“Let’s go, Bec.” I look up to see Castro straightening his tie in front of me. “Beringer has a table at The Tavern. You’re coming, right?”
I push off the wall and follow him, even though my head is still miles away.
He holds the door for Heidi Jo and me, and then Silas—the backup goalie—appears, too. “Uber, cab, or walk?”
“Walk,” I say immediately. The Tavern isn’t very far away, and I need to clear my head.
“Sounds good,” Silas says, and we start off down the sidewalk.
“That sure sucked for the bossman,” Castro says as we reach the corner. “Wouldn’t want the whole world knowing my ex dumped me for a meathead like Palacio.”
“People say he’s a dick,” Heidi Jo chimes in.
“Bec, did you know her?” Silas asks.
We wait to cross Atlantic Avenue, and I consider the question. “A little. Spoke to her on the phone a couple times a day. Saw her once or twice a week. But just small talk, you know? Shocked the hell out of me when they broke up.”
“You’re a pretty good judge of character,” Castro says. “You liked her?”
“Nope,” I say immediately. “But I can’t even say why.”
Heidi Jo smirks, and I give her a look of warning.
“Nate’s prolly hitting the whiskey tonight,” Castro says. “Bet he won’t turn up at the bar, though. Not after that bullshit. Everyone knows how much he hates Dallas; now we know why.”
My heart sinks. “Because Dallas is smug,” I argue. “If Nate wanted revenge on a guy, you really think buying a team is an efficient strategy? He’d probably just make the guy’s phone run at a quarter the normal speed, or write a script that gave him zits in every photo on the internet.”
My three friends burst out laughing.
But I wasn’t joking. And I can’t stand the idea of Nate brooding in his empty house alone. “You know, I think I’m too wiped for The Tavern. I’ll see you guys later?”
“Want us to walk you home?” Castro asks, always the gentleman.
“Nope, I’m good!” I say cheerily. I back away from them slowly. Nothing to see here.
Heidi Jo chuckles. “Get some rest.” She winks.
I turn and jog down Atlantic, toward the Promenade.
27
Nate
June 10, Brooklyn
My den is dark as I enter the room. But the moment I walk in, soft lighting switches on.
“Hullo, Master Nate,” Bingley says. “Would you like the television?”
“God, no.” Given the press conference debacle, I may never watch again. “Pour me a Scotch, would you?”
“Sorry, sir. I have not the talent which some people possess. That is beyond my capabilities.”
“I know, Bingley. Just wondered what you’d say.” Just another night in singlesville, joking with a bot. Party on. Good thing there’s a hidden bar in the corner of this room. I open a walnut cabinet and take out a glass and a bottle of Macallan 18. I pour myself two fingers of Scotch and kick off my shoes.
Then I sit down and take a sip. It burns going down.
I shouldn’t care what’s written about me in some rag of a newspaper. Whether we win the Cup or not, the hockey team is a labor of love. People said I couldn’t turn the franchise around. And yet I did exactly that with good management and great coaching. And I did it in two short years.
They were floundering before I bought the team. And now they’re not. The end.
But the article stings. Juliet left me for an athlete, and I don’t want people to read that and laugh.
My phone rings in my pocket—my mother’s ringtone. I ignore it. She’ll say nice things to me, but I don’t want to hear them. But she starts texting me anyway.
What just happened? Do you think this is Juliet’s work?
I doubt it, but my mother never liked her.
I’m booking flights to Dallas, she says a moment later. We want to be there for you at game five.
My phone goes back into my pocket. I’m too tired to engage. The couch beckons, and I lie back, resting my Scotch on my belly, like Homer Simpson would do.
My publicist—Georgia—is miffed that I didn’t warn her, too. She called me while I was in the car on my way home. “I could have prevented that,” she said. “You need to let me protect you.”
“Lesson learned,” I grunted before we hung up.
What a stupid night. I should just turn in early and hope tomorrow is less humiliating.
But first, Scotch. I sip it and try to look objectively at my life. I have the most fulfilling job a man could ask for, and a successful sports team. That ought to be enough, right?
“Sir,” Bingley says suddenly. “Rebecca would like to know if she can call on you.”
I groan, because I don’t know if I can put on my game face right now, and I don’t want her to see me feeling so low. “Would you tell her that now is not a good time?”
“All right,” Bingley replies. “I’ll send her home.”
“Wait.” I set down my glass. “She’s here?”
“On the front steps, sir.”
“Fine, send her up,” I say before I can reconsider.
A few seconds later I hear her footsteps on the stairs, and my heart rate accelerates. I can’t help it, and I’m not even sure I care. Rebecca will always have that pull on me.
She glides in a minute later, heading straight for the couch. She plunks down beside my feet and sets a bag and a lime down on the table. Then she fishes a bottle out of her handbag and sets that down with a thunk. “So. Cat tacos?”
I blink.
She bites her lip.
“Wait.” I sit up. “Did you bring me empanadas and tequila?”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “It’s nothing, really, but…”
I interrupt her. “Do you know I love you?”
Her mouth slams shut and her eyes get damp. “No. I didn’t.”
“It’s true, Bec. I’ve got it bad. And that shitty little story about Juliet and me is a bummer, but it’s really no big deal.”
“I didn’t know,” she says, wiping her eyes. “About Juliet and Dallas.”
Oh. “Really?” I assumed she was well versed in my humiliations.
She shakes her head. “Didn’t have a clue. But I realized something important on the way over here. You asked me to sit with you in Dallas. And I said no because people would see us together and know we’re a thing.”
“Right. I get it, Bec.”
She shakes her head. “But I didn’t get it. You knew they’d see how it was. And you still wanted me there.”
“Of course.” I’m really not sure what she’s saying.
“You didn’t care that people would say, ‘Oh, Nate is dating his secretary.’”
“Office manager,” I correct.
She rolls her eyes. Then she grabs the tequila bottle and twists off the sealed top. Her trusty pocketknife comes out of her jacket pocket, and she cuts a lime on a coaster. “Glasses? Or are we going in straight from the bottle, just like old times?”
I fetch two more glasses from the cabinet because I want Bec to be able to see how much tequila she’s drinking. Because I can’t stop myself from worrying about the woman I love.
I do love her. I can admit that now.
She pours a shot into each glass and hands me one. “I’m sorry,” she says, meeting my eyes. “You wanted me beside you and I said no. It’s just that I didn’t really believe it. I thought you’d want another Juliet or Alex. Someone who’s more…” She frowns. “More than me.”
“There is nobody more than you. Nobody funnier. Nobody with a better attitude. Nobody more loyal. Nobody sexier. That’s for damn sure.” I clink my glass against hers and then drink the tequila down.
She doesn’t drink hers. She just stares at me.
“What?”
“I love you, too,” she says, and my heart skips an entire beat. Becca tosses back her shot. It makes her eyes water, so she grabs a lime we
dge and sucks on it, her pretty eyes regarding me as her lips purse. “I’m about to get insta-drunk, so please note that I said that while I was still sober.”
I’m still reeling, but I laugh immediately. “Insta-drunk?”
“Yup. I’m allowed to drink again. But my tolerance is gone.”
“Then get over here and kiss me before the tequila hits your motor skills.”
Becca launches herself into my lap so quickly that I almost lose my balance. But I wrap my arms around her and hold on tight. She gives me a limey kiss, and I smile against her lips.
“I’m sorry,” she says between kisses. “I’m sorry I yelled. Sorry I got all crazy about the medical bills.”
She had a good point about those, though, that I really should have talked to her about it first. I’ll say so later, but right now I’m too busy licking into her mouth and showing her how much I’ve missed her.
Becca returns the sentiment with bottomless kisses, her body pressed tightly to mine.
My hands coast down the knit fabric of her purple game-night dress. “Mmm,” I mumble against her lips. Time for make-up sex right here on the sofa. I lift her dress and cup her ass. It’s June, so she’s not wearing stockings. I fucking love summertime. My palm meets only lacy panties and skin.
Becca moans, her fingers sifting through my hair.
“Unzip me,” I demand.
Her fingers find my fly, and I suck gently on her neck while she works to free my cock. Swear to God I’m going to have leisurely sex with this woman someday. But it never seems like the right time to go slow. Sex with Rebecca is usually fast and frantic and I think we both like it that way.
Smooth fingers dip into my boxers and stroke me.
“Fuck, yeah.” I slip a finger under the gusset of her panties and groan. She’s so soft. And as I tease her, my fingers are quickly slicked with wetness.
Fast and frantic it is, then.
“Lose the panties,” I order, giving them a tug.
She straightens up only long enough to help me get them off her.
“That’s my girl,” I pant. I yank my pants down a few crucial inches, and my cock salutes her like a soldier reporting for duty.
Becca reaches for the buttons on my shirt, but I’m all out of patience. I pull her onto my body, and she ends up kneeling over me, one smooth knee at either side. So I take my cock in hand, line myself up, and then pull her down, impaling her.
“Oh,” she whimpers. “Yesssss.”
I shut her up with a kiss that’s all tongue and ambition. Pushing up her dress, I find a lacy bra beneath, and it makes me groan. So I toss the dress aside and drink her in. “You are fucking perfect,” I say, my hips rocking, my hands wandering. “And so sexy I want to lose my mind.”
“Lose it, then,” she says, her voice thickened with desire. She puts her hands on my shoulders and begins to move.
And it’s perfect.
* * *
We eat reheated empanadas in my bed at two a.m.
“So. Have you seen her?” Becca asks, licking a bit of grease off her fingertip. She’s wearing my Star Trek T-shirt and looking so cute that I want to fuck her all over again.
“Who?” I ask, distracted by the site of her tits straining the Starship Enterprise.
“You’re joking, right? Juliet.”
But I wasn’t kidding at all. Having Becca back in my arms made me forget the night’s troubles. “No. I haven’t. But why would I, right? The teams don’t really mingle.”
“Thank God.”
I shrug. “Still have to look at Bart’s ugly ass during every game. With three goals he’s the high-scorer so far for this series. I want to run him down with the Zamboni.”
“Do you think he’s still a vegan?” She gives me a cheeky smile.
“How do you even remember that?” I’d blocked out everything from that time in my life. Except for my rage.
“We were snarking about the fact that he was a shitty dinner date. I remember everything about that night, including rolling you into a taxi after we got drunk. I had the spins on the subway on the way home.”
“Seems like a hundred years ago.” Because now I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t Becca that I wanted in my bed. “Would it be too optimistic of me to ask if you’d consider joining me for game five in Dallas?”
Her expression softens. She sets her plate aside. “I would be delighted to be your date for game five. Except I won’t be there. Earlier tonight I told Heidi Jo that she was going to Dallas in my place, because I finally went back to therapy and Dr. Armitage wants to see me on Monday morning.”
I resist the urge to comment on her return to therapy, though I’m pleased. “It doesn’t matter if you’re not on the team jet,” I argue. “I’m flying out on the Gulfstream Monday afternoon. You’d come with me. And not to work. This would be a date. If you’re ready for that. But no pressure.”
Rebecca’s eyes widen. She lets out a breath. “Well, okay. It’s on.”
“You can think about it,” I say quietly. “If you’re not ready, I’ll understand.”
“I want to go,” she says firmly. “I’m all in if you are.”
I lean in, bridging the distance between us, and kiss her neck. It’s another hour before we get to sleep.
28
Rebecca
June 13, New York
Nate and I carry on like horny teenagers all weekend in private. But then Monday arrives, as it always does. After my doctor’s appointment I have a few hours to myself before I have to meet Nate at LaGuardia for the flight to Dallas.
Cue the fashion crisis.
I find myself in Bloomingdale’s, wondering what Nate’s game-day arm candy is supposed to wear. Every time the TV camera cuts to Nate for a reaction, I’ll be visible. Or half visible. One boob or the other is going to be on prime time.
I ask to try on every silk scarf that has any Brooklyn Bruisers purple in it. Staring in the mirror, I reject each one in turn. I never wear scarves, because they make my chest look more voluminous than it already is.
I shouldn’t be having this fashion crisis. I shouldn’t care that TV cameras will zoom in on Nate and his companions whenever Brooklyn scores. I shouldn’t wonder what Nate’s girlfriend ought to look like. But it’s hard not to compare myself to toned, blond Juliet, fitness trainer to the stars.
And dating Nate can’t turn me into someone who looks good in scarves.
Leaving the frustrated sales girl behind, I take the escalator up to the designer floor I rarely visit. I do a lap, but everything is too summery for the rink. Until I spy a corner where off-season things are discounted. And I find—no lie—cashmere cardigans. There aren’t as many as in the dream I was having when Nate woke me up on that fateful night in Florida. But I don’t need hundreds; I only need one.
And I find one in just the right eggplant shade of purple.
It’s fate, so I have to buy it. Besides, my credit card bill is nearly zero, since Nate wiped away my medical debt.
Also, because I’m me, I can’t leave the store without visiting the lingerie department. I wander the aisles wondering which scraps of satin or lace will give Nate that expression he gets when I undress—like a dog with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. I find some lace panties in a creamy pink that conceal nothing, and a matching bra.
Then I go home to primp and pack.
* * *
I thought it would be odd to fly with Nate as his date instead of his assistant, but it isn’t. Not yet, anyway. For starters, Lauren is with us. This was unplanned, but it turns out that she’s been carrying on with Beacon, the goalie, and asked Nate if she could ride along to watch the game.
“We can finish these reports during the flight,” she said, setting up her laptop on the Gulfstream’s table.
“You go nuts, girl,” I say, taking one of the wide leather reclining seats. I haven’t explained my presence to Lauren, and Nate hasn’t either. I wonder how long it will take her to ask.
Wit
h Lauren’s back to us, Nate runs a hand over my hair. He gives me a secretive smile and goes to sit across from her.
I spend the flight flipping through a Vanity Fair magazine and feeling lazy. I can’t remember the last time there was nothing I was supposed to be doing. But when I told Heidi Jo she could manage this overnight to Dallas, I made myself let her handle things no matter what. She’s still gushy and she still talks too much. But somehow she gets things done. My boys are probably in good hands right now. If she has a problem she can’t solve, I’m sure I’ll get a text.
The flight attendant brings me a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice in a crystal glass, and a small bowl of roasted almonds. Then she hands me a beautifully printed card with the Wi-Fi password on it. “Can I get you anything else? There are magazines and books in the seatpocket over here…” She points at the other reclining chair. “And dinner will be served in an hour.”
Fine—so there are one or two little perks to being Nate’s girlfriend. “I’m good for now,” I tell her. “Thank you.”
* * *
When we touch down in Dallas, there’s a stretch limo waiting on the tarmac. That’s how it is traveling with Nate. The car whisks us to the stadium. We hit traffic, but we still pull up to the stadium doors before the puck drops.
The door flies open and Heidi Jo starts talking immediately. She’s babbling about getting an extra hotel room at the last minute for Lauren, and how she had to give the grounds crew a stiff talking to when they changed the ice time schedule for our boys’ warm-up.
But I tune her out when we reach the corporate box, because Nate takes my hand in his and steers me toward a pair of seats in the center front. As if we do this every day.
My heart rate kicks up a notch as I slide my palm against his and squeeze. I’m all in, I’d told him. Let the weirdness begin.
And it does. Right away.
“Rebecca!” Nate’s mother says from the seat next to mine. “How lovely to see you!”
Brooklynaire Page 26
