by Sarina Bowen
Reluctantly she put the pretty little box back in her bag and zipped it up tightly. She wouldn’t string him along. It just wasn’t fair.
TWENTY-THREE
There were certain places that always made O’Doul feel like a punk kid again, and the hotel in Ottawa was one of them.
The team frequently stayed at the hundred-year-old Chateau, probably because Nate Kattenberger liked it. On the outside it looked like a stone castle, complete with turrets and towers and a peaked copper roof. The river swept by, a ribbon of gray in the fading twilight.
Inside the lobby, the team gathered beside one of the oak-paneled walls, waiting for rooming assignments. Even in his thousand-dollar suit, O’Doul felt like an imposter. Fusty, old-guard places always made him ill at ease, even in a room full of hockey players who didn’t care which fork he used at the fancy restaurant later.
He just felt off today. They needed this win, but the game had him on edge. They were ranked higher than Ottawa, but there were no guarantees. And it was still unclear whether he or Crikey would take tomorrow’s fight.
None of that had him so ruffled, though, as the fact that he’d spilled his guts to Ari last night and then slipped a gift into her bag. O’Doul thought he knew what it meant to be vulnerable. Usually it meant letting a giant on skates swing his fist into his face. But the toughest fight in the NHL now paled in comparison to laying his heart—and his awful history—at Ari’s feet.
She hadn’t brought up their midnight trip through his horrible childhood this morning. They’d gotten up late because of Ari’s headache. And when they finally did rouse themselves, she was in such pain that conversation—aside from her profuse apologies for getting wasted with her friends in his apartment—didn’t happen.
Now she was only ten yards away, but it might as well have been ten thousand miles. Sitting on a velvet sofa with Georgia, her dark, wavy hair gleaming under the soft light of the chandeliers, the sight of her was like a low-grade ache in his chest. He’d always made fun of his teammates who’d lost their heads over a woman. But he got it now. There’d been a lot of things he’d yearned for in his life. A quiet place to sleep, where nobody would jump him. A fine meal. A good glass of Scotch. And winning—he’d always wanted to win.
Wanting Ari wasn’t like any of those other wants. It was far more terrifying. In the first place, there was too much that was out of his control. He’d always been able to say: if I just work a little harder, I can have this. If I just put in the hours. That wasn’t the case with Ari. Even as he dreamt up the next romantic thing he might do for her, he knew it might never be enough. She could decide that a punk from the wrong end of Minneapolis wasn’t what she needed in her life.
There wouldn’t be a damn thing he could do about it.
Jimbo came over eventually and passed out room keys. “Bayer. Beacon. Trevi . . .” He handed them over, and one by one the players headed for the elevator banks. “O’Doul.”
He took his key with a glance at the velvet sofa. The women were already gone. He went upstairs, his footsteps hushed by thick carpets beneath his feet. He let himself into a room with a four-poster bed piled high with ornamental pillows. He set his bag on a fussy upholstered bench and walked over to the heavily draped window to peer out at the city lights. The first eighteen years of his life had been lived within a thirty mile radius of the hospital where he was born.
The first time he was ever on a plane was when the Long Island team had invited him to participate in a training camp. He’d been busting his butt for an ECHL team, making five hundred dollars a week. In the summer he worked for a landscaping company, mowing lawns and planting hydrangeas.
Then all of a sudden he’s on a jet to LaGuardia.
“Where’s your suit and tie?” Hugh Major had asked him when he’d stepped off the plane. Those were the first words Hugh ever spoke to him.
“I don’t have one,” he’d had to say.
Hugh had gotten one of the office assistants to drive him to a Brooks Brothers. In the store, the salesman had asked him questions about how he wanted to be fitted. All the words were unfamiliar. “Break” and “spread” and “flat front.” He didn’t have any idea what they were asking him. He’d bought the suit, and he’d had to use both of his credit cards to pay for it, all the time praying that he’d make the roster, if only to pay off his suit.
The team put him up in a cheap hotel right under the JFK airport flight path, and his dreams were filled with sonic booms.
Fast forward a decade, and he was wearing a three-hundred-dollar shirt and peering out the window of a five-star hotel. He’d been to each of the thirty NHL cities, and then some. But there were days when it all seemed like some kind of cosmic joke, where he was sure he was the punchline.
There was a tap on the connecting door. “Patrick?” Ari’s voice was muffled from the other side.
He crossed the room in four paces. “Ari?” He opened his side of the door, and there she was. “Hi, sweetheart. You’re my neighbor again.”
“Becca has fun deciding who’s next to whom,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
His stomach dropped a notch. “Of course.” He stepped back and she entered the room carrying the box he’d slipped into her bag, and a worried expression. His stomach dropped all the way to the soles of his expensive dress shoes.
“This is beautiful,” she said, finally lifting her soft gaze to his. “But I can’t take it. When I told you that I couldn’t be in a relationship right now, I wasn’t kidding. My life is messy.”
“I know, baby.” He took a half step forward, meaning to pull her into his arms, but something in her expression stopped him. She reached forward, offering the box. He took it reluctantly. “Sit down a second,” he said.
She hesitated. “Okay.”
He turned, removing his suit coat and tossing it on the bed. Then he sat down at one end of a smallish couch with carved wooden legs. Ari took the other side. He tapped the box. “This isn’t a fancy piece of jewelry. I wasn’t trying to buy your affection. It’s your birthstone, and it was just a gimmicky way to show you that I was paying attention. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
Her eyes were a little shiny by the time she spoke again. “It’s the classiest gift I’ve ever gotten. But I already knew you were paying attention. You show me that every day.” She swallowed hard. “The thing is, what I really need in my life right now is not a relationship, but a friend. Can you be that?”
An hour ago he would have thought it would be devastating to be rejected by the only woman he’d ever really wanted. But there she sat, two feet away, needing him to understand. So while he wished her decision were different, it wasn’t hard to agree. Sliding down the sofa a foot or so, he gathered her into a hug against his favorite tie. “I care about you too much to say no.”
“Thank you.” She took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you be sorry. I’m a big boy. But can you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Keep the pendant, unless you don’t like it.”
“I love it.”
“Then wear it sometimes, and remember that your birthday is coming. Because by the time August rolls around, I’m betting a whole lot of the bullshit in your life will be finished. You’ll be out to dinner with your girlfriends and thinking, hell, that year sucked. But things are looking up.”
She smiled against his cheek. “God, I hope so. I’ll be thirty—a new decade. One where I don’t cohabitate with any criminals.”
“Aim high, honey.” She laughed. At least he had her laughing.
Ari straightened up, flicked a single tear away from her cheek and smiled at him. “You always cheer me up.”
“Back atcha, babe.” He offered her the box again. “Here. Wear it in good health. Start the countdown.” She took it
from his hand and opened it. “You’ve got . . . four or five months until the big three oh. That seems like enough time to let it all blow over.”
She reached behind her neck and removed the silver chain she wore. Then she opened the box and threaded the pendant through it. “Would you . . . ?”
“Sure.”
She pulled her hair to the side, swiveling to turn her back, and he carefully lowered the pendant over her head, securing the chain with clumsy fingers around her slender neck. The urge to kiss the back of her neck was so strong, but he did the right thing and abstained. He stood up instead. “We should get downstairs. Dinner will start soon. It’s in that fancy dining room with the curved ceiling.”
Ari stood up, straightening her skirt. “You say that like other people would say, dinner will be served from the garbage can in the subway station. What do you have against the Chateau?”
“Eh.” He grabbed his jacket off the bed and put it on. “It’s stuffy.” He smoothed down his lapels (a word he’d managed to learn while shopping for his second or third suit) and joined her in front of the door.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her hand on the knob.
He didn’t have to ask what she meant. It sucked that she didn’t want everything he wanted to give her. But if she wanted to be friends, he’d do it. He’d do anything she asked. He bent down and kissed her forehead. Just once. It was enough to fill his head with her lavender scent, and he had to hold back a sigh. “You’re welcome. Now let’s go eat rich food and rub elbows with the owner.”
Downstairs, they reached the dining room together. Trevi and Beacon stood there, practically tapping their feet. “I’m starving,” Beacon complained. “They’re not quite ready to seat us.”
“Hey, guys,” Castro said, catching up to the group. “Hey, Ari. I hope I’m on your schedule tomorrow morning. Nobody has rubbed my feet in ages.”
“You poor thing,” Ari said. “Coincidentally, nobody has proposed marriage to me in ages.” She smiled at the silly young forward, and O’Doul noticed her fingers flutter up to her breastbone and touch the pendant that hung there before falling away again.
“Hey, that’s pretty,” Castro said. “That color suits you.”
O’Doul had the sudden urge to yank Castro’s chin upwards, removing his eyes from Ari’s chest. Who knew there was a downside to buying your girl something pretty to wear?
“Thank you,” Ari said, touching the pendant again. “It’s my birthstone.”
“Reeeeally,” Castro said slowly. “Your birthstone.”
“Right. August.”
Castro’s eyes—plus a few other pairs—cut to O’Doul’s.
Hello, awkwardness. Slowly, and with great deliberation, O’Doul gave a single, sad shake of his head.
Maybe hockey players weren’t known for being the most subtle bunch of guys in the world, but not one man said anything about it until later. After the official team meal they were allowed to ditch their suits and slink across the street to a bar.
“So. Ari?” Trevi asked, grabbing the stool next to his. “You and she are a thing?”
“Damn,” Bayer said, rubbing his hands together. “Didn’t see that one coming. We’ll all stop proposing marriage to her on the massage table if that makes you uncomfortable.”
“Not sure it matters, champ,” he said, tossing back his Scotch. “She told me quite firmly today that it isn’t gonna happen.”
“So I do have a chance,” Castro joked, nudging O’Doul’s shoulder.
O’Doul made a growling noise. He couldn’t help it. He was willing to accept the fact that Ari wouldn’t date him. But if anyone else started hitting on her, they’d better brace for some trouble.
“Joking,” Castro said. “Jesus.”
“How do you get over someone?” he asked suddenly. He’d never had to do that before.
Trevi chuckled. “If you pass out tickets and make us all turn in suggestions, you’re just gonna get twenty-four pieces of paper back that say get very drunk on ’em.”
“Not necessarily,” Jimbo put in. “I’d write: Listen to sad music and play a lot of Xbox. It’s cheaper than drinking, and a better distraction.”
“You really are wise for a nineteen-year-old,” Trevi said.
“And would you believe that the legal drinking age in Ottawa is nineteen?” the kid asked with a smile.
“Drinks for Jimbo!” Trevi called, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. “Who’s with me?” He let Jimbo pick the beer, and ordered another pitcher. Then he slapped O’Doul on the back. “So what’s your strategy?”
“My strategy?”
“Wait her out or find someone else?”
But I don’t want anyone else. “I’m just going to give her some space. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping she’d change her mind. Pretty sure it won’t happen, though.”
Trevi looked thoughtful. “You still have a chance. Women are complicated. Let me give you an example. My girl doesn’t like to shop. But in a store, she still takes a long time, evaluating all the pros and cons of the features or what-the-fuck-ever.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Women make decisions differently. How do you choose a coffeemaker?”
O’Doul shrugged. “I point to one that looks good. Then I just buy it.”
“Exactly.”
“So? What does that have to do with Ari?” He hated it when College Boy got all metaphorical.
“Maybe she already found the model she wants, but she has to walk out of the store one time just to be sure she knows her own mind.”
O’Doul grunted. “I don’t know. If I walk in to buy a coffeemaker, I’m leaving with a coffeemaker.”
“That’s my point. You’re leaving with a coffeemaker because you have a dick.”
“Wait—” Castro held up a hand. “Who left his dick in the coffeemaker?”
“Check, please,” O’Doul said, lifting a hand to the barkeep. Trevi burst out laughing.
TWENTY-FOUR
SATURDAY, MARCH 26TH
With Becca and Georgia, from a seat behind the penalty box, Ari watched every minute of the Ottawa game with her heart in her mouth.
Late-season tension gripped the crowd, and the game seemed to happen at top speed, the puck flying with even more velocity than normal.
Her eyes followed Patrick everywhere. She could pretend her interest was based on concern for his iliopsoas muscles, but that would be a lie. He’d gotten under her skin. As she watched him fly by on the ice, looking as fit and energetic as she’d ever seen him, she felt a tug.
I just told him no, she reminded herself.
In the third period, Ari had the thrill of watching Patrick score against Ottawa. It was a beautiful shot, too. A wrister that Trevi had passed backward to keep it away from the other team’s defenseman. It flew right to the tape on Patrick’s stick. A nanosecond later he’d sent it flying over the goalie’s knee pads straight into the corner of the net.
Leaping from her seat, she screamed, as both Becca and Georgia grabbed her into a hug.
The score was 3–1 in favor of Brooklyn, with the clock winding down.
The other team’s response was to use their time-out, of course, and then to pick a fight. Ari tensed when she saw the other team’s enforcer getting chippy during the next two face-offs. But it was Crikey who ultimately threw down his gloves. His tussle with the other guy wasn’t flashy or even decisive. But it didn’t last too long, and Crikey seemed to only shake out his fist before the refs finally pulled them apart.
Ari let out a sigh of relief, and wondered if Patrick did the same.
“We are going to have to celebrate after this is over,” Becca said, collapsing back into her seat.
“There are still three minutes on the clock,” Georgia chided her. “Don’t you dare jinx us.”
“It’s going to be fine,” Becca argued. “We’ve got this.”
Georgia clamped a hand over her mouth and yelled toward the rafters. “She didn’t mean it, god! Don’t punish us.”
Ari snickered. Her two friends were a walking dialectic about superstition. Ari didn’t know which camp she was in, either. Could fate be tempted into smacking you down? She hoped not. Because that would mean she had seriously pissed off fate somehow lately.
Whether fate gave a damn or not, the clock still read 3–1 when the final buzzer sounded a few minutes later. Brooklyn had two game points to take back with them on the jet tonight.
“Now can we celebrate?” Becca whined.
“Sure,” Georgia said. “I’ll spring for overpriced drinks at the airport bar before takeoff.”
* * *
Two hours later they were sipping wine out of plastic cups in front of a fake fireplace in the charter terminal of the airport.
“So let me get this straight.” Becca held her cup up. “You told Doulie you wanted to be friends, and he was okay with that?”
Ari took a slow sip. “He was really nice about it,” she admitted. “So nice that I suspect he has a secret plan to change my mind. He knows that each time he tries to remove my clothing, I always shed it like a long-haired cat on a pair of black velvet pants.”
Georgia giggled. “You sound like you want him to change it.”
“I’ve made up my mind, but my body didn’t get the memo,” Ari confessed. “When I told him I needed a friend, he hugged me. And he smelled so freaking good I just wanted to climb into the collar of his shirt and stay there forever.”
“That would get weird eventually,” Becca said, draining her cup.
“This from the woman who slept with her knees against my butt last night,” Georgia teased. Since Becca’s addition to the trip had been so last-minute, the travel department didn’t make her a reservation. Becca had roomed with Georgia, and Georgia’s room had one king-sized bed.