Game On

chapter 15


CLARA KNOCKED AT PRECISELY TEN minutes to seven, despite the fact she’d only awoken from her nap at six thirty. She purposely left herself short on minutes so she wouldn’t spend an inordinate amount of time worrying over her wardrobe or hair.

Nope, not tonight.

She wasn’t setting herself up like she had earlier; she wasn’t a stupid girl. She learned from her mistakes—rather quickly, if she dared say so herself. She finger-combed her hair, brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror, swiped her cheeks and forehead with a warm cloth, restricted herself to two pumps of the body spray atomiser, and threw on a forest green sweater. Perfect for an ice-hock—or rather, a hockey game.

Clara knocked a second time. Surely he hadn’t left without her. As she rapped a third time, the door swung open.

“You’re early.”

“Apparently.”

Luc greeted her bare-chested, a towel around his neck, his ebony hair a tousled mass of damp waves and one side of his face smeared with shaving cream. His jeans, unbuttoned, rode so dangerously low on his hips, she had an intoxicating view of his abdomen, all six packs, and a thin line of black hair that began under his navel and disappeared into—

Oh God. She was ogling. Ogling, gaping, staring, leering, and she couldn’t bloody well stop. She swallowed, once, then again, her saliva glands on overdrive. “Maybe I should wait in the lobby.”

“No, come in,” he said, stepping aside for her. “I’ll just be a sec. Have a seat.”

Luc went back into the bathroom to resume his shave but left the door ajar. She could see his reflection in the mirror, watched the razor make a swath through the white cream, scraping the contours of his angled jaw.

Stop looking! Shake your head, move your eyes, claw them out, do something—

Oh God, he met her eyes in the mirror. He caught her totally checking him out! Nicely played, Bean.

She turned quickly, wished she waited in the hall. Or in a tub full of ice chips.

Luc was all around her. His stuff. Everywhere. Wristwatch and phone on the bedside table, opened suitcase, jumbled mess of clothes. Just this once, she was glad not to be able to smell him, for his scent would surely be her undoing.

“Hey, how’d you score a king bed?” she asked as realized his room was remarkably different than hers. “This is a bloody suite!”

At least twice the size of Clara’s compact yet functional accommodations, Luc’s room had a leather sofa, coffee table, fireplace, and an alcove with a desk where his computer was set up. Much to her chagrin, it also had a humongous flat-screen television. Though it struck her as a funny place to put a telly, smack in front of the balcony doors, the cords running across the front of the curtains.

“I used to stay here a lot,” he said, coming out of the bathroom. “The manager must have upgraded me.”

“Perks. Nice,” she said under her breath. No matter where she went, the best EuroNow would do was run-of-house rooms, a gamble she often lost.

Luc grabbed a gray tee-shirt from his suitcase and pulled it over his head, making it somewhat safe for her to make eye contact with him again.

“You haven’t eaten yet?” Clara said, indicating the room service tray on the coffee table. She wished she could smell whatever was under the silver dome next to the ice bucket and two wine glasses.

“Just a snack,” he replied.

“Like a pre-game ritual?”

“More like a during-the-game ritual.” He stuck a finger in the top of the dome and uncovered the mystery. A platter of fully loaded nachos. “Voila!” he said with a smile that put Clara’s heart into overdrive. “And may I assure milady that the cheese is genuine Wisconsin cheddar and not the faux variety.”

“You certainly know the way to a girl’s heart, good sir.”

“Sadly, they did not have Beaujolais nouveau—the bartender said it doesn’t come out until November—so I took the liberty of choosing this fine Chablis, which I believe will complement the spicy jalapenos.”

“A perfect choice, to be sure,” she said, playing along. “But how are we going to eat all this and make kick off?”

“Faceoff,” he corrected and hit the power button on the remote control. The giant screen lit up the room.

“But I thought we were going to the United Center to see the game live?”

“Uh…no. Change of plans.”

“So we’re watching it on television? Here?” Clara couldn’t conceal her shock. Or disappointment.

“Hm-mm.”

“But, we can’t!”

“Why not? The game is the game is the game. Doesn’t matter if we watch from here or there.” He sank onto the leather sofa and patted the seat next to him.

“Bollocks! How can you soak in the atmosphere, feel the spectator frenzy, or the surge of fan energy when the puck thingy goes into the goal?”

“Television has replay and slow-mo,” he said as if that would appease her.

“You do this often, then? Watch the games from your living room?”

“Of course.”

“But aren’t you cheating yourself and your readers? It’s the equivalent of me reviewing a restaurant based on take-out.”

“Think about it, Clara. I watch as many as ten to fifteen games a week in order to do my Sunday analysis. There are multiple games being played in multiple cities. I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“But tonight, Luc, as part of our assignment, this Date Night crap, we’re supposed to actually physically go to the game,” she argued. “So let’s go.”

“Can’t,” he said without looking at her. “We don’t have tickets.”

“Yes, we do. I saw them.” Clara stomped to the alcove desk where she’d spied the itinerary envelope. “They’re in here, with the others.”

“I gave them away.”

“You what? To whom?”

“The Kaitlyns. It’s season opener tonight and they couldn’t get any, so I gave them ours in exchange for helping us with the restaurant review.”

“What? Without consulting me? Why?”

“It doesn’t matter, Clara. It’s better this way. It’s far more comfortable than stadium seats,” he said and proceeded to pour two glasses of wine. “We have food, drink, we can put our feet up, and you can ask questions without worrying about disturbing anyone around us. And if you get really bored, you can take a nap,” he said, nodding toward the bed.

Fat lot of good her English degree was. Clara couldn’t access a single word in her extensive vocabulary to aptly describe her current state of disappointment, puzzlement, and anger.

Was this all part of the plan to seduce her into his king bed? Clara loathed being manipulated, hated that he blatantly played on his charm and looks and her obvious attraction.

Who the hell did he think he was? Who the hell did he think she was? Just because she found him somewhat beautiful did not, not, not mean she’d fall into his bed after nachos with real Wisconsin cheese.

Well, maybe it did.

But she’d laid out the ground rules, and he needed to respect that!

Besides, if she did sleep with him, if she did develop some sort of feelings for him, it would be impossible to lie about her condition. It was bad enough she had to lie to Charlie, to her co-workers, and now Luc. If they became more than friends, if they became lovers, her conscience would drive her to madness. She’d crumble. Her confidence would be lost and she’d return home to London without Luc, without a shred of self-esteem, without a job, or worse…without her heart.

“Well, if that’s the case, I might as well watch it in my own room.”

“Clara, don’t,” he said, holding the wine glass out toward her. “How are you going to write your part of the article without my help? You don’t know anything about the game. Stay. I’ll explain the rules.”

“Oh, I know the rules of this game, and I’ll tell you what,” she said, having no clue what she was going to say next. She was hanging on by a very thin thread. She wanted to stomp, to cry, to scream! She’d wanted to go to that game, be seen with him, hold his arm in the presence and safety of a large crowd. She wanted to lean into him as he explained this dumb game, wanted to ask him silly questions, just to hear him talk. She wanted to stare at him without his knowing while he watched his ex-colleagues skate around. “You write the hockey bit and I’ll write the restaurant bit, and we’ll call it done.”

“You know that’s not what Bartel wants—”

“I’ll watch in my own room,” she stated firmly. Clara emptied the travel packet Shelagh had entrusted to Luc and took out one of each ticket. “And I’m taking these with me.”





Luc put the finishing touches on his article and sent it to the marketing department, who would get it up on the BMG blog. He looked at the clock. The airport wouldn’t be open for a couple of hours, but he couldn’t stay here a second longer. He’d catch an earlier flight to Boston; hell, he’d walk if it meant staying away from Clara.

Luc rubbed his palms down his face. He was tired, physically and mentally. Why was he doing this to himself? He didn’t need the money, didn’t need the aggravation. And he’d asked himself the same question hundreds of times. The answer hadn’t changed: What else was there? Hockey was all he knew. Writing about it was his only link, and some days that was even too much to bear. Everything Clara said last night about being there, live—the adrenaline-charged atmosphere, the fans, the rush of excitement when the puck slid into the crease—made his stomach burn. Clara had hit on every reason he avoided live games like the plague. But still, he craved it, craved the action and attention, the competition and camaraderie, and most of all, the winning.

He slammed his laptop shut, harder than the machine deserved.

Why couldn’t he have met her then, when he was somebody? When he wasn’t a f*cked-beyond-institutional head case? She wouldn’t have had the rules then. Oh no. She would have thrown herself at him, like the rest. Or maybe not. Clara wasn’t like the rest.

Luc tipped the sleepy bellman and got into the cab.

If he tried, if he really wanted Clara, he could get her to break. There was something between them, something strong and undeniable. The question was, how bad did he want it?

Bad.

Clara was simply the most gorgeous, amazing woman he’d ever met. Sure, she had her quirks—he’d never seen anyone who popped more breath mints, she obsessively smelled everything she put in her mouth and questioned him about it, too, but she brought out this fierce protectiveness in him he’d never felt. He wanted to take care of her, make her smile, make her laugh in that adorable way that made him think of angels. He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to make her love him.

So the question now was how?

He might be delusional, but he didn’t buy the we work together bit. Maybe she was commitment shy? Or maybe he came on too strong? Some women preferred being the instigators, the aggressors. She certainly made no big deal out of looking at him as a one-night stand before, in which case, he needed to get her back in the game. Only then, she’d realize his desire to win was greater than hers to play by the rules.