by Trisha Telep
He grimaced. “Jeez.” Withdrawing the remote, he said gently, “Maybe the problem is you don’t know enough about hockey.”
“Maybe the problem is you don’t know enough about culture.”
“Oh, I know about culture.” He leaned back and shoveled another handful of chips into his mouth.
“Clearly.”
“Just so you know, my girlfriend was all over that stuff. NPR, Colin Firth, cloth napkins – she did it all.”
Cass bit her lip. She’d never considered the fact Danny must have had loved ones. “She must have been devastated when you died.”
He downed a gulp of beer. “Doubtful. We broke up eight years ago. Uh-oh! Couch wave!”
He leaped up, flung his hands in the air and sat down. “Aw, c’mon,” he cried when she didn’t move. “You gotta love a wave.”
She smiled politely and stretched her feet toward the fire.
“Seriously,” he said, sitting down, “let me teach you about hockey.”
He looked so earnest, she couldn’t say no. She closed her book. “All right. You can try. My ex-husband said I was hopeless.”
“Hopeless?” Danny hit the mute button and looked at her. “That’s sort of a jerky thing to say. I hope you reamed him for a load of alimony. No one’s ‘hopeless’. That’s the sort of talk that keeps women from enjoying hockey – and orgasms, for that matter.”
She laughed. “And you’re the perfect teacher, I suppose?”
He gave her a sly look. “Depends what we’re talking about. They do say when the student is ready, the teacher arrives.”
Eyeing him dubiously, she said, “Really?”
“OK, first,” he said, clearing a space on the coffee table, “scoring is the object of the game.”
“Are we talking hockey or orgasms?”
“Both. But it’s harder in hockey.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Next, the rink is divided into three zones—”
“Now, that,” she said, “I’ve actually been looking at. It looks like there are some rules governing movement across the lines that teams have to watch out for.”
“Exactly.” He gave her a concerned look. “You’re not hopeless. Seriously, why would he say that?”
“Oh, he was pretty full of himself sometimes. Frankly, I think he just wanted to watch the game without any interruptions. Hopefully, the year he’s had since I found out he was sleeping with his admin has given him all the alone time he needed.”
Danny’s brows knitted. “Ouch.”
“Yeah, it sucked.” She paused, remembering the whole horrible time. “You know, it’s funny. I was so furious when it happened. I ordered him out of the house. I filed for divorce the next day. I was like some sort of superhero – a Terminator Ice Princess or something. I just assumed my fury would carry me forever. But then the anger wore off, and life carried on, and I know I did the right thing – totally sure of that – but it’s been hard. Harder than I expected.” She traced her finger over the base of her wine glass, struggling against the rising vulnerability. “I need the Terminator Ice Princess back.”
“And there’s your hockey team name.” He reached out to pat her, but his hand went right through her skin, leaving a strange, warm tingle in its wake.
“That was weird.” She met his eyes and saw his cheeks had reddened. “What?”
“I keep forgetting,” he said. “No mass.”
“What do you mean? You can hold a beer can. You eat. You drink. What gives?”
He sighed. “For whatever reason, the lords of the afterlife have decided we ghosts can handle inanimate objects, but not living, breathing ones.”
She thought of her near fall. “Is that why it felt so weird when you caught me on the stairs the other day?”
“Yes. I had to jam myself in front of the box in your arms.”
“Interesting. By the way, your team name? Lord of the Afterlife. Put out your hand.”
He did it with obvious reluctance.
She swiped her hand through his once then twice. Each time the same magnetic pulse fluttered through her. It was almost like the feeling you get when you’re on a good date and sitting close enough to feel the electricity that comes from anticipating what’s next. She wondered if he was getting the same feeling. She couldn’t tell by his eyes, which seemed to be unexpectedly guarded.
“Tell me,” she said, gaze flicking to the screen, “what’s a hat-trick?”
He jerked his head toward the TV, where a plethora of hats lay strewn across the ice. “Oh, crap! Did I miss Crosby’s hat-trick?”
She unmuted the sound for him. “Well, you missed something, and the word ‘hat-trick’ was definitely on the screen.”
He watched the replay, face glowing with excitement. “God, what a player.”
“It’s kind of funny they do that,” she said, indicating the tossing of the hats. “What is a hat-trick exactly?”
“Three goals in a single game by one player.” He seemed to realize he’d abandoned his teaching and hit the mute button again. “It doesn’t happen all that often. I think the phrase originated in cricket. Now they talk about it in a lot of sports and it’s come to stand for a bunch of different things, but usually a trio of noteworthy achievements. For example, when Gordie Howe played—” He stopped. “You know Gordie Howe?”
“Four letters. Detroit’s high sticker.”
“Excellent. Well, they called it a Gordie Howe hat-trick when a player scored a goal, an assist and got in a fight, all in the same game.”
“Ha!”
“It’s unofficial, of course. Still.” His eyes twinkled blue. “I’ve always sort of wondered what my hat-trick would be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you need three good things that sort of define you, like the fighting and the scoring for Gordie Howe. I’ve got two. I had a great life. Truly. And I’ve certainly been having a kick-ass death. I’ve just got to find that one last thing. Then trademark the name, of course.”
“The Affable Ghost Hat-trick?”
He groaned.
“By the way, is there any other weird stuff I should know?” she asked. “I think I’ve figured out that I’m the only one who can see you. Took me a while, but when you wandered around in your boxers when I was talking to Mrs Cantor and the only thing she talked about was Misty’s latest round of tapeworm treatments, that pretty much settled it for me.”
“Could mean I need to up the ante on loungewear a bit.”
A cheer rose from the TV, and Danny jumped up, knocking the wine glass to the floor, where it broke, and scattering corn chips from one end of the hearth to the other.
Yes, she thought, because what I need is a ghost in a pair of lurid low-rise striped briefs.
“Listen,” she said, over the blare of the game, “I think I’m going to be hitting the hay. Do you think you can—”
“Teach you tomorrow? Sure. No prob. Watch out for the glass.”
“Thanks.”
Hand cupped over her ear, the woman pressed her eyes closed with an intensity that suggested she was listening to the transmission of the final Enigma codes. The sign on the door read, “Chateau Monica – Astrological Readings, Energy Stones and Potions”, but Cass felt like she had entered a remote outpost of a mental hospital.
Monica pointed her finger slowly in the direction of her customer. “You have come to me today for a love potion.”
“Couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Oh.” She opened her eyes and settled onto the Aeron chair draped with a brown Buddha head throw and an Elmo bed sheet. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, then?”
“I’ve got a ghost I need to get rid of.”
“Friendly or unfriendly?”
“Affable. A little too affable. Like the guy who won’t leave your party, even though you’ve changed into your pajamas and started doing the dishes.”
“Got it.” Monica eyed her wares, which to Cass looked a lot like a Tupper
ware container filled with baggies, and pulled out something that appeared to be black and orange confetti. “The thing about the ghosts we see is they’re stuck. They can only move on by transferring to a corporeal host.”
“A corporeal host?”
“A body. A living body. But that’s death for them. Their own personality is subsumed within the new owner’s. Parts will remain, but for all practical purposes, the person is gone.”
“This guy will never go for it. He likes being here. Near as I can tell, he spends all day sitting on my couch, watching TV.”
“And at night?”
“What do you mean ‘at night’?” Cass asked carefully. “I certainly haven’t given him any reason to find my apartment attractive at night. At least not voluntarily.” She sat up straighter. “Oh, God, I hope you’re not suggesting he bury himself in me.”
An innuendo-laden silence filled the space between them.
“That’s not what I meant,” Cass said hotly. The idea was laughable. But even as the thought entered her head, she recalled the odd, warm tingle as her hand passed through his, and the look in his eyes after. She touched her palm automatically.
“Of course not.” Monica smiled but her eyes lingered on Cass. “Now, this ghost—”
“Danny.”
“Danny, yes. Is he attracted to you?”
“I . . . I . . .” Heat rushed across Cass’s cheeks.
“Let’s assume ‘yes’. You’re attractive. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. It’s a safe bet.”
Sure, Cass thought. Because so many people with good heads on their shoulders find themselves discussing ghosts with Monica, the potion-making astrologer.
“So what we need is . . .” Monica’s fingers fluttered at her lips like a spider spinning a web. Then she stopped. “Do you have a man friend of some sort? Not a great friend, of course, since the idea is to lasso our ghost in then get rid of him, but an acquaintance. The sort you’d be just as happy to kick to the curb.”
She thought of blond-haired Greg. “Maybe. Why?”
“Well, it’s a little on the femme fatale side, but I think you should get Danny to move into him.”
“I’m pretty sure Danny wouldn’t think that was a good idea.” Dumb jock blond meets cranky couch potato. There’d probably be hailstorms where the two spiritual fronts met. Though, she had to admit, it was a rather delicious thought.
“That’s where the femme fatale part comes in.”
“How’s that?”
“You have to make the male friend seem like the only place in the world Danny would want to be.”
“How would I do that?”
“Well, let’s see. The friend would have to be doing something Danny himself would give anything to do. What would that be?” Monica stroked her chin and peeked at Cass from the corner of her eye.
Cass frowned, confused. Suddenly, the horror of what Monica was suggesting became clear. “Oh, no! No, no, no, no! I’m not going to . . . Is that even legal?”
“I’m not suggesting you go all the way,” Monica said. “That wouldn’t be proper. Just make it, er, interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“You know, some . . .” Monica waved a hand in the direction of her voluminous bosom. “And maybe a hand down . . .” A bejeweled finger pointed south.
“Oh, I see. So stripping in front of a man I hardly know and letting him get to third base while a ghost watches, that’s considered proper?”
“I didn’t say it was going to be easy.”
Cass harrumphed. She considered her options, which seemed to consist of a quick brush with pro bono prostitution or a lifetime of couch waves and a rubber wine-glass.
“I’ll do it.”
“I just don’t understand.” Danny chewed a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie and downed the last of his milk. “I thought you didn’t like Greg?”
This was the third time Danny had voiced this particular concern, in varying states of agitation, since she’d broken the news she had invited Greg over for dinner earlier that afternoon.
“I never said I didn’t like him. That was you.” Cass bent over the table, lighting the candles. There was something about knowing you were wearing red lace underwear that made even the most mundane task feel sexy. She’d been wearing Gap cotton panties way too long.
“That must be what I remember. What on earth will you two have to talk about? One suggestion: don’t tackle the crossword.”
“Who said we were going to talk?” She pointed at him. “Ah, ah, ah. If you’re done with that mug, put it in the sink.”
“Normally, I wouldn’t mind. ‘I’m very entrepreneurial, actually. The trouble is, I’m in finance –the money thing is a real interest of mine – so I don’t have all that much time to execute.’”
“Hilarious.”
He carried the mug to the kitchen.
Cass jumped on the opportunity to grab the remote and turn off the TV. When Danny returned, she gave him a pointed look.
“What?” he said. “I certainly hope you don’t expect me to leave.”
“I do.”
“Well, I won’t.”
“Suit yourself.” Or unsuit yourself. She smiled.
The doorbell rang.
“Remember the good old days, when men used to wait at doors to be invited in?” she said.
Danny settled on a bar stool at the counter in front of the kitchen.
She shrugged off her cardigan, revealing the low-cut swing top that grazed all the right places. Before Danny could voice the comment forming on his lips, she opened the door.
Greg broke into a big grin. He was dressed in dark trousers and a brown V-neck cashmere sweater that matched his eyes. “Whoa! You said casual, right? You look like a movie star – like Pamela Anderson or Kim Kardashian or something.”
Danny said, “By ‘movie’, I see we mean ‘sex tape’.”
Cass ignored this. There was something sort of sweet in Greg’s eyes. She regretted having to do this to him. She hoped the potential of a free grope would be enough to offset the punishment of having Danny grafted to him.
After she hung up Greg’s coat, she inclined her head toward the fire. “Should we sit down for a bit before dinner?”
“Sounds great.”
Greg took a step toward the narrow passage between the chair and the couch at the same time she did, and they stopped. Greg laughed. He waved her ahead. “I have to admit I’m a little nervous.”
“Really?”
“I can’t believe you invited me up.”
“Wow,” Danny said. “Any more toe-in-the-sand, and we’ll be picking beach glass out of our teeth.”
“Can I ask you something?” Greg took a seat on the couch.
Danny said, “Do you know all the words?”
“Of course. What?” Cass placed herself as close to Greg as she could.
“Do you mind if I kiss you right now?”
“Jesus, he’s smooth,” Danny said.
“I really want to enjoy our dinner,” Greg added, “and I figure if I can get our goodnight kiss out of the way, I can relax and just really get to know you.”
“That’s so sweet,” Cass said.
“Yeah, right.” Danny walked to the coat rack and began rifling in Greg’s jacket. “It’s so hard to reconcile such sweetness with the, let’s see, one, two, three, four condoms in his pocket.” He held up the length of foil and waved it at her. “Looks like someone’s going to be needing a sitz bath later.”
“I . . . I . . .” Cass gasped as Greg tilted her expertly against the back of the couch and found her mouth. His tongue was thorough, conjuring a wave of hungry desire like someone flipping on a light switch, but his lips were thin and soulless.
“That was nice,” Greg said a moment later, but Cass found herself thinking more about Danny’s faltering breathing than about the kiss.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“More?”
“Yes.”
“Cass, I’m serious.” Danny said. “You’re like six times smarter than he is and twenty times more interesting. You’ll be bored before the soup course is over. I understand you need to get back on the horse, but seriously, is this the saddle you want to get back on?”
It wasn’t. She’d had more than enough dates like this before she met Brian to know where it was leading. But she also wanted her life back.
Greg lowered her onto the couch. On a primal level, he was pushing all the right buttons. Her body responded like a racing car that had been up on blocks, but the feeling didn’t go anywhere near her heart.
Letting out a happy “Mmm,” Greg drew a hand down her hip and clasped her ass.
She thrilled to the touch, but she wished it was someone else’s hand – Danny’s, she realized with a shock.
The moment the thought of Danny entered her head, the racing car jumped to life, roaring from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. She could feel the vibration in every cell.
Greg’s hand snaked up her blouse, and she closed her eyes.
C’mon, Danny. This is it. Your big chance. Show me what it’s like to be in your thrall, to feel those warm, questing hands on me and kiss those full, quirked lips.
Was Danny watching? She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him, the power of his supernatural energy filling the room, palpable bursts of anger and desire that shook her bodily.
Greg brushed her nipple with his thumb. But it was still Greg. Even with her eyes closed, she could tell that. What was it going to take to jerk Danny out of his paranormal bindings?
“Cass, you’re being a fool.”
She growled. The fantasy Danny was much easier to deal with than the real one. “Stuff it, pal.”
Greg flinched.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean you. It’s just something I do sometimes.”
“It is?”
“My therapist is working on it.”
Greg gazed at her uncertainly, and she brought her mouth to his to jump-start things. It took a few seconds, but pretty soon he picked up where he’d left off and so did her imagination. Danny’s hands, Danny’s mouth, Danny’s hard, flexing hips. She had one move left, but Greg anticipated her, lifting her so she straddled his lap and then pulling her blouse off slowly.
