Game On

chapter 26


THE PHOTOGRAPHER POSITIONED THEM AT a café table, their chairs facing away from each other to play up the mock he says/she says conflict. Clara was dressed in a ridiculously oversized hockey helmet and shoulder pads to mask her identity while Luc peeked over the top of a menu. He wore Groucho Marx novelty glasses even though most of the country knew exactly what he looked like.

They had a riot during the session and got the entire crew involved, from the lighting guy to the photographer’s shy assistant, who, by her constant state of blush, had a big crush on a certain sports star. They were strategically placed behind props and disguises while the flashes went off and music blared. Clara hadn’t realized how long they’d been in the studio until a heaping plate of fake pasta made her stomach growl.

They were finally released when the photographer and a marketing exec from BMG were satisfied they had enough images for the print ads that would appear in all of Bartel’s chain of newspapers.

With no time to stop for lunch, they hit a lobby vending machine while waiting to meet the producer for the talk radio program they were scheduled for in the morning, and to record some promo spots they’d use here and in upcoming cities.

They finally made it to the restaurant for an early dinner—a blissfully casual establishment—but lingered so long that they managed to work themselves up into a completely different kind of hunger as their conversation about the food became infused with innuendo.

By the time the check arrived, Clara wasn’t in the mood for the kind of sport played on ice. “But I don’t want to go alone. Can’t I watch it on telly with you?”

“You’re going to miss the faceoff,” Luc said as he helped her into the back seat of a yellow cab. “And do you really think that if you came back to the hotel, we’d watch hockey?”

Clara, geared up to argue her case, took one look at the heat in his eyes and his voice and remained mum. The corners of her mouth turned up in a knowing smile. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and it felt so good.

“Stop using that sexy smile for your evil purposes,” he said. “I’m not changing my mind.”

“Evil?” Clara laughed. “When I looked at you like that the other night, you called me an angel.”

“Do you have your ticket?” he asked, ignoring her taunt.

“In my handbag, yes.”

“Good. I was going to bring mine, just in case, but I couldn’t find it. Riley must’ve grabbed it when he took the other.”

“Riley? Is he here in New York?” she asked, looking forward to seeing him now that she had Lydia’s permission to fill him in on her backstory.

“No, not tonight, but he’s flying up in a few days. Maybe tomorrow. I don’t remember.”

“Good!” she said. “I enjoy his company. He makes me laugh.”

Luc leaned into the open door and whispered low enough to exclude the cab driver, “If you’re trying to make me insanely jealous, it’s working.”

“Tit for tat.”

Luc swore under his breath. “I thought we were okay with that. I told you, Val means nothing to me, hasn’t for a very long time.”

Clara poked him in the ribs, secretly pleased by his reaction. Next time—God forbid there was one—perhaps he’d be more forthcoming. “Maybe I was referring to the Kaitlyns?”

“Ah, touché. In hindsight, it was a mistake to bring them that day. But you really left me no choice, Clara, what with those ridiculous rules.”

“But look how much fun we had breaking them,” she said, closing the car door and waving her fingers as the taxi pulled away from the curb.





She was starving. The salad and tasteless piece of battered fish at the restaurant left her craving something more substantial, and since she couldn’t appease herself with Luc for the next three hours, she looked for a substitute. Armed with a hot sausage on a bun, heavily loaded with fried onions, hot peppers, and mustard, Clara made her way to her seat. She’d missed a good bit of the first period thanks to an endless line at the food concession, but a girl had to have priorities. And she’d clearly need all her strength for the coming night.

The good people of section 116 stood to allow her access to her mid-row seat without so much of a grumble. Unfortunately, the home team Islanders chose that moment to score a goal and a fan of generous proportions exuberantly drove his meaty arms into the air, knocking the end of Clara’s paper plate against her shirt. She continued down the row muttering excuse me and thank you, onion bits falling down the front of her blouse. If the grease didn’t condemn her brand new cream button-down to the rubbish bin, the mustard stain certainly did.

All wasn’t lost. She rearranged the remainder of the sloppy toppings and took a bite.

Delicious. The juicy blend of spices cut through her limited abilities and made her tongue feel alive. It was a shame Luc couldn’t be here to enjoy it with her. On the other hand…she looked down her shirt front and dabbed the mess with a thin paper napkin, her only one, thankful her dignity was spared.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” the woman beside her said.

Clara hadn’t even noticed her when she’d sat down. Assuming the woman had taken advantage of Luc and Clara’s empty, but excellently placed seats, she chewed quickly and swallowed. “We…I was just running late. But you needn’t move if you’re on your own. My friend isn’t coming after all, and it’d be a shame to waste such stellar seating.”

The woman laughed, showing a gorgeous row of perfect, white teeth.

Clara smiled and took another gigantic bite of heaven on a bun. She could see in her peripheral that the woman was staring. At her. Eating.

Lovely.

She glanced over, her mouth full, and smiled uncomfortably. She felt uneasy under the woman’s brazen stare and wondered if it were she who had the wrong seat.

Self-conscious, Clara chewed faster, sensing that the conversation wasn’t over.

“Do you know how many calories there are in that?” the woman asked, presumably referring to the sausage.

“Probably more than I should be consuming in a day,” Clara replied. “But it is scrumptious.”

That was it? She was being scrutinized for caloric indulgence? Talk about judgemental. Clara looked her over for flaws, but the nosey stranger didn’t appear to have any of her own. She was, in a word, gorgeous, despite the creepy vibe. She had short blonde hair, the most amazingly clear skin—not one freckle or sun spot—and cheekbones that Cher would kill for. Bright blue eyes regarded her with amusement.

Bollocks to this. She was here for a game, not to exchange healthy living tips with seat stealers. She popped the last bite, albeit a very big one, into her mouth and focused on the ice.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Clara gave her a side-eye and started to shake her head no when it hit her like a slapshot against the boards.





“I’ll do it.”

“But it’s blackmail, Lyds. Black-f*cking-mail!” Clara turned to see the mother of a young boy shoot her a reprimanding look before hustling her son in the other direction. She resumed pacing outside of the bathrooms and lowered her voice. The volume coming from the arena was so loud, she could barely hear herself. “I’m going to gather my shattered wits and march back there to tell Valentina where to stick it, and how high.”

The hot sausage roiled in her stomach, threatening to make an encore appearance in the opposite direction. She pressed a palm against her clammy forehead and wondered if she was going into stress-induced shock. “I just needed to vent. And I need you to tell me how to deal with this bitch because she’s got me so damn tongue-tied, I barely know my name. I’m just so… so… I can’t even think straight!”

“Calm down, darling. Of course I’ll—”

“And he doesn’t know, did I mention that? Luc seriously doesn’t know about any of it and though I’d convinced myself that I would tell him, as soon as possible, the very thought…and he was waiting, with a flower, and he’s so beautiful…oh Lydia, I just can’t. I just bloody well can’t. We’ve so little time left together and I’m desperate to play this out because…well, because I must. But what if she tells him? It’ll ruin everything!”

“Oy! Bean!” Lydia’s shout snapped her out of it. “Stop torturing yourself. Of course I’ll do it.”

“No. I won’t allow it. I’ll think of some other way to deal with her. There must be an ice pick around here someplace.”

“Clara, darling, you’re being a silly cow.”

“Don’t start, Lyds. I’m in no mood for bovine insults. Miss No Congeniality can make her own bloody contacts in America. You did your part to appease Mr. Kingsley F*cking Bartel by introducing her in Italy. If she can’t manage her home turf, if she’s so desperate she’s resorting to black—”

“But that’s the thing, darling. You don’t know the whole story. The reason I didn’t want to burn bridges with Bartel is because I’m not stupid enough to think I’m better than the machine. Valentina thinks she is. And she is desperate because she’s still holding the smoking match.” After a moment of silence, “Are you still there?”

“Yes, yes,” Clara said, pressing her finger in the other ear. Someone just scored a goal and the crowd irrupted into cheers. “Go on.”

“When Valentina was making the pageant rounds, a designer by the name of Colin Brastow was a relative unknown. The pageant organizers got a whole slew of Americans—Wang, Miller, Oldham et cetera—to create the gowns for the evening wear competition. Guess who Brastow was meant to design for? But the devine Miss V, because she considered him a third-class nobody, refused to wear his creation. It was a slap in the face to Brastow and the pageant organizers, but the ruckus resulted in Brastow getting a huge amount of press. Fast forward to present, and the House of Brastow is a phenomenal success and Colin won’t give Valentina a hall pass. She went to him, straight from her Italy humiliation, and waved her press badge around, demanding attention, but he’s barred her from his shows, refuses interviews, and has banned her from New York fashion week.”

“How do you know all this? And why does she think you can help her?”

“Because, darling, the fashion world is very small, and as for the why…who do you think gave Brastow that huge amount of press?”

“I’m so sorry for dragging you into this.” Clara sank onto the disgusting filthy floor, shaking with anger at Valentina, vexed with her selfish self for having got her into this pickle and weak-kneed at the sheer relief of Lydia’s offer. “Thank you, Lyds, thank you, thank you, thank you for doing this. But what’s to stop her from telling Luc the minute she leaves Brastow’s office?”

“Hmm…yes. Good point. We’ll stall her a bit. You only need a couple of weeks, correct?”

Clara swallowed the stomach acid that crept up her esophagus before answering, “Yes.”





Clara kept her eyes on the ice. “She’ll do it. She’ll call Colin in the morning and set something up and let you know the time and place.”

“I knew we’d come to an amenable agreement,” Valentina said. She sounded so smug, Clara wanted to smack her. “I would have hated to tell Bartel about your danno cerebrale. Or maybe it’s Luc finding out that has you more worried?”

Clara refused to answer or even look at her. She focused on the game and seethed. She wondered how good the odds were that a flying puck would land between Val’s eyes. That would be so sweet to witness. It’d knock her into next week—or, better, into another dimension.

“You’re nothing like I expected, nothing as I pictured,” Val said.

“Really.” Clara faced her nemesis. “What were you expecting? A gaping head wound?”

“No,” she said, zeroing in on the greasy mustard stain before giving Clara a bemused smile. “You’re just not the type Luc usually goes for.”

Clara opened her mouth to speak, to defend herself, but nothing she could say would make her feel less like a sloppy, frumpy-troll.

“Don’t bother denying it,” she said, misunderstanding Clara’s inability to form a sentence. “I know you’re sleeping together.”

Clara wished she could channel Lydia’s acerbic tongue. Oh, eventually she’d think up a zinger, but the timing would be well off.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” Val dug.

“Ask what?” Clara said, shrugging into her coat. Third period be damned. She was leaving this nightmare.

“How well Luc and I got along while you were denying your brain damage to Charlie.”

“I don’t have to ask. I know nothing happened.”

“Oh, you’re very confident, sweetie,” she laughed as Clara stood to leave. “Come on, don’t go. I’m just having fun with you. I don’t mean you any harm, Clara Bean. I just want what I deserve.”

Clara dropped back into her seat, gobsmacked by this woman’s unmitigated gall. “What you deserve? Are you kidding me?”

“Think what you want, but I’m not pure evil, you know. I just want to prove to Kingsley that he made the right decision.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Then I’ll prove you both wrong,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Or die trying, I hope,” Clara muttered.

Val went on as if she hadn’t heard. “I know what good taste is, what constitutes excellent fashion. I have an eye for clothes. Since I was a kid, pouring over Vogue and Glamour, I’ve wanted to be in the fashion world.”

“And that’s a noble ambition,” Clara replied, her tone suitably icy. “But you don’t get something just because you want it. You have to work for it.”

“I’ve been on the pageant circuit since I was four years old. I have worked for it, and I’m still working for it.”

“No, no you’re not. You’re using people to get ahead.”

She smirked in such a way, Clara cringed. She knew what was coming. “Are you suggesting I do what your friend did and make a sex tape? ‘Inside True Love’ was quite the work of cinematic art, don’t you think?”

“That is so offside.” Clara’s blood pressure spiked. At the same time, she felt sorry for Valentina. It was clear that she’d never understand or achieve success. She’d always be striving, never satisfied until she stole somebody else’s cookie. “Lydia has worked damn hard to re-establish contacts in this business and she was coming from a place where no one wanted to touch her. She didn’t start as EuroNow’s fashion editor. She worked her way up, reconnected with photographers she knew, searched out new, up-and-coming designers, like your friend, Colin Brastow. She spent years cultivating friendships with people in the right places. That’s why she has carte blanche access to every design house in Europe, not because she was the accidental star of a sex tape and certainly not because she slept with the head of a media corporation.”

“We all have our paths to follow,” Val said and shrugged. “And look where Lydia’s hard work got her. Nowhere.”