Brooklynaire

by Sarina Bowen

  I squeeze him with my body and he makes a noise like a tortured beast. It’s raw and desperate and God knows why that sound makes me climax. But a minute later I’m biting down on my lip to keep quiet as I shudder around him.

  And it’s as if Nate can finally let go of whatever is torturing him. He catches himself on his forearms, and his face falls into my neck. “Fuck,” he whispers, as he slows his thrusts. I feel him clench and shudder. And at last, relax.

  Silence follows. We try to slow our breathing, but it isn’t easy.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his lips against my skin.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I whisper immediately. “That was pretty exciting.”

  “No. I know. I’m…” He curses. “I’m sorry for the trouble I’m about to cause you. And for pinning you to my sofa before explaining myself.”

  With one lazy hand, I smooth down his hair. “How bad could it be after that, right?”

  I wait for his laugh, because Nate always laughs when we’re in bed. He gets lighter, and his smile is boyish.

  But not today. He disengages us with a sigh. Then he actually lifts me to my feet and sets me gently down on the rug. “I made a mess of you.” He smooths my dress. “Your dress is so pretty, too.”

  I look down, having forgotten that I was all dolled up, and that I came here to explain my visit to Manhattan. But now I’m thinking it can wait. “Tell me what’s the matter.” His shirt is askew so I fix it while he tucks his cock away in his trousers.

  “Let’s sit.” He looks at the sofa with an expression of trepidation. “Huh. Come over here.” He grabs one of his visitor chairs and turns it to face the other one.

  I use that moment to grab my panties and yank them on. Locating my shoes, I sit down in one chair.

  We’re face to face, and Nate puts his palms on my knees. “Remember when I said I wasn’t that complicated? Swear to God I thought it was true. I have a confession to make.”

  My stomach rolls, because the look on his face is dire.

  “Alex is two or three months pregnant, and she needs to rule me out.”

  “Pregnant?” I sit back in my chair like I’ve been punched. “With…” I can’t even say it. But I can’t help spitting out what’s on my mind. “I asked if you and Alex were ever a thing. You said you hooked up only once, and I thought you meant in college.”

  His cringe is swift. “It was only once.” He squeezes my knee. “And the timing…that’s what I wanted you to think. Didn’t want you to know how stupid I was one time in March.”

  He didn’t lie, my hopeful heart reminds me. “So you might be having a baby with Alex,” I whisper.

  “There’s a slight chance, but she needed to check. The other guy is much more likely. But he’s also somebody who hit her.”

  My mouth falls open. “That fucker.”

  “Yeah.” Nate licks his lips. “I’m, uh, stunned too. And pissed at myself. It’s not how I would have wanted our first year together to go.”

  “If it’s yours,” I ask. “Then what?”

  Nate shrugs. “I got this news about five minutes before you walked in. No idea what would happen. I’d want to be involved, if that’s what Alex wanted. With the baby. Not Alex. I love you and that won’t ever change.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out. I didn’t hear what Nate said to Alex. I’ll bet it wasn’t an easy discussion. But I’ll bet Nate was kind, and a good friend.

  So I can be that, too, right? Can’t I?

  As much as I loathe the idea of Nate undressing Alex just a few weeks before he started up with me, I can be a grown-up about it.

  “Jeez, slick,” I say. “You screw up once and there’s a paternity test later?”

  “Yeah.” His eyes are still embarrassed. “When I make a mistake, I make a real splash.”

  “Oh, Nate.” I giggle, but it’s probably the stress talking. “I’m sorry. Poor Alex. Poor you.”

  “I’ll be fine. It wouldn’t even shake me up if I weren’t trying hard to convince you I’m a catch.”

  “You are?”

  “Trying to convince you? Always.”

  Aw. “You are a catch. Although if you and Alex end up having a baby together I will be so incredibly jealous.” There, I said it.

  He leans forward and pulls me into a hug. After a kiss on the jaw, he whispers to me. “It’s something I’d much rather do with you.”

  I don’t say anything because we’ve ventured into some heavy territory. But I lean in closer to let him know that the idea appeals to me, too.

  “Becca, it took me seven years to figure out how much I need you. I’m never letting anyone get in the way of that.”

  “It’ll be okay,” I whisper. Although now we have to go into game seven wondering what that paternity test says. “How long will the results take?”

  “Not long. Actually…” He releases me, then leans over to pluck an envelope off the surface of his desk. “Alex left this for you. I almost forgot.” He hands it to me. Inside is a note.

  Rebecca—I owe you a monster apology. I hope you’ll believe me that I’m not usually a raving bitch like I was in Florida. I was terrified to think I might be pregnant, and what that might mean for all the people involved. I took it out on you, and you deserve to know why. The way Nate looks at you is so amazing and rare. He looks at you like he’d walk through fire for you. Most of us never find that, so I hope you can find it in your heart to appreciate it. I’m so sorry to be that extra thing that complicates your lives right now. I hope you can forgive me. —A.

  “What did she say?” Nate asks, watching me with intelligent eyes.

  My throat is tight. “She said she’s sorry. It’s a really nice note.”

  “Hallelujah. Alex has been a good friend to me over the years. I couldn’t take it if she wasn’t nice to you.”

  We’ll see, I think.

  “Want to get coffee?” he asks. “Fuck it. I think I’m going to blow off the rest of my day.”

  “Really? Wow.” It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him say that.

  “Hey—what were you downtown for?” he asks.

  Slowly, I shake my head. “We’ll talk about it another time.”

  “Hit me,” he says. “I can take it.”

  “Well, I’m not pregnant.”

  He smiles. “We could fix that.”

  “You’re hilarious.” I take a deep breath. “Okay. Don’t freak out, but I had a job interview.”

  Nate blinks. “A job? For you?”

  “Yeah,” I say softly. “This job probably isn’t the one for me. Just a random phone call and a quick meeting. But looking around is just something I want to consider.”

  Nate puts his elbows on his knees and drops his forehead into his hands. “Bec, I actually feel worse about this than about the twelve percent chance that I got Alex pregnant.”

  Twelve percent. Trust Nate and Alex to put a precise number on it. “I didn’t say I was quitting for sure. I’m just kicking tires here.” The job interview was a random, sudden thing. I got a call from a guy who might fund a new NWHL team in the tri-state area. It’s pie in the sky at this point.

  But leaving the Bruisers is something I need to consider.

  He looks up. “It’s your whole life. You said so yourself. You love the team.”

  “I know.” I did say that. “But I love you, too. So I just want to think about what else is out there for me—and where I could work where I wasn’t the owner’s girlfriend. I might not make a move; I just want to try on the idea. So I’m telling you now, so you won’t be shocked.”

  Nate reaches a hand out, palm up. I take it. “You do whatever you have to do. I only want you to be happy. But before you lock it down, promise we’ll talk about it again?”

  That’s an easy one. “I promise.”

  “Thanks for being great.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself.” He smiles at me just as Lauren’s voice comes through the intercom, telling him it’s time for his finance meeti
ng.

  “Cancel it,” he says wearily. “I’m not feeling so great and I’m going to head home.”

  “Um…” I can hear the shock in Lauren’s response. “Okay? I’ll tell them.”

  And after tidying up a bit in Nate’s private bathroom, we leave hand in hand.

  31

  Nate

  June 18, Dallas

  People tease me all the time for being a rather stoic watcher of hockey. For not visibly reacting to a great play or a bad call.

  After tonight, they won’t anymore.

  Never in my life have I felt so much like everything was on the line at once. My team. My sanity. My ego. My reputation. Every time we lose the puck I want to punch Dallas in the throat. And every time we get it back, I’m elated.

  “Treviiii!” Rebecca screams beside me. “Man on! Watch your…”

  A Dallas D-man slams him in the back, and the puck shakes loose. I grip Rebecca’s hand as she lets out another little scream, because two opposing players are diving for the puck at once. O’Doul could almost get there. Rebecca practically climbs into my lap with excitement. Our faces are cheek to cheek as we hold our collective breath as O’Doul flips the puck to Castro, who takes a shot...

  We both scream.

  It will be hours before we learn that some lucky photographer snapped a photo at that very second. On newspapers everywhere we’ll stare out, bug-eyed, like a pair of deranged Muppets.

  And neither of us will care much, either. Because the shot bounces off the pipes, denying us the goal that would have put us in the lead.

  The buzzer sounds on the third period of a tie game, and Becca and I are clutching each other. She slides back in her seat and exhales, but I don’t even want to relax before the overtime period. The adrenaline rush is intoxicating.

  I love this. Every second. I’m strapped into this roller coaster and I never want it to end.

  My palm goes to a certain little box in the pocket of my jacket. It’s there, waiting for me. I am not entirely sure that tonight will offer up the right moment for this maneuver. But Rebecca is the right woman and I know I’m not going to wait very much longer.

  Everything dear to me is on the line right now. Everything. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

  Lauren leans over the two of us, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Check your phone, Nate. Alex is trying to reach you.”

  Rebecca’s eyes widen immediately. She’s flushed from the excitement of the game, her lips pink and kissable. “Whip it out,” she whispers. “Let’s see what she has to say.”

  I catch her smooth chin in my hand. “You know I love you, right?”

  She smiles, and I stroke her lip with my thumb. “I know, bossman. Just look at the damned text.”

  Reluctantly I remove my phone from a pocket and unlock it. I touch the messaging app, wondering if I’ll always remember this as the moment when I learned I’d become a father.

  Alex: No relationship. You’re off the hook. My love to Becca.

  “Well,” Becca says quietly. “Poor Alex.”

  I wrap an arm around her, because that’s a generous thing to say, and also because I can’t stop touching her. “Sorry for that drama.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “Your mom is texting you, too.”

  I’d noticed that as well. “She’s watching the game,” I say, stowing my phone. “I’ll get the mom download later. Want a drink?”

  “Sure!” She flashes me a smile. “I’ll have whatever.”

  I get up and find us a couple of sodas. It’s tempting to go downstairs and listen to Coach’s locker-room speech, and get a feel for his overtime strategy. Except I don’t want to be that guy. It’s not the owner’s job to stick his nose in.

  Rebecca is chatting up Stew when I return. I watch her animated face as she talks hockey with my best friend. He looks almost as keyed up as I am.

  I hate the idea of Becca quitting the Bruisers. I barely slept last night, thinking about it. I lay there in bed, listening to Becca’s deep and even breathing, and wondering how to fix the mess I was in. Or part of it, anyway.

  Around dawn I found the answer, and it was so simple I felt like an idiot for not getting there sooner. If Becca couldn’t feel right working for a team I owned, there was one easy way I could fix that.

  We’re going to have a chat about it later. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  I hand her a soda.

  “Where’s mine?” Stew demands.

  I point at the well-stocked bar table and he rolls his eyes before getting up to help himself.

  Play resumes after the ice is cleaned. Twenty minutes of overtime are posted on the clock. Becca watches, white-knuckled, while the players face off.

  And we’re back on the roller coaster. My guys fight hard, and I can hardly breathe. I live for this. It’s a passion and a dream come true. But it’s not my livelihood.

  Rebecca’s hand tightens on my thigh.

  We both lean forward in our seats as Bart Palacio gets the puck out of a scrum against the boards.

  “STOP HIM,” Becca shrieks as he dodges O’Doul to keep control of the puck.

  But nobody gets there in time. I see what will happen with horrifying clarity. It’s Palacio and Beacon, man against man.

  My goalie is the best in the business. His mind is a rapid-fire calculator of hockey physics. He chooses his position based on a lifetime of anticipating forwards like Palacio. But he’s only one man. His defensemen have failed him, and his only choice is to pick the best option and position for a save. He butterflies against a five-hole shot, but Palacio goes for the shoulder instead.

  All my blood stops circulating as the puck flips neatly into the upper corner of the net and then drops behind Beacon.

  The stadium gasps.

  The lamp lights.

  And just like that, the whole thing is over.

  Rebecca and I sit for a moment in stunned silence. That always happens during an overtime loss, when the situation quickly turns in a heartbeat from Anything is Possible to Nope.

  “Oh no,” Becca whispers, hand to her heart. “Goddamn it.”

  I hug her. “So close.”

  “Goddamn it!” she yells. “Palacio! I’m gonna rip off his arms.”

  Below us the Dallas team is rushing the ice, piling up like puppies, gyrating in wild celebration.

  Becca’s eyes get red. “That should have been us. I’m wearing my lucky bra and everything.”

  I watch all those wrong-colored jerseys circle and sway. I pictured this moment a million times, with a purple color scheme. But I’m also analytical to a fault, and when I walked into the stadium today I knew our odds were only a little better than 50%. I’m bummed, but I’m not surprised.

  Becca buries her face in my shoulder, and I stroke her hair, positive that the last few weeks have given me more than they’ve taken away. The little box in my pocket is yelling my name. But even I know better than to propose to a sad woman while I’m still in range of several dozen TV cameras.

  “Let’s go, guys,” Georgia says gently. “Time to go downstairs and smile and show what good sports we are.”

  “Oh joy,” Becca mutters. “Can’t we just sneak out the back?”

  “In a few minutes,” Georgia says. “I’m sure Nate wants to thank his players.”

  That locker room is probably morbidly quiet right now. “Let’s go,” I say, standing up. “The sooner we go downstairs, the sooner we can get the hell out of Dallas.”

  “Now it’s my least favorite city, too,” Becca grumbles.

  Downstairs, I exchange a few pleasantries with the only reporters who bother to speak to the losing team. They’re New York news outlets, of course. “The people of Brooklyn can be really proud of how far we’ve come,” I say. Yada yada yada. Some days you’re meant to read from the loser’s script, and there’s nothing to be done about it.

  Rebecca waits outside the dressing room while I make a pass through there shaking hands. It’s easy to thank these men who�
��ve given so much to the team. “We’ll get ‘em next year,” I say. “Take a nice long vacation. Rest up. Invest in a Dallas dartboard.”

  When I return to the hallway, Becca is flanked by two of my security guys. “Gettin’ rowdy out here,” one of them says, nodding toward the home team’s corridor.

  I’m sure it is. Stadium security gets a little weird after a big win like this. Everyone wants to rub elbows with victory, and their joy overfloweth into our adjacent corridor.

  Due to bad architectural planning, Becca and I will have to wade through the edges of the crowd to get to the players’ exit. Security parts the bystanders to let us pass. But when we reach the doors, we’re told, the car has been chased out of its holding spot, the driver sent to do a lap around the block.

  “We could walk,” Bec suggests. The crowd and the blaring celebration music are a little much.

  “Not this time,” says Gary, tonight’s bodyguard. “Half of Dallas is crowding around the stadium to celebrate. The car’s ETA is four minutes.”

  “Fine,” I say, placing a hand at the small of Rebecca’s back. “Shall we step outside to wait?”

  “Lotta cameras out there,” Gary says.

  The door opens then, proving his point. Fans congregate just beyond the roped-off area. I’m eyeing the crowd so I don’t notice who has just paused to grind out a cigarette under the heel of her high-heeled boot before coming back inside.

  It’s Juliet.

  * * *

  Rebecca

  She appears before me like a bad dream. Nate’s beautiful, intelligent ex, with the golden hair and gym owner’s body.

  Nate’s hand goes still on my back.

  And this is exactly the scenario I’d been dreading. I brace myself to hear her sneer: Nate, you’ve moved up in the world, huh? Dating your secretary? That’s convenient.

  I’m just ramping up into panic mode when I take in a few more details. The lighter in her bony hand, for one. Since when does Juliet smoke? And her grim expression. She looks harder than when I last saw her. Her eyes aren’t happy.