Game On

chapter 16


“CHARLIE, I CAN’T TALK NOW,” Clara lied. She could, she just didn’t want to. “I’ll call you when I get to the hotel.”

“But Clara dove, Kingsley has his knickers in a twist about this. I have to tell him, reassure him, that you and Luc—”

Bugger! Just the name made her blood pressure rocket. “Charlie! Charlie, stop. I have dreadful reception and can barely hear you. Boston is full of underpasses and tunnels, one of which we’re about to enter. I’ll ring you from the hotel as soon as I check in.” She peered out the tinted window of the airport limo. Clouds gathered above, throwing Boston into a dull shade of gray. Just like her mood.

“Alright then, dove. I’m at home. But you mustn’t call too late or you’ll wake Sue. You know how she likes to turn in early to—”

Clara hit end call before he could finish.

She arrived at the hotel feeling no better than when she departed Chicago. Luc had slipped a note under her door, telling her he’d taken an earlier flight. Just knowing he’d been outside her door whilst she tossed and turned and fought to sleep made her heart ache.

“No ma’am, no messages. But Mr. Bisquet has already checked in.”

She looked around the lobby. Coast clear. But she asked for a bellman’s assistance, just to be safe. The last thing she needed was another intimate hallway encounter.

She slid the key card into the slot—easy in, easy out, wait for it, green light, depress lever.

The room was brilliant! She’d stayed in countless hotels, but this one was even nicer than the one in Miami. Clara let the bellman pass with her things as she admired the exquisite accommodations, wondering if Luc had anything to do with her getting a suite this time. The living area was bigger than her flat at home, with stunning views of the Charles River beyond a wall of windows. There was a fully stocked wet bar and fireplace, two overstuffed couches with a frosted glass coffee table between them and, though there was no desk, there was a long, rectangular dining table—a perfect place to set her laptop.

She sent the bellman away with a generous tip before searching out the bedroom. There were four doors to choose from, but only one was ajar and through it, Clara could just make out the corner of a bed.

The bedroom, done in shades of gold and cream, had a large four poster king at its center. Plush and looking deliciously comfortable, it would be perfect for the desperately needed nap after yet another sleepless night with Luc, Luc, Luc on her addled brain.

Speaking of, she wondered what kind of room he had this time. She wandered back out to the main room and noticed, on the dining table, an envelope with her name on it.

“Clara,” it read. “I’m out for the afternoon. Dinner reservations are for six-thirty under the name Sutter. Hope you like the suite. I’ve claimed the connecting bathroom but the other one is bigger and has a whirlpool bath.”



Connecting what? Clara stormed back into her room and entered the bathroom. It was long, with a marble-topped counter running along one side, a shower and tub on the opposite wall, and another door at the end. Toothbrush, shaving cream and a sports magazine lay next to the sink. They were sharing the room?



Jaw clenched, she whipped open the second door and found the other bedroom. His room. Smaller, windowless. Luc’s suitcase lay open on the double bed.

It was a two-bedroom suite. The emotions hit her quickly: relief, anger, excitement, anger, longing, anger.

Danger.

She’d be safer playing with a book of matches at a gunpowder factory than sharing living space with Luc.

Clara took a deep breath and searched out the second bathroom, situated clear across the living room, next to the wet bar. Maybe she’d sleep in here, in the big soaker tub, as far from Luc as possible, a sturdy locked door between them.

After a tediously long telephone lecture from Charlie, Clara only had time to freshen up, change her clothes, and find a way to get to the restaurant.

Spencer James, food editor for the BMG, chose a fairly new establishment for them to review. The chef, who hailed from a two-star Michelin-rated restaurant in London, had opened a fusion cuisine place in Boston’s Leather District. She was looking forward to it, but she had mixed feelings about seeing Luc.

“Excuse me. Are you Miss Bean?” the doorman said as she exited the hotel with an eye out for a cab.

“Yes?”

“Your car is waiting.” He motioned forward a long, sleek, black limousine.

“There must be some mistake,” Clara said, hoping there wasn’t. She’d never been in anything grander than a London taxi. “I didn’t order a car.”

“Mr. Bisquet arranged it for you, ma’am.”

Speechless, Clara climbed into the backseat. “Th-thanks,” she said before the doorman closed her in.

“A pleasure, madam.”

By the time she arrived at Silk and Ivory, she felt as pampered as a movie star. The driver pulled to the curb and people on the street stopped to see who would come out. Hardly the way for an incognito restaurant critic to arrive, but she could care less. She felt divine!

“Reservation for Sutter,” she told the hostess, glad Luc had the good sense to choose a name not his own.

“Ah, yes. Your dinner companions are already seated.”

Companions? Bugger, not again. All the happy-joy feelings from her limo ride evaporated.

Clara followed the hostess, dread building with every step, to a table in the center of the restaurant. Luc was in deep conversation with someone whose back was to Clara.

And that someone was a man.

Luc looked up when he saw her approach, stood, and gave a tentative smile. He searched her face, as if gauging her mood. She smiled and winked, an unspoken thank you for the car, a symbolic declaration of truce. It was a two-bedroom suite, after all.

“Clara.” He didn’t kiss her cheek this time, just slid his hand down her bare arm from shoulder to elbow as he pulled her chair out. “You remember Riley Sutter.”

“Mr. Sutter!” Overwhelmed with relief, Clara couldn’t help breaking out into a broad smile. Of course she remembered him. He’d been as smitten with Lydia as she’d been with Luc. “How nice to see you again. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Riley said, pulling her into a friendly hug. “And please call me Riley. The Mistah Suttah thing makes me sound way too important.”

Just as delightful as she remembered, Riley proved the perfect dinner companion. Eager to play covert critic, he gamely tried anything that Clara suggested and excellently communicated his thoughts on each dish. Most importantly, he helped ease the tension between Luc and herself. She actually forgot she was annoyed with him and found herself laughing at the hilarious banter he and Luc shared.

“Why do I get the feeling that your relationship goes beyond that of superior and subordinate?” she said after Riley shared a particularly amusing story.

“Probably because our friendship precedes his employment with BMG,” Riley said. “You want to tell it, or should I?” he asked Luc.

“I’d better,” Luc said. “I’m sure my version is more interesting.”

“Just stick to the facts, my friend, though I know it’s hard for you.”

Luc muttered something in French, too fast for Clara to pick up even an odd word. Whatever he said seemed to amuse Riley, whose sarcastic tone couldn’t be masked in any language. He switched to English and said, “Just get on with it, Luc. You’re so damn long-winded, Clara will get to review the breakfast menu before you’re done.”

“Riley here was a green-eared intern with another paper,” Luc began, “hungry to prove himself. He knew the only way he was going to land on the sports page was to get something big, something to impress the higher-ups at the paper he was working for, so he starts stalking the shining star of the NHL—”

“Oh please,” Riley muttered.

“So I took pity on him and gave him his first exclusive.”

“Bullshit. You wanted to chat up my sister, who, for the record,” he said to Clara, “wanted nothing to do with him or his king-sized ego.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Luc laughed. “Tell her the real story! How you hounded me like a sad little fan boy—”

“The real story,” Riley interjected, “is that The Biscuit here avoided the press like it was his knocked up ex-girlfriend. He came off as cocky, so naturally everyone thought he was a condescending son of a bitch who was too good to talk to the press, but I saw through him. He wasn’t cocky, he was shy, too timid to open his little froggie mouth. But I finally broke him down. That was just days after the ’02 Olympics.”

“Broke me down, my ass! He threatened to tell the world that I confessed to jacking off with my medal every night before bed if I didn’t do his little Q and A, knowing that I’d never go public with a denial.”

“That is such a lie! Clara, don’t believe him. All I said—”

“Not by far!”

“Ah, but there’s poetic justice in this story, Clara. Had Monsieur Bisquet talked to the press before the Olympics, that daft sports announcer likely wouldn’t have mispronounced his name and he’d never have been called The Biscuit.”

Luc rolled his eyes and shook his head, making Clara laugh.

“Well,” Clara said, feeling positively high from being around these two and their spirited banter, “that certainly explains why I couldn’t find out much about him prior to two thousand and two.”

“What do you mean ‘couldn’t find?’ Were you looking?” Luc asked.

Bugger, bugger, bugger! Clara felt her cheeks grow warm. Riley showed sudden interest in his spoon.

“Well, I uh…I may have done a bit of research. You know, to uh…check out whom I was expected to work with.”

“Mm-mm. Find out anything interesting?” Luc asked, looking smug.

“Nothing better than what Mr. Sutter could share, I’m sure.”

Luc laughed and rose. “This is probably a bad time for me to make an exit, but nature demands. Riley, please try to keep me out of the conversation.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t forget to take your ego with you.”

Clara waited until Luc was out of earshot. “I noticed you’re fluent in French.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Why unfortunately? It’s great to know a second language. I wish I did, though my Italian is fairly passable.”

“The unfortunate part is the circumstances under which I learned.”

Clara raised her eyebrows, urging him to explain.

Riley glanced toward the back of the restaurant, toward the restrooms, before continuing. “Luc was in bad shape after the attack. You know about that, right?”

Clara nodded. “A bit. Just what I read in the archives.”

“He was completely devastated when they told him he’d never play again. Imagine never getting to do what you love best, what you’re known for, famous for.”

She could imagine it. Too well.

“This is just between you, me, and his mother, but we were scared he’d do something stupid, you know?”

Clara pressed her lips together and nodded again.

“He wasn’t even trying to walk, said if he couldn’t skate, there was no use walking. He wouldn’t go to rehab, nothing. I’d told him he could come work at BMG, be our hockey analyst. I thought that’d cheer him up, you know, to still be involved in the hockey world.”

“And that’s what did it? That’s what made him feel better?” Clara asked.

“God no. Made him even more ornery. He said, and I quote, ‘The day I write about this f*cking game is the day you recite Balzac.’ Do you know who Balzac is?”

“Yes, of course. French author of La Comédie Humaine, The Human Comedy. That was an ironic choice.”

“Exactly. He knew I’d never learn French because I used to make fun of his heritage all the time—in jest, of course.”

“He didn’t expect you to take up the challenge?”

“He sure didn’t. Imagine how pissed he was when I showed up, day after day, to wheel him to his physio sessions with a third-grade French primer in my hand. At first, he ignored me until he got so fed up with my horrible pronunciation, he began correcting me. It went on for weeks, months. The doctors urged me to keep coming because it distracted Luc from being an all-out bastard. Eventually, I was fluent enough to make the offer again, in perfect French, and I threw in a couple lines of Balzac just to make him happy.”

“You did that, for him?” She bit her bottom lip to keep her emotions in check. To have a friend like him... Luc was very lucky. Riley was his Lydia.

“I owed him. It was true, about me being an over-eager new journalist and needing a break. He gave it to me, generously. Oh, we joke about the details, but it’s simple. Luc saw a young player who needed to score a goal in order to stay in the game, if you’ll pardon the analogy. He made it happen.”

“What a brilliant story, Riley,” Clara said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “He gave you an interview, sure, but you mastered another language. That’s a remarkable act of friendship!”

“It was no biggie,” Riley shrugged. “Besides, Luc has no idea that he wasn’t my only French teacher. I hired a really hot tutor and spent hours a night conjugating verbs with her, among other things.”

They were both laughing when Luc returned.

“Okay, what did you tell her?” He eyed Riley suspiciously.

“About those Californian twins we took up to Steamboat Springs back in ’05—”

“Is your Last Will and Testament in order, mon ami?”

“You take yourself far too seriously, frogman.”

Coffee arrived and Riley cleared his throat. Clara felt the mood shift.

“Guys, I gotta be honest with you. I’m not here just to share a meal,” Riley said. “Clara, I’ve already gone over this with Luc, so I’ll give you the short version. Bartel is not a happy man.”

“If I can spare you your lecture, Riley, I’ve already been soundly reamed by Charlie.”

“Listen, I understand neither of you are used to working in a partnership. This is new territory for all of us, and Kingsley has set the bar extremely high. Whatever it is that’s preventing you two from coming together,” he said, clearly not blind to the fact Luc and Clara shared more than a collegial acquaintance, “I wish you’d just put it aside for now and work through this. Technically, you’ve got five more cities after Boston, but if Bartel doesn’t like what he sees tomorrow morning, he’s pulling you both.” With a shrug, he added, “And I can’t predict what will happen after that.”

Clara and Luc shared a glance. She imagined she wore the same petulant expression as he. “So what does he want, exactly? I still don’t know a thing about hockey despite spending half the night reading a For Dummies guide.”

Riley laughed. “What do you need a guide for when you’ve got a big dummy sitting right here?”

Clara exchanged another look with Luc.

“Clara,” Riley said, “hockey’s not rocket science, despite what The Croissant might try and tell you.”

A low growl came from Luc’s throat.

Riley continued, “The little black puck goes in the net. Score. That’s it. Bartel doesn’t want you to give a play-by-play, he doesn’t want you to predict who’ll be in the Stanley Cup. That’s what he has Luc for. He wants a woman’s perspective. He wants your infectious enthusiasm or your scathing commentary, whichever fits, that makes you popular amongst your readers.

“And Luc, no one expects you to know that the garlic overpowered the ginger in the oriental pork. Your readers want to know if the place impressed your date, if the portions were adequate or you had to chase it with a Big Mac. Get it?”

Exchanged glances all around.

Riley poured another sugar packet into his coffee. “Why do I feel like I’m talking to the walls?”

“We get it,” Luc said.

“Yes, Riley, we understand perfectly,” Clara assured him.

“Yeah, I get that you get it. What I don’t get is why you didn’t do that the first time,” Riley said and held up his hand before either of them could interrupt. “No, I don’t want your excuses, I want you to get over whatever is making you two look at each other like sixteen-year-olds caught under the bleachers and make this thing work. All of our jobs are riding on this, in case you didn’t realize.”