by Snow, Wylie
“Broke me down, my ass! He threatened to tell the world that I confessed to jacking off with my medal every night before bed if I didn’t do his little Q and A, knowing that I’d never go public with a denial.”
“That is such a lie! Clara, don’t believe him. All I said—”
“Not by far!”
“Ah, but there’s poetic justice in this story, Clara. Had Monsieur Bisquet talked to the press before the Olympics, that daft sports announcer likely wouldn’t have mispronounced his name and he’d never have been called The Biscuit.”
Luc rolled his eyes and shook his head, making Clara laugh.
“Well,” Clara said, feeling positively high from being around these two and their spirited banter, “that certainly explains why I couldn’t find out much about him prior to two thousand and two.”
“What do you mean ‘couldn’t find?’ Were you looking?” Luc asked.
Bugger, bugger, bugger! Clara felt her cheeks grow warm. Riley showed sudden interest in his spoon.
“Well, I uh…I may have done a bit of research. You know, to uh…check out whom I was expected to work with.”
“Mm-mm. Find out anything interesting?” Luc asked, looking smug.
“Nothing better than what Mr. Sutter could share, I’m sure.”
Luc laughed and rose. “This is probably a bad time for me to make an exit, but nature demands. Riley, please try to keep me out of the conversation.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t forget to take your ego with you.”
Clara waited until Luc was out of earshot. “I noticed you’re fluent in French.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Why unfortunately? It’s great to know a second language. I wish I did, though my Italian is fairly passable.”
“The unfortunate part is the circumstances under which I learned.”
Clara raised her eyebrows, urging him to explain.
Riley glanced toward the back of the restaurant, toward the restrooms, before continuing. “Luc was in bad shape after the attack. You know about that, right?”
Clara nodded. “A bit. Just what I read in the archives.”
“He was completely devastated when they told him he’d never play again. Imagine never getting to do what you love best, what you’re known for, famous for.”
She could imagine it. Too well.
“This is just between you, me, and his mother, but we were scared he’d do something stupid, you know?”
Clara pressed her lips together and nodded again.
“He wasn’t even trying to walk, said if he couldn’t skate, there was no use walking. He wouldn’t go to rehab, nothing. I’d told him he could come work at BMG, be our hockey analyst. I thought that’d cheer him up, you know, to still be involved in the hockey world.”
“And that’s what did it? That’s what made him feel better?” Clara asked.
“God no. Made him even more ornery. He said, and I quote, ‘The day I write about this fucking game is the day you recite Balzac.’ Do you know who Balzac is?”
“Yes, of course. French author of La Comédie Humaine, The Human Comedy. That was an ironic choice.”
“Exactly. He knew I’d never learn French because I used to make fun of his heritage all the time—in jest, of course.”
“He didn’t expect you to take up the challenge?”
“He sure didn’t. Imagine how pissed he was when I showed up, day after day, to wheel him to his physio sessions with a third-grade French primer in my hand. At first, he ignored me until he got so fed up with my horrible pronunciation, he began correcting me. It went on for weeks, months. The doctors urged me to keep coming because it distracted Luc from being an all-out bastard. Eventually, I was fluent enough to make the offer again, in perfect French, and I threw in a couple lines of Balzac just to make him happy.”
“You did that, for him?” She bit her bottom lip to keep her emotions in check. To have a friend like him... Luc was very lucky. Riley was his Lydia.
“I owed him. It was true, about me being an over-eager new journalist and needing a break. He gave it to me, generously. Oh, we joke about the details, but it’s simple. Luc saw a young player who needed to score a goal in order to stay in the game, if you’ll pardon the analogy. He made it happen.”
“What a brilliant story, Riley,” Clara said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “He gave you an interview, sure, but you mastered another language. That’s a remarkable act of friendship!”
“It was no biggie,” Riley shrugged. “Besides, Luc has no idea that he wasn’t my only French teacher. I hired a really hot tutor and spent hours a night conjugating verbs with her, among other things.”
They were both laughing when Luc returned.
“Okay, what did you tell her?” He eyed Riley suspiciously.
“About those Californian twins we took up to Steamboat Springs back in ’05—”
“Is your Last Will and Testament in order, mon ami?”
“You take yourself far too seriously, frogman.”
Coffee arrived and Riley cleared his throat. Clara felt the mood shift.
“Guys, I gotta be honest with you. I’m not here just to share a meal,” Riley said. “Clara, I’ve already gone over this with Luc, so I’ll give you the short version. Bartel is not a happy man.”
“If I can spare you your lecture, Riley, I’ve already been soundly reamed by Charlie.”
“Listen, I understand neither of you are used to working in a partnership. This is new territory for all of us, and Kingsley has set the bar extremely high. Whatever it is that’s preventing you two from coming together,” he said, clearly not blind to the fact Luc and Clara shared more than a collegial acquaintance, “I wish you’d just put it aside for now and work through this. Technically, you’ve got five more cities after Boston, but if Bartel doesn’t like what he sees tomorrow morning, he’s pulling you both.” With a shrug, he added, “And I can’t predict what will happen after that.”
Clara and Luc shared a glance. She imagined she wore the same petulant expression as he. “So what does he want, exactly? I still don’t know a thing about hockey despite spending half the night reading a For Dummies guide.”
Riley laughed. “What do you need a guide for when you’ve got a big dummy sitting right here?”
Clara exchanged another look with Luc.
“Clara,” Riley said, “hockey’s not rocket science, despite what The Croissant might try and tell you.”
A low growl came from Luc’s throat.
Riley continued, “The little black puck goes in the net. Score. That’s it. Bartel doesn’t want you to give a play-by-play, he doesn’t want you to predict who’ll be in the Stanley Cup. That’s what he has Luc for. He wants a woman’s perspective. He wants your infectious enthusiasm or your scathing commentary, whichever fits, that makes you popular amongst your readers.
“And Luc, no one expects you to know that the garlic overpowered the ginger in the oriental pork. Your readers want to know if the place impressed your date, if the portions were adequate or you had to chase it with a Big Mac. Get it?”
Exchanged glances all around.
Riley poured another sugar packet into his coffee. “Why do I feel like I’m talking to the walls?”
“We get it,” Luc said.
“Yes, Riley, we understand perfectly,” Clara assured him.
“Yeah, I get that you get it. What I don’t get is why you didn’t do that the first time,” Riley said and held up his hand before either of them could interrupt. “No, I don’t want your excuses, I want you to get over whatever is making you two look at each other like sixteen-year-olds caught under the bleachers and make this thing work. All of our jobs are riding on this, in case you didn’t realize.”
Chapter
17
They shared the limo back to the hotel, the mood somewhat lighter than when they left the restaurant.
“We’re going to the bar. You coming?” Riley said to Clara.
She wanted to join them… she wanted to be part of them, their amazing dynamic, like brothers but better, but didn’t dare have another glass of wine on top of the two bottles they’d drunk during dinner lest she do something really stupid, like find herself in the wrong bedroom tonight.
Oh, but she wanted to. It was becoming increasingly difficult to be around Luc, especially charming, fun Luc who played his presence low-key to avoid attracting autograph hounds and squeaking girls. The rules were becoming increasingly difficult to play by.
But really, what harm could be done when Riley was there?
“No, no thanks,” she said before she could talk herself into joining them. “I’m going up to make some notes and succumb to the soaker tub.”
She turned her back and punched the call button with sense of impatience, fighting the urge to turn around and chase after them. Come on! With six elevators to service the guests, could she not hope to expect one would be on the lobby level? Stay strong, stay strong, don’t turn around—
“Clara! Hold up!”
Oh crap. Alright then, one bloody drink—since he insisted.
“Hey,” Riley said, approaching alone, just as an elevator dinged its arrival. “I wanted to ask you a quick question before you disappeared.”
She looked over his shoulder but didn’t see Luc. Puzzled, she asked, “Sure, what’s up?”
“Why don’t we sit down for a sec,” he said, leading her toward the armchairs in the vast lobby.
“I was wondering if you’d heard from Lydia?”
“Lydia? Yes, well… not since I’ve been back in America, no…but we did chat before I left England. Why?”
“I just wondered how she was doing, if she was feeling better.”
Clara leaned forward, unsure of what to make of the direction of this conversation. They were sitting kitty-corner, their knees practically touching. “Feeling better how, Riley? What did she tell you?”
“She didn’t tell me anything,” he said with a shrug. “That’s why I’m asking.”
Clara tucked her hair behind her ears. “Start from the beginning. I think I’m missing something.”
“Did she tell you about that night after you and Luc left us in the bar?”
“She told me you had a terrific time and that’s it, and I didn’t have the opportunity to press her for details,” Clara said. “So I’m reckoning a terrific time didn’t aptly sum up the evening?”
“Okay, wow,” Riley said, pushing his fingers through his blond hair. “Maybe I shouldn’t say anything else. It’s just that, I thought, I mean, I assumed you two were best friends, that she would have said something.”
“First of all, Lydia doesn’t have friends, just accomplices. Her words,” Clara said with a chuckle. “But as far as accomplices go, I’m her closest, dearest, and best. So yes, by everyone else’s standards, we are best friends. That said, Lydia holds a lot in. It sometimes takes her months to confide things that are affecting her. It’s almost as if she has to build a stronghold around her emotions before she can let anything seep out.”
“Huh. That explains it. Partly, anyway.”
“You going to tell me what happened?”
“Yeah. Nothing.”
“What do you mean nothing? Like, you went home, she went to her room, nothing happened?”
“No, like she invited me up to her room, things were going quite well, or so I thought, then she burst into tears. The hysterical kind. I didn’t know what to think—was she hurt, was it something I said, or did—but the odd thing was, she didn’t push me away. She just hung on to me and sobbed.”
Clara’s first instinct, to laugh, came out more of a bark. “But that’s ridiculous, Mr. Sutter. Lydia Truelove does not cry. Ever. Not even when Leo let go the raft in Titanic.”
“I’m afraid she made an exception for me, and I have the mascara-stained shirt to prove it.”
“Oh God,” Clara said, squeezing her eyelids together. Poor Lydia. She put on such a brave fuck-it-all attitude, but she was clearly devastated over losing her job. “What did you do?”
“I just let her cry. What else could I do? I hugged her, told her whatever upset her would be alright. I did ask, by the way, but she just shook her head and kept crying.”
“And how did you two leave it?”
“Well, we didn’t. She eventually fell asleep in my arms. I put her to bed, tucked her in, and tiptoed out before sunrise. I haven’t heard from her since.”
“Did you—”
“And yes, I have tried. I left a phone message and sent a couple of emails. But I was worried because of her…you know. Her addiction.”
“Her addic—what?”
“She kept mumbling about her needles, if she only had her needles, she could deal.”
“Oh bugger, that’s a good one!” Clara tipped her head back and laughed. “And I can see how you would have—oh my, this is rather amusing.”
Riley’s brows pulled together in concern. He must have thought her mad! Clara reached out and grasped his hand. “Thank you, Riley. Thank you for being there for her. I’m embarrassed that, as her best accomplice, I didn’t see how much pain she was in, so caught up was I in my own little drama. But you needn’t worry about Lydia’s addiction. The needles she was referring to were knitting needles.”
“Knitting needles?”
It was probably hard to believe if one didn’t know Lydia well, when all they saw was the fun, party-girl image. “The hardest stuff Lyds will ever put in her body is a double gin and tonic. She’s never even tried marijuana.”
The tight lines that bracketed Riley’s mouth disappeared. He looked nervously around the lobby again, and it occurred to Clara that he probably hadn’t told Luc what had happened that night. It explained why he waited to get her alone.
“Can you at least tell me what caused her to break down like that?” he asked. “I mean, I’ve since learned she left her position, but Lydia’s breakdown, it seemed bigger than that, you know?”
Clara rubbed her lips together. Would it be a betrayal? He’d been so honest about Luc’s story, it seemed she should reciprocate. But if Lydia didn’t want him to know…
“Have you Googled her?”
“No, why? Is there a reason to?”
“The truthful answer is yes. But Riley, I want you to promise me you won’t. At least not until I speak to her first. Can you do that, especially now that I’ve planted the seed? It’s very important, or I wouldn’t ask.”
“She’s not a serial killer, is she? Because I dated one of those once and it just didn’t work out for anyone.”
“No, no absolutely not!” Clara laughed. Riley Sutter was extremely adept at diffusing a tense moment. “But if you asked Lyds that, her answer would be ‘worse!’ I’m afraid our Lydia is second only to yours truly in the drama department.”
“But you will tell me?”
“Yes, but I hope you understand that my loyalty lies with her, first and foremost.”
“I get that. You’re her best accomplice. We have a deal,” he said, squeezing her hand in place of a shake. “There will be no Googling until further notice. Though you know it’s going to kill me.”
“There’s a reason, Riley. Trust me. Because the thing is, once you learn something or see something in the wrong context, you can never take it back. You can pretend to forget, you can pretend to ignore, but it’ll always be there, in your mind’s eye. I don’t want that for Lydia, okay?”
Luc stood in the shadows of the dimly lit piano bar and wondered what Riley and Clara had to say that couldn’t be said in front of him.
He knew Riley wouldn’t trespass on his territory, though he’d be lying if he denied his first instinct was to connect his fist to his best friend’s jaw.
But that didn’t mean that Clara wasn’t falling for Riley. He saw how they were at the restaurant when he’d left them for a few moments. Clara was touching him, just like she was now. A squeeze of his fingers, a tap on the knee that was so precariously close to hers. Whatever they discussed had them vacillating between furrowed brows and laughter from what he could see, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. What was so important that Clara waited in the lobby to waylay Riley? And how did he know she’d be waiting? Had they discussed it at the restaurant, arranged this little tête-à-tête in advance?
Luc ground his back teeth together. He needed to do something, not just sit by and watch. But he couldn’t march out and confront them or he’d look like an ass. No, he had to find a way to reconnect with Clara, to make this a physical game.
Luc downed his drink and turned back to the bar for another.
His head was already spinning; might as well enjoy the experience. He never thought he’d be a wreck over a woman. A girl! He had to get a grip. He had half a mind to call Kingsley Bartel and quit. What kind of hockey analyst couldn’t even step into a fucking arena anyway? He didn’t need hockey anymore. But he did need the girl. He needed that girl.
He had to do something to remind her of them, of the sizzling chemistry they shared. He’d tried playing by her rules, but if it meant losing her interest, losing her, then he needed to rethink his strategy. Years on the ice taught him that he who controlled the puck controlled the game. He needed to take back the control.
Clara stayed in the one-degree-less-than-scalding water and let the massaging jets turn her muscles to jelly. She only got out when it became too much of an effort to keep her lids open.
Towels in American hotels were splendidly big and fluffy, unlike some countries she’d visited, where they gave skimpy linens. She dried her limbs and wrapped it around her head. She brushed, flossed, applied face and body cream, and a swipe of deodorant—not that she needed it for bed, but one didn’t want to reek in one’s dreams. Clara plugged in her blow dryer and pulled the towel from her head, only to realize she’d left her hairbrush in her suitcase. Without a thought, she opened the door and was halfway across the living room when she remembered she was sharing the suite. Oops! A quick look around confirmed she was still very much alone, but she retreated to the bathroom and wrapped the towel around herself, tucking the end firmly between her breasts. She’d have to remember not to make that mistake again.
