t tell us your friend was from England.”

“I’m from London. Just visiting America,” Clara, still dazed by the bizarre turn of events, felt compelled to explain.

“Say something else,” said Caitlyn, her brilliant smile burning onto Clara’s retinas.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“We want to hear your accent,” said Kaitlyn.

“Shall I recite Tennyson, Milton, or perhaps Chaucer is more your cup of tea?”

“Who?” Kaitlyn giggled.

“Never mind,” Luc said. “Clara is teasing you, Kaitlyn.”

It didn’t seem to faze her. “Do you know Jude Law?”

“Or Prince William?” asked the other.

“Never mind him,” said the first. “Do you know hot Harry?”

“No, I’m afraid not. On all accounts.”

Caitlyn’s smile disappeared. Though Clara was relieved to preserve her eyesight from its blinding beauty, she felt strangely guilty about taking it away. “Ah-ha! I just remembered. I did meet Harry once at a gallery opening.”

“Get out,” said the redhead. “He’s like my favorite royal. I feel like I have a connection to him, you know, because we’re both ginger.”

Right, Clara thought. Except one of you gets it from a bottle.

“Is he a total fox up close, or what?” Caitlyn asked.

“Very nice looking and seems a nice lad. The press paints him a bit wild, but weren’t we all in our youth?”

“Youth?” Blondie laughed. “He’s older than me.”

“Shall we order?” Luc said, cutting off Clara’s retort. “Remember what I told you,” he said to the C/Kaitlyns. To Clara, he added, “I briefed them on the rules before we got here.”

“It’s so exciting, isn’t it?” Kaitlyn clutched Luc’s arm with her bubble-gum pink nails and pressed her ample bosom into him. “Luc, a restaurant critic!”

Clara needed a drink. A double G and T. Perhaps a triple.

The rest of the meal became an exercise in self-control. Clara firmly boxed and taped her sarcasm, leaving her virtually speechless. She tried to get the girls to describe the smells, the subtle hints of herbs and spices, but they were so busy feeding Luc forkfuls of their entrees and cooing over his muscles that she might as well have been talking to the walls. Everything he said seemed to send his little cling-ons into titters.

She hated her meal. The creamy texture of the penne Toscana made her stomach churl, the wine turned to acid on her tongue, and the restaurant’s signature berry crepe was sour with unripened fruit. Luc’s meal, what little she tasted of it after the C/Kaitlyns picked at it, didn’t go down much better.

“Something wrong, Clara?” he asked between signing autographs. She couldn’t believe how many people recognized him and rudely interrupted their meal. The more timid fans staged walk-bys while their friends surreptitiously aimed camera phones. Clara put her hand up to block her face, but she needn’t have bothered. They clearly weren’t interested in getting her in the frame, just Luc and his drapes.

“Yes, something is wrong.” There was no use denying it. Her anonymity was possibly compromised and she was miffed, inconvenienced, and bugger all, she hated to admit it, even to herself—jealous.



After all the time she had spent in front of the mirror, he barely glanced at her. She wanted to take her beautifully hand-knit scarf and wrap it around C/Kaitlyns’ swan-like throats and tug until their sparkly eyes popped. Yes, something was wrong!



“Why don’t I get the girls into a cab and we can talk,” he said, motioning the girls out of the booth.

“Awww,” said the C/Kaitlyns in stereo.

“I thought we were going to hang out, Luc?” one said.

“Just like old times!” said the other.

Clara closed her eyes and twisted the cloth napkin into a tight knot. It was the only way to stop from picking up a butter knife and flinging it between a set of fake green eyes.

“Can’t today.” Was it her imagination, or did Luc sound brusque? “I’ve got pre-game interviews this afternoon.”

She didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, thank the patron saint of pity, as they drifted out of earshot.

Clara waited until they were out of sight and slipped out the back door of Daniel’s Grille.





“I’m sorry,” he said when she came into earshot.

Her cheeks were flushed, her hair windblown, her up-do gone. She must have walked at a furious pace. He’d taken a cab to beat her back to the hotel and hadn’t arrived more than two minutes ahead of her.

Clara looked up, the surprise in her hazel eyes clear as she spied him leaning back against her door. “For what?”

“I think you know.”

“For that charade at Daniel’s? For making me share a meal, a working meal, with those bimbos—”

“Puck bunnies,” he corrected. She skewered him with a look that made him want to drop to his knees and beg for mercy. “Never mind. Continue.”

“—or for ordering the Ahi tuna again, or for compromising our identities with your multitude of fans?”

“All of it,” he said, playing it safe. “The charade,”—he was tempted to imitate her pronunciation of ‘charahd’ but didn’t want to piss her off more than she already was—“And for whatever else made you upset today. I’m apologizing for everything. Except the tuna. It was really good.”

Clara shook her head and pursed her lips. “It’s all a game to you, isn’t it?”

He shrugged.

Normally a pretty clever, some might even say cocky, fellow, Luc found himself unable to come up with a single response that would put a smile back on Clara’s face. And he desperately wanted to. What started out as a brilliant idea to get her attention, show her what she was missing, only made him sick to his stomach. He didn’t really want her to know about that side of him, the playboy hockey player with ego and libido enough for an entire team.

The moment she walked into the restaurant looking fresh and sexy, carefree and sexy, confident and sexy, the moment he saw the leather boots, oh so f*cking sexy, and the dainty little scarf that did nothing to cover up the swell of her breasts, he regretted calling the C/Kaitlyns. Keeping his eyes off of her at lunch was like sitting in the penalty box. He wanted in the game so bad, his balls hurt.

He did his best to ignore her because had he given in to his need to stare at her flawless skin, to engage her in conversation—always compelling and witty and enlightening—to even acknowledge her during the meal, would have been flirting with insanity.

Luc dropped his chin, fully aware he’d lost crucial game points.

Clara reached passed him and slid the key card into the slot. Easy in, easy out. The green light flashed, but Luc didn’t move.

“I’m really sorry. Please forgive me?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes and gave him a half smile, so he supposed he was half forgiven. Too bad because he was about to piss her off again and would have been happier starting in a more favorable position.

Luc pushed the door handle down and backed into the room ahead of her. Maybe he’d save the bad news for later.

“I suppose. But really, Luc. What were you thinking?”

I was thinking that if you saw how other women wanted me, you would, too. I was thinking that you’d be jealous. I was thinking with my dick, like any red-blooded male who was forced to work with a woman who wouldn’t stay out of his dreams.



He shrugged. “The more, the merrier?”

“Next time, let’s leave it to the pros.”

Clara sat on the end of her bed and stuck a booted foot into the air. “Help me with these, will you?”

Luc stifled a growl and tugged.

“What’s the plan for tonight?” she asked. “How are we getting to the arena?”

Tell her. “Meet me in my room at seven,” Luc said as he gripped the heel of the second boot and pulled.

“Not in the lobby?”

Tell her. “No. Just knock on my door at seven. Don’t be late.”

“I wouldn’t dream of being late. I’m rather looking forward to my first ice hockey game.” She got off the bed and lined up her boots tidily by the closet door, bending over to do it. She had no f*cking idea what that pert little ass was doing to his head. “I’ve never even watched it on the telly.”

He could feel his fists clench into tight balls of pure sexual frustration. Tell her! “It’s not called that here.”

Clara’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Alright then, tee vee.”

Tell her we’re not going. He couldn’t bear to. “Not television. I’m talking about hockey. You keep calling it ice hockey, but over here we just say hockey. Everyone knows it’s played on ice.”

“Oh. It’s just that…we play field hockey in England so…um…” she did a one shoulder shrug. “I’ll remember that. Thanks.”

Awkward. He wanted to bite off his tongue. He shouldn’t have corrected her. It was no big deal. He wanted to cup her chin and kiss the tension from her mouth and tell her she could call it stick hockey or puck hockey or over-the-goddamn-moon hockey. It didn’t matter.

But he couldn’t kiss her. It wasn’t in the rules. So he changed the subject. “What are you going to do for the rest of the afternoon?” he asked.

“I, um… I thought I’d take a nap. I didn’t sleep well.”

She looked away when she said it, and it hit him. She was feeling it, too! The weird air between them, the sexual tension, the burden of denying the chemistry that made them look at each other a fraction too long, pull away quickly at the slightest touch. And when she spoke, she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, so she touched her hair and twirled the ends of her scarf until she finally wrapped her arms around her middle as if she needed to hold on to something. He’d rather it be him.

He needed to go.

“And you?” she asked. “What’s on your agenda?”

“I’ve got some calls. I managed to get a pre-game interview with both coach and manager of the Blackhawks, so I have to go make some notes.”

“Do you need me there? For the interviews?”

“No! No. But thanks. You’d probably find it boring and—”

“Because I could, if you need me to—”

“We’ll be talking draft picks and starting lines, that sort of thing.”

They were talking over each other. Luc needed to go. He should go. She was looking at him with such expectation, but of what? She had made the rules, laid them out clearly. So why was she looking at him like she wanted him to kiss her?

“Clara?” Could she hear the need in his voice?

“Hmm?”

“You don’t want to rethink this…this…thing between us?”

Clara turned and rushed toward the window as if she needed to put distance between them. “There’s a reason for all those idioms, Luc. ‘Don’t dip your pen in the company ink,’ ‘don’t keep your honey where you make your money.’ ”

“Don’t fish off the company pier,” he offered, desperately hanging on to his sense of humor, not to mention his pride.

“Don’t look for nookie where you keep your cookies.”

“Don’t score in your own net.” He made that one up.

“I’ve never heard that one,” she laughed but still wouldn’t turn around. “But yes, that applies.”

He sighed, surrendering. “Sleep well.”

Luc measured his paces to the door, slow, steady, even. Like a normal person. But in his mind, he was running like a crazed lunatic.