Game On

chapter 30


“WHAT’S UP YOUR ASS, FROGMAN?” Riley asked as they walked through the departure terminal at JFK. Clara had noticed it, too. He’d been off his game since they awoke this morning, and he’d been uncommonly quiet during the ride to the airport.

“Haven’t had a coffee yet,” Luc replied, uncharacteristically missing an opportunity to trade a pre-breakfast insult with his best friend.

“Ah. And I thought it was ‘cause the Habs got trounced last night.”

Luc scowled.

“Habs? Who’re they?” Clara asked.

“Montreal Canadiens,” Riley answered since he was the only one paying attention. “It’s what they call them up in Canada.”

“That’s a strange nickname.”

“It’s a French thing. I won’t bore you with the story.”

“Speaking of…I believe I still owe you a story, Mister Sutter,” Clara whispered conspiratorially as Luc, incognito in dark glasses and ballcap, loaded their luggage onto the departures carousel. “It slipped my mind until just now, but Lydia did give me permission to share her past.”

“I understand. You’ve had other things on your mind.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“Oh I think I do,” he said in a grave tone. “I witnessed it at the restaurant yesterday.”

Clara’s skin went cold, as if she’d been caught in an Arctic breeze. Riley knew! Had she let something slip? Or maybe Luc told him. But no…he wouldn’t have, not without Clara’s permission.

“Riley, please,” she asked, hearing the tremor in her voice. “I’m loathe to even ask, but can we keep this little secret between us for now?”

Riley’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t think it can be a secret. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes.”

Clara swallowed. She was done. Finished. He’d go back to Bartel, who’d tear a wide and bloody strip out of Charlie for being duped. She bit her lip and prepared to beg.

“Jeez, Clara, you look about to cry. It’s not that bad, is it? Doesn’t this stuff usually make women happy and giggly?”

“Giggly? What are you talking about?”

“You. And the frogman.”

“What about us?”

“Are we having two different conversations?”

“I don’t know.” Clara shook her head from confusion. “You first.”

“Clara hearts Luc. Luc hearts Clara. And they’re both pretending they’re not having hot monkey sex as soon as I turn my back. You with me now?”

“Oh. Oh! Never mind, then. I thought you meant something else. But surely it can’t be that obvious.”

“Oh please,” he said, sounding very Lydia-esque.

Dare she hope Riley was correct and Luc hearted her? They hadn’t spoken of feelings or commitment, hadn’t made plans beyond the next orgasm. Riley knew more about Luc than anyone, so Clara gave him a heartfelt smile. “I shall miss you, Mister Sutter.”

“And I you, Miss Bean. Call me when you get a moment… for that other thing.” He handed her a card with his private number on it. “Anytime.”

Luc came up behind her and slipped his arm around her middle. “Get your own woman, Sutter.” Clara sank back into him and broke into a cheek-splitting grin.

“I’d rather steal yours,” Riley replied with a wink to Clara. Before Luc could utter what was sure to be a scathing comeback, Riley continued, “Good luck in Pittsburgh, kids.” He clutched the handle of his carry-on and strode toward his gate.

“What was that cozy conversation about?” Luc slipped his fingers between hers and led her toward security.

“We’re planning a surprise party for you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Nor should you. That was my way of politely saying none of your damn business.”

“I’m not sure I like a girl with secrets,” he teased.

“An air of mystery is a good thing, darling.”

“By virtue of your sex, you are a mystery. All women are. You can ask any man.”

“And you? Do you have secrets?”

“All kinds,” he said.

Clara slowed, unsure if she should push, wondering if she was the only one with a guilt-ridden conscience. But what if there was another Valentina in his past? “Like?”

He leaned in close to her ear, the upturned collar of his jacket tickling her cheek, and whispered, “Like what I’m going to do to you tonight.”

“Does it rhyme with puck?”

Luc threw his head back and laughed, then kissed her so thoroughly, the gate attendant blushed.





After a radio interview and an early dinner in one of Pittsburgh’s best Polish restaurants, they were free of obligations until morning. Luc didn’t bother suggesting a nightcap in the lounge but headed straight through the hotel lobby, tugging Clara along by the hand like a tardy child.

“Shouldn’t we at least pretend to go to our separate rooms?” she asked as he pulled her out of the elevator on his floor. The presence of a large convention meant no adjoining rooms and no available suites, so they were stuck with Shelagh’s original single reservations, separated by three floors.

“No,” he said, jamming the key card in the slot as impatiently as she used to do, with the same red-light result.

“Sir, I implore you, be gentle,” she teased, guiding his hand. “In and out…slowwwly.”

His answer was to push her up against the door and ravish her mouth in a very non-gentle way. His tongue however, did go in and out slowly. Intoxicatingly so.

The occupants of the room next to theirs, two adults and a blur of children, spilled out, wearing swimsuit cover-ups and flip flops. The mother cut her eyes at Clara as they hurried by.

“So much for propriety,” Clara whispered as Luc released her.

“Stop using your snobby British words and get into my bed,” he replied, pushing her backward through the door.

Clara ran straight for the bathroom for a mandatory freshen-up and came out wearing her tank top and panties.

Mildly disappointed to find Luc on the phone, presumably with someone from BMG from the sounds of things, she fluffed and propped the pillows and slid between the sheets. Her body, primed after that steamy hallway kiss, needed to be touched. She decided to send him a telepathic message to hurry things along: “Luuuuc…come to bed. Luuuuc….I want your body. Luuuuc….I am your fathah.”

Clara giggled, earning her a puzzled glance from Luuuuc.

He gathered his notes into a neat stack on the desk while he spoke. She loved the way he interacted with others. He didn’t appear to be a do you know who I am guy despite his glory on the ice. Whether it was a restaurant waiter or radio disc jockey, he always addressed people as though he’d actually listened to what was being said rather than being distracted by what his response would be.

So unlike herself. Clara tried to be attentive, but she was usually so lost in her own head, she often came across as snobbish…which was ridiculous, really, because she had no illusions when it came to her faults. Except perhaps the selfish little girl business, but now that had been brought to light, she knew exactly what she was about.

No matter how hard she looked, she just couldn’t find any flaws in Luc. All her life, she’d looked for The Perfect Man and now that she had him, she didn’t know quite what to do, how to act, how to impress him. Or if it was possible to even keep such a beast.

The thought of beasts brought Valentina back into her head. Every night, she’d breathed a small sigh of relief that another day had passed without a phone call or unannounced visit. The restaurant prank obviously scared her off. That’ll teach her for messing with Clara Bean.

“Sorry, love. Where were we?” Luc asked as he hung up the phone.

“I believe you were about to give me a relaxing foot rub, darling,” she said and slipped her foot from under the covers to wiggle her red-painted toes.

“It’s not really your feet I’m looking to rub.”

“You’re welcome to do my back. I haven’t had a decent massage since Sven.”

“Sven, eh?” Luc said, pulling his shirt over his head.

Clara grew a bit dizzy from the sight of his rippled abdomen, his bare chest. She sighed and snuggled deeper into the covers. “Yes, Sven. The master of the back rub.”

Luc gave her a wolfish grin and cracked his knuckles. “I think you’ll find, Ms. Bean, that I wrote the book on backrubs.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” she said, propping herself up against the headboard. “I’ve been thinking that when this whole thing is over, I’ll write a book.”

“What kind of book?” he asked, climbing into bed beside her without turning out the lights. “Cookbook, travel guide, that sort of thing?”

“Nope. A more current inspiration. I’ve had loads of fun learning about hockey. I’ll never be a sports nut, by any stretch, but the fact that I know a bit about the game and can share it with you has been very fulfilling.”

“I’m glad, too. It’s nice to share a passion.”

“Passion might be overstating it.”

“You seem hooked to me.”

“Yes, well, for now perhaps.”

“But you want to write a book about hockey?”

“No silly, about how to survive your boyfriend’s obsession with sports.”

Luc, looking very smug, drew the bed sheet down, slow and suggestive. “So you consider me your boyfriend?”

Clara giggled, her cheeks growing warm. “You’re missing the point.”

Luc slid his hand beneath her shirt and cupped her breast. “No, ma belle, I think I found exactly the right point.” He gently squeezed the peak, which traitorously puckered to attention.

“Stop interrupting me!” she said, pushing his hand away.

“Sorry. Carry on.”

Before she could, he tugged her tank down so the neckline caught under the bottom curve of her breasts.

With face aflame, she refused to let him sidetrack her. She didn’t bother batting his fondling hands, choosing to pretend that his ministrations didn’t affect her. “I like the fact that I can keep up when you discuss hockey, when you throw out names or talk about draft picks. I might not know all the detaily stuff, but I don’t feel so left out of the conversation, either. And I know lots of women who feel that way, whether their boyfriend—”

She squealed as he squeezed her nipple, sending a current straight to her p-ssy. “Luc! Behave!”

“I can’t help it,” he said, gently caressing her breast, using his palm to circle the mound. He played with her like she was his personal toy. “That word makes me act like a horny tenth grader.”

Clara laid her hand on his so, though he still cupped her, his fingers were still. She continued, “Whether the significant others are mad for football or cricket.”

“Cricket? I’ve never met anyone mad for cricket.” He nuzzled her neck and licked the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Do they exist?”

She giggled again. “Oh Luc, why are you so determined to distract me?”

“But I am listening,” he said. “And the only way I’m going to shut up is if my mouth is otherwise engaged.” He dipped his head and outlined her areola with his tongue before sucking her into his mouth.

Heat spread through her, each pull making her quiver for more. “Fine for you, perhaps, but how am I supposed to concentrate?”

“You’re writing a book,” he paused to remind her. “Go on.”

“Right. A book. Entitled, ‘The Girlfriend’s Guide to Sports’—oh yes, darling, just like that,” she said, her breath coming faster. Her muscles tightened with each slow, hard pull, making her body taut and impatient for more. “And each chapter will focus on a different sport and include a brief history, and terms—”

“How to score?” he asked. Luc tore the scrap of shirt off her before she could answer, leaving her both topless and unable to form a cohesive thought.

“I’m sorry, what was your question?”

“Scoring?”

“Oh yes.”

Luc trailed hot, wet kisses in a straight line from her lips down her abdomen while she attempted to finish her sentence. “Most…uh…definitely. Ah! An entire paragraph on scoring.” The lower down her body Luc travelled, the harder Clara balled up the sheet in her fist.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and slipped them down. His mouth continued over the ultra-sensitive, nerve-charged area below her bellybutton. He hooked her knee to spread her legs. “I can help with that part,” he said before using his mouth for something better than talking.

Clara dug her heels into the mattress as a blaze of fire swept through her. “I’d rather hoped you’d volunteer.”





Luc had never enjoyed the city of Pittsburgh more. It was a four-day blur of sex, hockey, and food. It was Eden-esque, decadent, and he never wanted to leave.

He and Clara watched the two Penguins games from their king-sized bed. Naked. Clara seemed to be getting a firm grip on the rules and subtleties of hockey, while he got a firm grip on her ass and other body parts.

He was especially appreciative of the seventeen-minute breaks between periods.

The only time they bothered to dress was when they went to the restaurants on Spencer James’s list, both brilliant ethnic choices, vastly different in atmosphere and food. He even managed to convince Clara to try take-out because what good was food if it couldn’t be eaten off of each other?

Kingsley Bartel called so often that Luc considered putting him on his friends and family plan. Bartel knew nothing of Luc and Clara’s intimate relationship, of course, especially since they kept the tone of their articles semi-combative, playing to sexual stereotypes. The King was happy, and that’s all that mattered. The blog was getting an insane amount of attention and driving print media sales up while soundbites from the radio shows they’d done were being replayed both in entertainment and sports news broadcasts. One particular snippet garnering the most attention was when an interviewer asked Clara, “In Western Europe, you’re just as famous for your discerning palate as you are for sharing your by-line with a disagreeable lapdog. How do you feel about Luc Bisquet replacing Biscuit?”

Her reply: “It really isn’t much of an adjustment on my part.”

Dieu, he was smitten.





Clara was glad she hadn’t resigned, glad she got to spend her days and nights with Luc. As Lydia had wisely advised, Clara took full advantage of her time on the road with the most beautiful man on the planet. By the light of day, it was easy to ignore the doubts, the what-happens-whens and the what-ifs.

And the business of how it would all end only bothered her in the darkest hours, like four a.m., whilst Luc slept soundlessly beside her. If there was only some way she could hang on to him beyond their tour.

It was foolish to think the affair was anything more than temporary. They lived an ocean apart and soon wouldn’t even be employed by the same company. They were in a different league, and she needed to escape well before he realized that beneath the America-version of Clara, there was a selfish little girl who didn’t know how to not put herself first. For now, she was content to sit on his pedestal and not think about the big drop down to her own level.

Besides, he didn’t speak of the long term or of commitment. Not once. So to even entertain the hope was silly-cow thinking.

Still, she dwelled and, as the calendar days slipped by, the middle-of-the night fretting became increasingly more anxious.

Would he forget her the moment she flew away? Would he ever give thought to their brief affair, consider her fondly, wonder about her with a twinge of regret? She hoped so, desperately. Because there was no doubt that she would go to her grave in the English countryside thinking of Luc Bisquet.

An old boyfriend once bought her a sparkly-faced watch, explaining she would think of him every time she looked at her wrist. Bollocks to that. And coincidentally, the cheap trinket stopped hours after they broke up. But it made her think…was it terribly selfish to want to make some kind of mark on Luc’s life? Leave him with something to remember her by?

She didn’t think he’d be amenable to an “I heart Bean” tattoo on his forearm and branding seemed rather extreme, so she would have to come up with something better.

She listened in the dark to his breathing, steady and calm.

Despite being stricken by something akin to panic over the brief time they had left, overall she hadn’t felt this sunshiny-happy-to-be-aliveness for ages, since before her Roman mishap, probably since before her father died. Everything just felt right in her world when he was beside her, and Clara wanted to be that to Luc, wanted to be his cozy, safe corner in which to escape, even if it was only the memory of her.

She worried for him, for his anxiety attacks, for his love/hate relationship with hockey. It could not be psychologically healthy for him to be imbedded in a world he didn’t feel comfortable being part of. If she could, she would fix him. If only she had magical powers, she’d give him his knee back—the old one that could skate and propel him across the ice toward the crease. At the very least, she would take away his broken dreams, the inky well of distrust and damage that came after his attack.

She couldn’t wave a wand and fix his physical damage, but maybe she could address the psychological ones? The seed of a crazy idea took root, nurtured by the quiet darkness of night. By morning, it had grown into a full-fledged plan.

Nobody could put Luc Biquet back on the ice, but maybe she could be the one to bring him to the ice.