Brooklynaire

by Sarina Bowen

  I help Jimbo bring in the players’ food on carts, since the caterer doesn’t have security access. Most of the players won’t eat much, because game time is only two hours away. But we’ve ordered light refreshments and every kind of beverage. We need our guys fed, happy, and ready to mow down Motown.

  In Brooklyn I don’t carry people’s meals around. But on the road, there’s no room for pulling rank. Even the General Manager of the team will carry hockey gear with the transport team if time is tight.

  The camaraderie is one of the best things about my job. The Bruisers are an awesome organization, and I never want to work anywhere else.

  “Thanks for your help, Bec!” Jimbo says when we reach the little dungeon the home team has assigned for our players’ lounge. “Come grab a sandwich?”

  “I’m good,” I say. “Gotta work out a couple of box office snafus.” There’s always some important person in a snit over tickets.

  When the elevator doors open for me, I find Heidi Jo about to step out. “There you are!” she crows. “I brought you something.”

  “You did?” She beckons me into the elevator, and I push the button for the street level.

  “Here.” She pulls a CVS bag out of her giant purse. There are three things inside: a small box of tampons, which I’d mentioned needing. A stretchy ankle brace and a pair of black tights. “I thought the brace wouldn’t show if you had on dark stockings.”

  I look down at my outfit—a black dress with a waistband in Bruisers purple—and see that it would totally work. “Thank you.” Damn it, Heidi Jo! I’m starting to actually like her.

  “It’s no big deal. How is Mr. Kattenberger today?”

  “Fine, I guess. Can’t imagine what it feels like watching many millions of your dollars on the line as you try to make it into the final round.”

  “I’ll bet it’s not about the money,” my intern muses. “He just wants to win.”

  “Hmm.” The elevator rises slowly while I think that over. I think about money all the time, because I never have quite enough of it. Nate has more money than all but a handful of men in the world. But I’ve always assumed he thinks a lot about it, too. That’s how he got so much in the first place.

  Not caring about money. Is that even possible? I wouldn’t know where to start.

  * * *

  That night I forget about money and everything else for ninety draining minutes while our boys do what needs doing—they win game seven fair and square. Scoring two goals late in the first period, they go on to dominate the whole game.

  As the final buzzer rings, I am shamelessly hugging Heidi Jo and squealing.

  The scoreboard glows with Detroit: 1, Brooklyn, 3. And my boys are going to the finals for the first time in years!

  We run up to the box, where everything is mayhem. Nate is surrounded by well-wishers. Heidi Jo hands me a half glass of champagne, and I drink it with a grin on my face.

  The Cup! My boys could win the whole thing! I loved them even when we didn’t make the playoffs these last two years. But this is so exciting!

  It takes me a couple of minutes of champagne slurping and back-patting to realize that I’m still at work. I get out my phone, jam a finger in my ear, and call the hotel. We’re going to need a private meeting room and some food and drinks for an impromptu celebration.

  The hotel is happy to oblige, because they know we won’t balk when they add twenty-five percent to their already usurious prices for “rush service.”

  “C’mon, rookie,” I say to Heidi Jo. “We have a party to throw. Find us an Uber back to the hotel, and step on it.”

  She delivers. My intern is actually quite competent. When I’m in a good mood, I can admit it.

  But nobody throws an impromptu party like I can. It’s my super power. We don’t plan these things ahead of time because athletes are superstitious.

  Nevertheless, I use the next ninety minutes to negotiate the price of beer and wine and order finger foods for eighty people. Ergo, I am standing amidst a spread of foods, drinks, and players’ families when the bus returns triumphantly from the stadium. When the first players enter the room, Heidi Jo lets out a whoop of joy a little too close to my ear. But it’s hard to blame her perky little ass, because we are all feeling the love tonight.

  “We’re going to Dallas!” someone shouts, and the room erupts in more joy.

  I start handing out champagne flutes, and because this is the specialist of special occasions, I take one for myself.

  “Should you be drinking that?” Heidi Jo asks immediately.

  “Should you be nagging me?” I reply.

  “I guess not. Cheers, then,” she says, and we toast.

  From all the way across the room, I feel Nate’s eyes on me. When I turn around, I find his smile immediately. I raise my glass to him, and he does the same.

  I work the room, congratulating my friends as they get deeper and deeper into their cups. There will be hangovers tomorrow, but coach won’t complain, because they were amazing tonight.

  “Good hustle, Castro,” I say to my buddy.

  In reply, he picks me up and spins me around.

  I give a little shriek of surprise, but he completes several rotations before setting me on my feet. “Hey! Watch the champagne flute,” I complain. I’m clutching his arm with my free hand.

  “I’m just doin’ you a favor,” he teases. “Don’t you have to spin around a lot at those therapy sessions you’re going into debt for?”

  Still holding onto the hockey player, I count the seconds until the dizziness passes. Ugh, it’s not a good number, either. Maybe because I’m tired. And I’ve had at least two glasses of bubbly.

  Or—and I hate this idea—maybe I’m backsliding because I haven’t been to therapy. Not that I’m going back. I’ve already put three thousand dollars worth of therapy sessions on my credit card. I can’t possibly add more. The playoffs have given me a terrific excuse to cancel sessions, too.

  Castro wraps an arm around me and gives me a squeeze. He’s chatting up Silas, the backup goalie, who did an ace job minding the net during the first period tonight. It was one of those rare games when everything went right. Tomorrow all our faces will hurt from smiling so hard.

  That’s when I feel eyes on me again. I glance up, and Nate is frowning at me from only a few feet away. He’s in the midst of a conversation, too. Hugh Major is talking to him with animated hands.

  But Nate’s attention is on me instead. He looks grumpy, which is weird, because tonight went exactly the way he’d hoped.

  I glance down at Castro’s arm, the one slung casually around me. He’s an affectionate guy, and we’re friends. He hugs the other players, too. It’s not sexual.

  It’s just dawning on me that Nate doesn’t see it that way. His eyes are narrowed. He’s ignoring his G.M. to stare lasers at Castro’s hand on my arm.

  Nate is jealous.

  Mind blown.

  Steadier on my feet now, I step out of Castro’s grasp. “You boys need anything? I’m going for a refill.”

  “Nope, I’m good,” Castro says. He actually pats my head. Since he’s a foot taller than I am, it’s not as weird as it sounds.

  I make my way toward the food table and nab a bite-sized quiche. I don’t even want to know what the hotel is charging us for these. I pop it into my mouth and take another one. Wasting them won’t help matters.

  After getting a soda from the bartender, I turn around and find Nate again. His gaze locks on mine, and it’s hungry.

  I shouldn’t stare, but it’s hard to look away. I’ve known him for seven years. And now I’ve touched him everywhere. Hell, I’ve tasted him everywhere. But even so, we are like a math problem I can’t quite grasp. Nate plus Rebecca. He wants me, but I still don’t know why. When he looks across this room full of partygoers, what does he see?

  Because I see a tired office manager whose ankle brace is biting into her foot. She’s a little too short, a little clumsy from a knock on the head, and her tu
mmy is bloated from mini quiches and period cramps.

  Maybe it’s time for bed.

  I give Nate a tiny smile. Then Hugh taps him on the arm to regain his attention, and Nate looks away from me.

  So I take that as my cue to go upstairs to bed.

  23

  Nate & Rebecca

  Nate: I hope you’re sleeping but I just wanted to say that I miss you. I was going to say it as a palindrome but I struck out. I would also like a palindrome for: why are you not in my suite right now?

  Becca: Hi, sailor. Was just dozing off when my phone lit up. I don’t know a goodnight palindrome, either. But are there sexy ones? I mean besides NOT A BANANA BATON.

  Nate: NAOMI, DID I MOAN?

  Becca: Good one. Did you have to Google it?

  Nate: Let’s pretend you didn’t just ask me that. Please.

  Becca: I feel no guilt at Googling them. Found STRAP ON NO PARTS. But it’s only sexual if you have a really dirty mind, like me.

  Nate: Don’t ever change. Love your dirty mind.

  Becca: Also questionable: SIT ON A POTATO PEN, OTIS.

  Nate: Poor Otis. How about, EGAD, NO BONDAGE?

  Becca: Too prudish. I prefer: NO, TIE IT ON.

  Nate: Touché.

  Becca: Thank you.

  Nate: Horny now.

  Becca: Sorry. I know wordplay gets you hot.

  Nate: Rawr. It does. But so do you. Where are you? I could sneak into your hotel room. Some day I don’t want to sneak.

  Becca: …

  Nate: Hey. Don’t freak. I’m not complaining.

  Becca: I’m not freaking. I’m thinking. Remember that most people think more slowly than you. My brain needs time to figure things out, like the rest of us mortals.

  Nate: I love your brain. And also your boobs.

  Becca: It’s good to diversify. I love your brain. And also your tongue.

  Nate: Unngh. Come upstairs. DENNIS AND EDNA SINNED. There’s your sexy palindrome.

  Becca: I’m not upstairs with you because I’m not on the roster right now. I’m on the injured reserve list right now.

  Nate: What? You’re injured? What happened? I thought you were limping earlier.

  Becca: No! I was using a sports metaphor. I’m fine.

  Nate: Then…? Metaphor? What?

  * * *

  Nate

  My phone rings in my hand. “Hello?”

  “Hi.”

  Just that one word in Rebecca’s breathy voice gets me hard. I’m such a goner for her. “Hi yourself. Now tell me what’s the problem?”

  “Nothing is wrong. It’s just…I have my period. Sex is off the table, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” Everything makes more sense now.

  “Thank you for being dense once in a while. It makes you more normal.”

  “Normal is really overrated,” I grumble.

  “I suppose. Congratulations, Nate. I know you’re pumped up about this chance to smash Dallas.”

  “Thanks. But you know I always feel like a heel when people congratulate me.” I shift in the bed, wishing we were having this conversation in person.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t score any of those goals tonight. And I’m not the coach. I’m just the wallet behind it.”

  Becca is silent for a second. “I know what you mean. But you built the team that made it happen. You and Hugh. And you did it for Brooklyn. The bars must be pretty packed tonight. The bartenders probably appreciate it most, now that I think about it.”

  “Hmm.” It’s a generous viewpoint. But she’s right on a couple of counts. I wanted Brooklyn to have a hockey team, and our team gives back a lot to Brooklyn charities.

  “Nate?”

  “Yes, Bec?”

  “Did it piss you off when I was talking to Castro?”

  Oh. “You never piss me off. I don’t like to see his hands on you, though. If that makes me a caveman, I’m sorry. He has a thing for you.”

  “We’re just friends.”

  “I know. But he’d take that shot if he could.”

  “He propositioned me once.”

  This gets my full attention. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Just once. I told him I could never date a player, and that was the end of it.”

  “Were you tempted?” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “Never mind. I retract the question.”

  “Not much,” she answers anyway. “I mean—Castro is a cutie, and he’s genuinely nice. But it just wasn’t worth exploring. I can either be the office manager that players listen to, or the office manager that seems like she’s only there to ogle the players. Women don’t get the benefit of the doubt.”

  This shuts me up, because it makes more sense than I care to admit. “Bec?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s funny how I really couldn’t understand until just this minute. When you used Castro as an example instead of me.”

  “Ah.” I can feel her smile even though I can’t see it.

  “I get it now. I understand why you’re reluctant.”

  “It’s worse, you know. Doing the boss. The optics stink.”

  “Except the team already trusts you.” Becca is loved by everyone, and respected, too.

  “Sure, but we have new people all the time. To them I’m gossip at best or a spy. ‘Watch what you say to her, she’s sleeping with the owner.’”

  I make an unhappy noise. “But you’re doing it anyway. Why?”

  “No idea,” she says immediately. “Maybe because you’re irresistible.”

  “You flatter me,” I say. But I don’t know if she hears it, because my phone dies. There’s a beep and then the screen goes black.

  Shit.

  I jump up and plug it in. But fuck it. Becca thinks I just hung up on her, so that won’t do. I throw on some sweats, shove my feet in my shoes and grab my key card. Then I head for the elevator.

  Becca’s room number is 805. I saw it on the travel manifest when the travel coordinator was looking up mine. I’m tiptoeing down the eighth floor corridor when the door opens and she steps out, wearing sweats and carrying her key card.

  I wave. Her eyes widen and then she grins.

  Reversing course, Becca goes back into her room. I follow, close the door behind me, and then guide her back toward the bed, where I fall on top of her and kiss her.

  “Did your phone die?” she asks against my lips.

  “Yes.” I kiss her nose. “But I wasn’t done talking to you.”

  “You’re going to ruin my reputation.” She says this, but she’s grabbing my ass with both hands.

  “First of all, I’ll leave at hung-over-o’clock. No player is getting up before seven. Secondly, I have a ready excuse if someone sees me leaving your room.” I kiss her jaw. She tastes like candy. I don’t want to stop.

  “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “This terrific excuse for why you’re leaving my room in the morning.”

  “I just had to see the playoffs budget in sweatpants with sex hair.”

  She buries her face in my neck and laughs. “You won’t have sex hair, remember?”

  I climb further on the bed. “Snuggle hair. Bedhead. Whatever. Get under the covers.” I sit up and remove my shirt.

  She does the same thing, and I’m treated to another one of Becca’s silky teddies. This one is red with a deep V in the front, showing off her cleavage.

  Annnnd I’m hard. “You have the best underwear.”

  Removing her sweatpants, she takes the elastic of her panties between two fingers and snaps it onto her own hip. “Cotton panties during shark week, though. You left your palatial suite for nothing.”

  “That is not true.” I pull back the comforter and kick off my sweatpants. I get into the bed, but there’s a problem. “I’m on the wrong side.”

  “You have a side?”

  “Left-handed guy on the left.” I push her back against the pillows and climb over her body, which makes her giggle.
Then I shut out the light on my side and lie down, my arms open. “Come here.”

  She turns off the other lamp and then tucks her body against mine, allowing me to fold her into my arms.

  “That’s better,” I whisper. “This is what I came for.”

  “Okay.” Rebecca snuggles closer and sighs.

  “You don’t trust me yet,” I whisper. Then I kiss her on the temple. “But you will.”

  “I trust you,” she argues.

  “You trust me not to be a dick. You trust me with my dick.” She smiles. “But you don’t think you could love me.”

  She goes still in my arms. “I didn’t say that. I never said that.”

  I wouldn’t blame her if she did. I’m not an easy man. But my gut tells me our problems are different than the ones I had with Juliet. “Maybe you think I couldn’t love you. Is that it?”

  “Maybe,” she whispers.

  “Why?”

  “Because we are so different.” She’s speaking so quietly I almost can’t hear.

  “I don’t like shopping at Bloomingdale’s. But otherwise we like a lot of the same things. Alien movies. Street food. Let’s not forget hockey.”

  “Nate,” she says quietly. “Don’t be dense. You’re a genius and an Ivy League grad. And the head of a Fortune 500 company. I’m not.”

  “There is nothing stupid about you, though. Not one thing. And leaving school wasn’t your fault.”

  She doesn’t say a word, which doesn’t say much for my debating skills.

  “Look, Bec. I don’t have a PowerPoint to explain why I need you. I just do. I have for a while now, but apparently I’m not the sharpest scalpel on the tray after all, because it took me too long to say so. But here I am in your bed. I came downstairs because I like your smile and I wanted to see it before I went to sleep. And I’d like to do that as often as I can, if you’ll let me…”

  This rambling sermon is cut off when Becca pushes up on an elbow and kisses me. And it’s a good one. Soft lips come down over mine, and she sighs sweetly as she fits our mouths more firmly together.

  Parting my lips beneath hers, I invite her in. She accepts, kissing me very, very thoroughly. My Becca might be conflicted, but she’s not indifferent. I run my hands down her silky nighty, wishing I could peel it off of her. Her curves beckon, and it’s difficult to behave myself. The struggle is real.