Dirty Player

by Mira Lyn Kelly

  “Baxter, quite a game tonight. That fight in the first get into your head at all?”

  There’s a mic aimed at me and someone with a job much like Julia’s on the other end of it. I think of her and force myself to give a straight answer, to keep my temper in check. To remember, we’re all just doing our jobs.

  Then I go back to my stall and dump my gear. I shower and pass on the guys’ invitation to go out. When I get back to the apartment that hasn’t felt right since Julia stopped sleeping in it with me, I send her another text she won’t read. And wait for the call that won’t come.

  I’m doing the same thing a few nights later when there’s a knock on my door. My heart starts to slam, because with the security in this building, there aren’t a lot of people who have access to my front door. But Julia? She’s one of them.

  I throw on some jeans and whip a T-shirt over my head as I tear down the hall, all the things I need her to hear rushing through my head.

  Apology poised on my tongue, I jerk open the door and—

  “You never call… you never write.” Dressed in jeans and a cashmere coat, Jack Hastings flashes a dry smile.

  Not Julia.

  It feels like I just ran into a brick wall head-on. And then it fucking landed on me.

  “Jack.” I lean into the jamb of the door, letting it hold me up. “What are you doing here?”

  He holds up a six-pack of craft beer, two of which have been replaced with the light beer I usually drink.

  “Wagner’s bringing a pizza.” His hand comes up between us and he narrows his eyes. “I don’t want one fucking word about not being up for it, because I essentially had to move heaven and earth to get him to come out and give Abby a night off from his unrelenting adoration. So all I want from you is a little gratitude, got it?”

  I weigh my options. I’m bigger than Jack—hell, I’m bigger than most everyone. But him, I’ve got beat by five inches and seventy-five pounds of muscle. Which means if I want him out, he’s going.

  Thing is, he owns this building. And if he wants me out, I go.

  Not that he’d do anything like that. Hell, we go back to high school, and on any given day when my heart isn’t fucking torn up like this, we get on good. But today?

  He doesn’t wait for my okay, instead shouldering past me into the apartment with his mismatched beer and good intentions.

  The elevator dings before I can close the door, and then I’ve got Hank pushing into my space too. But at least he’s got a Lou Malnati’s in hand.

  We park it in the living room, Jack sinking into the spot on the couch where Julia sometimes researched the teams she’d be covering that week. I loved the look of her pale legs against the charcoal leather and how she took up even more space than I did when she had all her stuff spread out around her.

  Jack clears his throat. “Dude, mind turning your broken-heart high beams on Hank a minute so I can eat?”

  I wipe a hand over my face and pull it together.

  Hank bites off half his slice and follows it with a long swig of beer. Giving his glasses a shove up his nose, he cuts to the chase. “What are you doing to get her back?”

  “Yeah, because seeing that mopey mug of yours after each game is depressing the shit out of me.” Leave it to Jack to reveal his charitable act as something self-serving. “And dude, every time you blow out onto the ice since all this went down with Julia, it’s like the entire arena shivers, wondering if this is the night you lose your shit.”

  I cut a look at Hank, who gives me a slight shake of his head and an eye roll. “Jack’s exaggerating.”

  “The hell I am.” Pointing a folded slice at Hank, he adds, “You fucking told me yourself, Abby was almost crying when she saw him in the post-game.”

  Hank shoves in another bite big enough to have me wondering if I should do a quick search for Heimlich techniques. Guess we’re leaving it at that.

  I sit forward, elbows on my knees, beer hanging between my hands. “I don’t know what to do. I fucked up.”

  Ten minutes later, they have the broad strokes of what happened and a few of the finer points. People say talking about shit is healing, but all I feel is raw from reliving the mistake that cost me the only thing that matters.

  “I’ve called a hundred times to apologize. Emailed to explain what was going through my head. But she’s blocked my calls, and I can only imagine she’s handling the rest the same way. I want to go over there, but they’ve already pulled her off two games because of the bad press with this situation. The last thing I want to do is make it worse.”

  Jack whistles through his teeth and shakes his head like the situation I’ve presented him with is every bit as futile as it feels. “What we need is to get you a distraction. Someone to take your mind off—”

  “Nope,” Hank cuts in, giving Jack an exasperated look. “Don’t listen to him. Distractions aren’t going to get you any closer to where you want to be.”

  Pretty sure Jack’s talking about another woman, and I’m grateful to Hank for having some sense. The idea of being with anyone but Julia makes me almost as sick as thinking of her with anyone but me.

  Grabbing another piece of pizza, Hank folds it over and eyes it, considering. “She’s more about football than hockey, right?”

  Not exactly the reminder I need right then, but— “Yeah, why?”

  When his eyes come up, they’re as serious as I’ve ever seen them. “Then maybe you ought to start thinking like a football player.”

  I stare at him and then look to Jack, whose WTF face matches my thinking.

  Football? I grab the box of pizza and point to the door. “Get out.”

  21

  Julia

  IT’S ONE OF those moody December days where it’s still too warm to snow and the cloud cover is low enough it hides the tops of the buildings. There’s a gray wash to the city and a damp chill in the air as my cab cuts through downtown. But I could be buried under every blanket I own, and I’d still feel cold.

  It’s been almost two weeks, and all I can think about is Greg. How, for ten years, he would have been the very first person I would call to talk about what was going on with my career. How, even before we were together, he filled a place in my life where no one else quite fit.

  I miss him.

  I miss the friendship I so fiercely protected all those years ago, and I miss the relationship that made me feel whole in a way I’ve never felt before.

  Every day I want to call him, pretend that nothing’s changed and the past two weeks didn’t happen. But then I remember the way he looked leaving. How I felt sitting there waiting for him to come back.

  So stupid.

  Like the worst fool.

  More alone than I’d ever been.

  And so, every day I put the phone down before I do something I’ll regret. I focus on taking the tarnish off my reputation and being ready for getting back on the field… for about ten minutes, until I’m eyeing my phone again.

  There’s another new message this morning.

  Cammy thinks I ought to delete them all. Clear him out completely. But I can’t quite make myself do it.

  My thumb hovers over the voicemail icon.

  I promised I wouldn’t listen, but maybe just one. Just to hear his voice. Maybe it won’t affect me the way it used to.

  Heart racing, I play a message from earlier in the week.

  “Hey beautiful,” he begins with that low rumbling voice that touches every tender part of me. This is a mistake. “Coach’s coffeemaker blew up before practice this morning. I didn’t even know those little single cup machines could do that, but the guy came tearing out of his office like a fucking bear on fire. Little bits of grounds splattered all over his shirt, MFs flying out of his mouth left and right. Obviously, he’s fine. I know you’ll worry about that. But after the way he’s been riding my ass about my attitude—not gonna lie, it was about the funniest damn thing I’ve seen in a long time.” There’s a smile in his tone, but I hear it f
ade with his sigh. “I know you aren’t listening. I know it’s stupid to keep leaving you messages you won’t ever hear. But I can’t help it. I miss talking to you. I miss your smile and your laugh. So like the total wuss I am, I’m calling your voicemail every day to hear your outgoing message and then talking like you’re still listening. Like you’re still my girl. Like I haven’t lost—fuck.” The word grates out rough and so pained, my throat clogs and I have to blink back tears. Then quietly, like he’s no longer talking to me, he says, “I’ve lost everything.”

  There’s silence, and I think maybe he’s just going to hang up. I think it’s the end, and my heart feels like it’s breaking all over again. Like I can’t bear it. But then his throat clears, and he’s back. “Anyway, I hope you’re having a better day than Coach. I love you, Jules. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  The cab pulls to a stop in front of my building, and I quickly wipe at my tear-streaked cheeks. I shouldn’t have listened.

  Because now I want to hear the rest.

  The cabby cranks around in his seat, giving me a dead-eyed stare. Right. Time to get out.

  I head inside the bleached stone mammoth that houses our offices, aching over Greg’s message. Why is he still calling?

  The guys at the security desk wave, and a friend calls my name from across the lobby.

  Why did Greg have to sound so much like I feel?

  I reply to a text from Midge, confirming I can meet with her this afternoon.

  Then I count the messages Greg has left me since that awful night, wondering if he sounds like that in all of them.

  Why is he still fighting for me… when he walked away?

  The elevator doors are sliding closed when one last passenger cuts between them.

  Ugh. Ray.

  “Julie! Glad I caught you. This saves me a call.” His mouth pulls down at the corners. “We need to talk.”

  My skin prickles. I don’t want to talk with Ray right now, but I won’t say no. How can I, when the decision on next week’s game will be made tonight?

  Bracing myself, I follow him back to his office and close the door behind me.

  “It’s close, Julie. Too close.”

  My heart sinks. “They aren’t sure about next week?”

  He lets out a slow breath and waves me toward the seating area in his office. There are boxes and files on all the chairs, leaving only the couch. “Sit. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  I close my eyes. Not today.

  “I’m too antsy to sit, Ray. What’s going on?”

  “They’re still not convinced the situation is stable enough. That viewers will believe you’re grounded, settled. That your judgment can be trusted.” His expression is a mask of sympathy, but I’ve known this man long enough to recognize the calculation in his eyes. “I can help you.”

  My arms cross, and I take a step back. I don’t like the sound of this. “Help me how, Ray?”

  “Be with me, Julie. You need my protection, now more than ever. Have dinner with me tonight.” He steps into the space I just put between us, and dropping his voice, says, “Honey, no one would dare to make a move against you if we were together.”

  Together.

  I swallow past the hot rise of nausea resulting from his offer. I’ve had enough.

  I make myself smile politely at Ray, because I’m a professional, even if he isn’t. “I’m going to pass on your offer. It’s not appropriate. And if the key to my career is tied to who I date instead of the kind of reporting I do—well, then I’m not interested. Thing is, I’m fairly confident, it’s not.” I open the door and glance back. “And Ray, don’t call me honey. My name is Julia.”

  I haven’t felt much more than the ache in my chest since everything fell apart with Greg. But right now, I feel free. I feel proud.

  And I feel like there’s only one person on the planet I want to call and tell.

  Instead, I walk over to reception and book the small conference room for the afternoon. It’s barely bigger than my cube, with bland beige walls and a utilitarian table with two serviceable chairs. Nothing fancy, but more than enough for what I need to do.

  I sit down and cue up the first message. It’s a pleading free flow of panicked apologies for leaving the way he did and urgent explanations about what didn’t happen at that party. It’s heartbreaking, because if I’d heard that message twelve hours before he actually sent it, maybe we wouldn’t be where we are.

  My stomach hurts thinking that.

  Greg panicked and took off, yes. But he wasn’t the only one to run.

  But he was the only one who kept coming back.

  I force myself to keep listening. To hear every word he said to me. It’s painful, but it’s important.

  The message playing must have been from about a week after we broke up.

  He’s sorry. He misses me. He loves me. But there’s more.

  “I never told you about Shelly.” He sounds tired, and I see the time stamp was near two a.m. “It’s not a question, like, ‘Did I tell you?’ I didn’t. But I should have. It wouldn’t make my actions any less shitty, but at least maybe you wouldn’t have had so many questions about why.”

  He tells me about the woman he’d thought he loved, and how she’d been trying to scam her way into a lifetime of child support. How hard it had been waiting to find out if he was a father. And how it had been even harder coming to terms with the fact that she’d been playing him from the start. That nothing about what he’d thought they had or how she’d felt about him had been real.

  It had gone on for months and months, nearly costing him the career he’d sacrificed everything for. There hadn’t been a baby, and it had taken him some time to figure out how he felt about that.

  My heart hurts knowing that he’d had to go through all of that. That anyone could betray him that way is sickening.

  “This probably sounds like making excuses, and you feel like you won’t be able to trust me not to take off on you again. But Julia, you have to understand. Until a week ago, nothing in my life has terrified me like what happened with that woman. But now I know what real fear is. It’s losing you.”

  When I’m able to see past the tears, I read through all the texts and open all the emails. I’d thought the first messages were going to be the hardest. I was wrong. The last ones cut the worst. The ones where Greg sounds resigned to what we had being over… but still hasn’t been able to let go.

  It’s been hours, and I’ve gone through my entire pouch of travel tissues crying, trying to figure out how to make this right. The Slayers play the Bruins tomorrow night. Which means Greg’s probably halfway to Boston already.

  I could call him. But ambushing him when he’s surrounded by his teammates with no way to get away hardly seems fair.

  There’s only the message from this morning left to play, and as it begins, I start pulling up flights to Boston.

  “Julia. This is it. No more calls. So, if I don’t talk to you again… know that I mean it when I say I wish you the very best in life.”

  The air stops moving through my lungs, and my phone clatters to the table.

  Oh God. He’s letting me go.

  Stumbling out of my chair, I sweep my phone and laptop into my oversized bag. My feet can’t move quickly enough as I cut through the halls to the elevator. I’m halfway through the lobby when I hear the sharp sound of my name and swing around to find my boss, red-faced and huffing after me.

  “Bill, I’m sorry, I’m on my way out.” Whatever decision they make about me covering the game, I’ll hear about tomorrow morning.

  “Whoa, slow down a second. I wasn’t expecting you in today, or I would have hunted you down earlier. You doing okay?”

  Chances are good that I look like hell, but it’s the last thing I’m worried about. “I’m fine. I only came in to pull tapes for next week’s games, but I got sidetracked.”

  His head snaps forward, eyes sharp. “Tell me this means you’re up for this week’s game. We’re coming up on
playoffs, and I need my best. Jane doesn’t gel with the game producers the way you do. Honestly, there was some action on the field you would have been on top of that she flat-out missed. I’ve been putting off announcing who was going to cover, hoping you’d be back.” He winces and grinds his teeth before grudgingly adding, “But if you need more time, I’ll give that Bradley kid a shot.”

  If I need more time? What the hell?

  “Bill, I’m absolutely ready for the game. I’ve already done the prep. Thing is, I really need to get to the airport, so I can’t talk to you about this now. I’ll be back in time to fly out with everyone for the pregame prep, but before then, I’ll have to talk to you by phone or email.”

  The color washes from his face. “Interview?”

  “What? No. It’s personal.” I stop and shake my head. I’m through living a half life and pretending the things that matter to me aren’t important. It’s better Bill knows what’s going on, and he can decide how to handle it from there. “I’m going to Boston to see Greg Baxter.”

  He lets out a relieved gust of breath. “Look, I’m all for you kids working it out. But I need you here in Chicago for the next three hours. After that, I’ll pop for the flight to Boston myself. First-class.”

  That’s it?

  I’m still trying to get over my shock about his nonchalance regarding an athlete relationship when the rest registers. Bill’s notoriously cheap, so him covering my flight means whatever this is, it’s big. “What’s going on?”

  Eyes cutting around the lobby, he drops his voice. “Rylan. He’s got an announcement. I’m thinking it’s the shoulder. You were the first one to pick up on it, so you earned the spot. But more importantly, he asked for you specifically. He’s offering an exclusive.”

  If it were anyone other than Mike.

  “Two hours.”

  Bill claps his hands once and nods, grinning at me. “Going to be good having you back, Wesley. No one knows the game like you.”

  I nod and then— “Hey Bill, what gave you the idea I wasn’t up for the games?”