Game On

chapter 19


LUC SLAMMED THE BATHROOM DOOR and cranked the shower to cold. He didn’t bother taking his pants off but stepped into the stall half-dressed. If he so much as brushed against his cock, he would explode. They’d find little pieces of his manhood scattered for miles. But at least his pride remained intact.

Luc knew what it was to push himself physically. Professional athletes trained hard, stretching their mental and physical stamina until they bled, until every ounce of will, every fibre of energy was spent—sucked dry. And still they kept going.

But Luc had never felt agony like this before.

Not when he trained, not when he was shot, not during the months of torturous physiotherapy he endured when his shredded muscles were rebuilt.

He dropped his head against the tile and let the cold spray hammer his burning skin. He concentrated on hockey stats, tried to remember the names and numbers of every player on his last team—too easy—on his first team. He visualized himself doing up his skates, shooting pucks with his dad, but nothing could take away the images of her. Clara, laid out on the table like an all you can eat buffet for a starving man. Tabernac!

He pressed his forehead against the wall until he felt the grout lines between the tiles and still couldn’t dislodge the picture of her petal-soft breasts heaving against him, her p-ssy, oh God, that sweet piece of her glistening with ripeness.

Torture. It was f*cking torture. If a genie appeared and gave him the choice between playing pro hockey again or having one night of debauchery with Clara, she’d win, hands down.

She tasted like heaven and clouds and everything pure and good and sweet and he wanted her. He wanted her so bad, it hurt to breathe.

Luc banged his head against the tiles, wishing the pain in his forehead would mask the throbbing in his groin. It was so unfair. He could have had her. He should have taken her.

He still could.

Luc wrenched the faucet off, intent on marching right back into the suite and begging her—no—taking her. F*cking her until she moaned his name, screamed his name, then whimpered his name in complete satisfaction. But before he could the jump out and drag his sopping-wet-self back to her, he heard a door slam.

Hard.

Clara was pissed.





“You’re a cruel man, Luc Bisquet. Petty, sadistic, and mean.” Her voice was curt, devoid of the hysterical emotion he’d expected, yet every adjective cut him like a shim.

“You really think so?” Luc poured a glass of orange juice from the pitcher he’d ordered from room service and handed it to her. The angry pink splotches on her cheeks made him smile. He wanted to caress them back to their lovely shade of rose-cream. “’Cause last night you couldn’t get enough of me.”

Luc, feeling rather smug, popped a piece of croissant into his mouth and watched her hands shake as she set the glass down. She was dressed in a pair of skimpy running shorts that only served as a reminder of what her toned legs felt like wrapped around his thighs.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked, her voice elevating in both pitch and volume. “You humiliated me, toyed with me, played me like I was, was…Oh never mind. This is all a big game to you.”

And there it is folks, the shrill. Now he had something to push against.

Luc leaned back against the table and crossed his arms. “Let me tell you something, Clara. If this was a game to me, I wouldn’t have hesitated to score.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She was so adorable when she was upset. Wide-eyed, chest heaving, face flushed. “It means I wasn’t playing you. I was making a point.”

“The point being that you’re a big, insensitive jerk? Yes, I got that, thank you.”

“No, the point being that you want me so damned bad, you’re willing to break your own rules.”

“Oh please. This smacks of petty revenge. Tit for tat for the hallway incident.”

“Well gee, I hadn’t thought of that, but it does fit.” Luc tore off another chunk of buttery croissant and held it out for her. A peace offering of sorts.

Clara smacked his hand away. “I explained this already.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “You said I wouldn’t understand.”

She pushed her hair behind her ears and harrumphed. “You wouldn’t. You just wouldn’t. Why can’t you trust that my intentions were neither sinister nor manipulative, that I had every intention of opening my door to you—and did?”

He wanted to pin her against the wall and kiss the frown off her face. “I just want answers.”

“But you wouldn’t under—”

“Understand. Yeah, yeah. Why don’t you try me? Not all athletes are dumb as stumps, you know. This one happens to have an IQ above that of a frozen pea.”

“I’m not insinuating you’re stupid, Luc.”

“Yeah, you are.” And maybe she was right. Maybe he was the very definition of stupid for pursuing this, for wanting her.

“I can’t do this,” she said, hiding her face in her hands. “I just can’t. Not now.” Clara turned her back to him and slid her feet into her running shoes.

At least Luc got to see the door slam this time.





“Well, fancy meeting you here,” Clara said, glancing down at her ticket stub to ensure she had the correct row and seat number. “Can I say I’m actually relieved?”

“Why? Because you didn’t want to watch the game all by yourself?”

“No, because when I checked the travel envelope and didn’t see the second ticket, I feared Luc would be occupying that seat.”

“And that would have bothered you?” Riley asked as he stood to help her off with her coat.

“A few days ago, no. Today, very much so.”

Riley didn’t press, but the look on his face invited her to continue.

“I’m not talking to him. He’s unworthy of my questions or my company.”

Riley turned his palms up, as if he couldn’t find a reason to disagree. “So, I’m guessing something happened between when I left you in the lobby and when Luc banged on my door this morning telling me he needed a peaceful place to work?”

“Peace! He said that? Wanker,” Clara said through gritted teeth. “Peace. Bloody hell. I’ll give him peace all right. I’ll give him a piece of my mind if he’s man enough to show his face around me ever again.”

“Clara, much as I’d like to know, it’s like you said last night, it’ll never leave my brain once it’s in there. So I’m not going to ask, okay?”

“That’s fine, Riley. I respect your right to stick your head in sand and pretend your friend isn’t the biggest arse in America.”

“You know, there’re things about Luc—”

“Stop! Please,” Clara said, palm in the air. “I just can’t even hear you speak his name at the moment. When’s tee off?”

Riley chuckled. “You mean faceoff? Right after the national anthem.”

As if on cue, the first strains of the Star Spangled Banner began and everyone stood, hands over hearts. Clara could feel hers pounding and, much like her running steps, it sounded like Luc-Luc, Luc-Luc, Luc-Luc. Bugger.



There were so many questions Clara wanted to ask before the game got underway, but before she could trouble Riley, the players got into their positions and the puck dropped. They scattered before she had a chance to count them.

“How many players on a team?”

“I think you probably mean to ask how many players on the ice,” he clarified.

Of course that’s what she meant. She just couldn’t form a complete thought thanks to him.



“You got your center—he’s was the guy who was in the faceoff circle—then behind him are the forwards, also called the right and left wings, then the two defensemen in front of the net, and of course the goalie. Six in total.”

“What position did he play?”

“Defense.”

Why did he have to intrude on her thoughts every twelve seconds? Time for a topic change.

“What do you smell, Riley?”

“That’s an odd question. Popcorn. Why?”

Clara looked around and, sure enough, half the people in the stands were reaching into bags of fluffy buttered kernels. She used to love popcorn, but without the smell, it tasted like salty puffs of nothing. So many foods were like that, she found, where the pleasure lay mostly in the smell rather than the taste.

“I read a phrase someplace about the smell of the ice. What does that mean? Is it figurative, symbolic?”

“I would say it’s figurative because it’s really no different than opening the freezer at home.”

Clara pursed her lips, disappointed but unsure why.

“But maybe you should ask Luc. It might mean something totally different to him.”

Him again. She’d rather not. She’d rather not ever speak to or about him again.

Riley continued to patiently explain the game to Clara, never made her feel stupid for asking questions, no matter how basic, and by the time the first period was over, she wasn’t only enjoying the game, she was cheering and booing with the rest of the fans.

Watching the game live was an entirely different experience than watching it on the telly. It was hard to fathom this was the very game that had bored her out of her gourd back in Chicago. The collective energy running through the audience when the puck sailed toward the little blue area around the net—the crease, Riley explained—and the shared release of tension when it went past its mark, or the frenzy of cheers if it slipped past the masked goalie, was palpable. Her heart pounded with anticipation, plunged with disappointment, and Clara jumped to her feet no matter which team scored.

“Enjoying it?” Riley asked.

“Oh yes! It’s brilliant,” Clara said, unable to mask her ebullience. She couldn’t help it—it was very emotional and entirely too easy to get caught up in. “It’s so exciting, so fast, I can barely keep track of the puck.”

“You should have seen Luc out there. Man, he was a legend. Watching him on skates, the way he handled the stick as though it was an extension of his arm, the amazing puck manoeuvres…he made it look as though it had all been choreographed in advance.”

Luc.

Luc used to do this.

Luc used to be part of this, be the cause of the cheers and exhales, the applause, the chants. She wished she could have seen him play. She would have screamed herself hoarse, never would have missed a game.

How could he live without it? It made sense, now, why he couldn’t come to watch. He didn’t want to be part of the game from this side of the Plexiglas.

“I mocked him,” she muttered, half hoping Riley wouldn’t hear. “I got mad at him, told him he was cheating his readers by not going to the games. I didn’t get it, Riley. I’m so stupid.”

He put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Not many people do, Clara, so don’t beat yourself up.”

“No, no. I’ve been an insensitive fool. Oh God, I’m horrible. No wonder he…” No wonder he thinks me and my rules are ridiculous. Luc played by the rules his entire life; there was a bloody book of rules when it came to professional hockey, but Fate damned the rules, dealt him a card from the bottom of the deck.

“It would be heartbreaking for him to be here, in the stands. But how can he even watch it on television? How can he write about it, talk about it? Isn’t that just as painful? To have to see other players break your records or achieve things he didn’t have a chance to?”

Riley retracted his arm and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “That’s not the only reason he doesn’t come to games, Clara.”

“What do you mean?”

Riley blew out a breath, hesitant. He looked around, changed positions, focused on the game for a few more minutes, Clara’s curious eyes on him the entire time. He waited until the second period ended, until the people in the seats next to them got up and left, before speaking. “I’m not sure how to explain. Or even if I should.”

“Please, Riley? It’s important that I understand.”

He expelled another sigh and, with a half shrug, he began, “Somebody pulled a gun on him, Clara, in an arena, a place more familiar than home, somewhere he felt comfortable, secure. But it was more than that. Luc was the superstar of every venue he played, unstoppable, indestructible. Do you get that? This was his playground, and he was the king. And in one pull of a finger, he was dethroned, made vulnerable—no, that’s not the right word,” Riley said, shaking his head. “Luc exemplified what a hockey hero should be, and in one second, it was gone.”

“How did it happen?”

“The team arrived, there was a crowd, people waiting for a glimpse, kids wanting autographs, or just to be noticed by their heroes. A guy wearing a long coat limps out of the crowd, gets within feet of Luc, opens his coat, and points a gun.”

Clara swallowed, wanting more but unable to ask for it.

“Fans are supposed to support you, cheer for you, and yeah, sometimes they boo and hurl insults, but they’re not supposed to shoot you. Luc never denied fans. He did charity events, gave free skating clinics to kids, but it was a crazy-ass fan that ultimately took him down.” Riley shook his head, clearly mystified at what could drive a human being to commit such an act.

“Shortly after he took the job with BMG, Luc and I went to a Panthers game to get some interviews. He freaked, couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He was pale and sweating, clutching his chest like he was having a heart attack. Scared the shit out of me and humiliated the shit out of him. He hates crowds now—not sure if you noticed that, the way he hesitates and scans a room before he takes a step in the door. And though he’ll never deny anyone an autograph, do you see the way he tenses up when someone approaches him, like he’s unsure whether they’ll have a gun or a pen? He’ll deny it, but he hides away most of the time, comes up with a list of excuses to avoid going out.”

Clara wrapped her arms around her middle, feeling cold to her bones. She didn’t know what to say, how to respond to Riley’s story. She felt like she’d glimpsed a sliver of Luc’s soul, his damaged, broken psyche. And all she could think was how can I make him better? How can I fix him?