Hard Hitter

by Sarina Bowen

She snorted. “I will. But now let me go so I can grovel to the restaurant for your insta-dinner. Bye.” She hung up on him.

  * * *

  There had never been half so many people in his condo since the day he bought it.

  Trevi had shown up first, given that his commute was only down the hallway. When O’Doul opened the door, the rookie dragged in a beanbag chair in one hand and a case of beer in the other. “You said there weren’t enough chairs,” he said, surveying the big room. “But you’re right—it doesn’t matter. Nice rug. Nice everything.”

  “Thanks,” he said a little stiffly, relieving Trevi of the beer. He wasn’t used to this.

  “Should I run out for paper plates and cups?”

  “You don’t have to. I have a lot of dishes.”

  Trevi dragged his beanbag chair over to the wall and plopped down on it. “Leave the door open for . . .”

  “Hi!” Georgia said from the doorway. “I brought margarita mix. Because I can’t visit this place without drinking tequila. Too bad Ari’s not around tonight to mix it for me.”

  It really was too bad. But Ari would be with her family tonight.

  The buzzer on the wall sounded. When O’Doul pressed the button, the concierge informed him that a handful of players were on their way up. “Thanks,” he said. “There’ll be more, too.”

  It was mayhem after that. There were jackets thrown onto his bed and players leaning on his kitchen counter, unpacking the pizzas. Rebecca had done a nice job of sampling the menu. Each pie had a different combination of toppings.

  Players kept knocking on the door. Everyone took to yelling, “It’s open!”

  O’Doul handed out napkins and beer. Every guy who came through the door had a six-pack, and the collection of bottles on the counter looked like the UN of beers.

  When everyone was finally served and sprawled around his living area like Romans at a banquet, he made a plate for himself. He thought he’d stand at the bar and eat it, but Castro moved down his sofa, opening up a space that was sufficient if not quite as roomy as he would have preferred.

  He sat, though. If he’d gone to the trouble of inviting the whole team into his home, hiding in the kitchen area went against his message.

  The message was hard enough to articulate anyway. He just knew he needed . . . more. More openness. More contact. Sitting there, wedged between his teammates, he wondered if it was too little too late. But Ari had shown him that some of his solitary habits were breakable. She’d speared through a number of them without even trying.

  “Pizza and beer,” Beacon sighed. “There’s no better way to refuel.”

  “This is more relaxing than the bar,” Castro agreed. “But the puck bunnies can’t find me here.”

  “They’re not looking anyway,” Trevi teased him.

  “Shut it, Mr. Engaged,” Castro grumbled. “We don’t all have the perfect girlfriend.”

  “How am I perfect?” Georgia asked from the kitchen. “Make it good or I’ll whisper to the PuckeredUp blog that you have a tiny penis.”

  There was a roar of laughter, and Castro sputtered praise at Georgia, a terrified look on his face.

  “Get over here, Castro,” Jimbo called, waving the PS4 controller in the air. “It’s your turn at Call of Duty.”

  O’Doul got up, too. “Who needs a beer? I’m throwing you all out in ninety minutes, though. Got to get some rest before we fly to Tampa.”

  His guys began to gather up the plates and stack them into his dishwasher. It was the first time he’d ever heard a lot of male chatter and smack talk bouncing off the exposed-brick walls of his condo.

  He kind of liked the sound of it.

  THIRTY-ONE

  FRIDAY, APRIL 1ST

  Standings: 3rd Place

  6 Regular Season Games Remaining

  The team traveled to Tampa and Nashville without Ari. Her contract specified that she would travel with the team at least 85 percent of the time, and her average was already higher than that. So she spent a few days letting her mother fuss over her, and showing Uncle Angelo all the new things in the neighborhood.

  The windows and door that had been broken during her scariest day on earth were all fixed. The fire escape was tuned up, and a newer model ladder was installed, one that was less likely to lead to a break-in.

  On the first day of his visit, Uncle Angelo had told her that the house was to be hers. “It’s yours already, honey.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” was her reply.

  “Say you’ll look after it, that’s all.”

  She thanked him profusely. And after that, she began to look at the place with new eyes. The living room walls might look fabulous in a new color. A creamy yellow, maybe, with contrasting baseboards and molding.

  “Maybe someday you’ll be able to afford to renovate the kitchen,” her mother suggested. “If you took out that wall, opening it up to the dining room, you’d have more light throughout the main floor.”

  “That would look spectacular,” she agreed.

  “When you have children you’ll need a safety gate at the top of the steps,” her mom added. “And maybe a carpet runner on the stairs. They’re a bit slick.”

  “Doesn’t seem like I’ll be needing to worry about that anytime soon,” Ari said.

  Her mother patted her hand. “You never know. You and that Patrick fellow would make pretty babies.”

  “That’s not really on the table,” she said quickly, not wanting to encourage her mother’s fantasy.

  “I don’t know,” her mom argued. “He’d look pretty good on the table. Or up against a wall, or . . .”

  “Mother!”

  She laughed. “Sorry. But with a body like that, a girl could get carried away.”

  Ari blushed. She had indeed gotten carried away. Even now he was never far from her mind. She told herself it was because the team had so much at stake. It felt unnatural to be home in Brooklyn while they were doing battle in the south. She watched both games on television because she couldn’t stay away. They won one and they lost one.

  Every time Patrick skated onto the screen, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. And when he fought a player on Nashville’s team she stopped breathing.

  When it was over he skated away with a bloody cut on his face. After the game she twice picked up the phone to call him and then set it down again. She didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. They weren’t together, and she was still mad at his betrayal.

  But, god, I miss him, she had to admit. The war between her mind and her heart raged on. It should be easier than this when he wasn’t even in town. She shouldn’t care so much.

  Yet she did.

  “So tell me more about Patrick,” her mother said at lunch the day before she left town again.

  Ari set down her sandwich. She’d been thinking of him that very minute. Obviously she was so drenched in thoughts of him that she was now capable of beaming them across a restaurant table. “Patrick is complicated. He hasn’t had an easy time of it.”

  “But is he a good man? Does he love you?” her mother asked. “Those are the important questions.”

  She was fairly sure that the answers to those questions were probably yes and yes. But it was too much, too fast. “Vince loved me once,” she said. “And look how that turned out.”

  Her mother waved a hand, as if waving the idea away. “You were both young and foolish. You’re wiser now. You can see past a man’s quick smile. What do you see when you look at him?”

  Even that answer was complicated. Lust was near the top of the list, and she worried that it crowded out all the other saner judgments. “He’s sturdy,” she began. “But troubled.”

  “We are all troubled sometimes,” her mother suggested.

  Ari speared an olive in her salad. “You are awfully supportive of a man you met once for thirt
y seconds. I know you want grandchildren but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  Her mother cackled. “You’re right, I don’t know Patrick. But I can tell he matters to you, and that’s why I like him. My girl has excellent judgment. He must be worth the trouble.”

  “How can you say that? I mean—I appreciate the loyalty, Mom. But if my judgment were sound we wouldn’t be sitting here together right now trying to recover from my ex’s murder in my presence. This year my life has been like a television crime drama.”

  “Sweetheart,” her mother said, and Ari heard an echo of Patrick’s voice in that word. “You do have good judgment. You’ve also made good friends like Rebecca and Georgia. You are well loved by an entire hockey team. You work hard and you live within your means. Just because it took you a little too long to leave Vince doesn’t mean you shouldn’t trust yourself again. Be kind to my Ariana. She deserves kindness from you and everyone else.”

  Ari’s eyes felt suddenly hot. “Be kind to yourself” was something she taught her yoga students, too. Why was it so hard to do?

  “If he’s not the man for you, then you’ll make the right decision,” her mother said. “But if he is, don’t fear it. I have faith in you.”

  “Thank you, Mom,” she choked out.

  “You’re welcome. Now eat your salad because I see real Brooklyn cheesecake in that dessert case and I want some.”

  * * *

  After Ari put her mother and Uncle Angelo in a cab to LaGuardia, she went to the practice facility for the first time in three days. She sat through a meeting with Henry and the trainers, where they went over the status of player strains and injuries.

  “I’m putting O’Doul back on your schedule tomorrow morning,” Henry told her. “He’s doing pretty well but we have to keep that hip supple.”

  “Of course,” she said as her heart tripped over itself. “Who else?” she asked with feigned nonchalance.

  When the meeting was over, she was free to go home. Tonight the players would enjoy a night off, though she glimpsed many of them in a conference room with Coach Worthington. They were watching tape of tomorrow night’s opponent.

  Ariana sped by the conference room window. Do not look for him, she ordered herself. You’ll see him tomorrow.

  She’d almost made it to the door at the end of the hallway when a roughened voice stopped her. “Ari? Can I talk to you for a second?”

  The sound of her name on his lips was like a sip of cool water after a hot yoga class. She hadn’t even known how badly she’d wanted it. She stopped walking and slowly turned around.

  He was still in his suit pants and a nice dress shirt, but his tie was askew. He leaned against the conference room doorjamb, looking like some kind of sex-tousled power broker. “Can we talk?” he repeated.

  “Sure,” she heard herself say. “But don’t you have to . . .” she pointed into the conference room.

  He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her. “We’re done in there.”

  She watched his approach, feeling helpless. The broad set of his shoulders appeared frequently in her dreams, as did the heated look in his eyes. “Where do you want to talk?” He’d better suggest someplace public. If the two of them went someplace private right now, not much talking was going to get done.

  “How do you feel about linguini with clam sauce?” he asked.

  “Hmm?” She shook her head to try to clear it of the sex haze that had descended on her the moment she saw him. His words finally penetrated. “Actually, I’m allergic to shellfish.”

  His eyes widened. “Figures.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head, smiling at her. “How do you feel about ice skating, then?”

  “Skating? Me?”

  “Yes you. You work at an ice rink. Two of them, actually.” He grinned. “Have you set foot on the ice since you started working here?”

  “I haven’t skated since I was twelve.”

  He took her hand. “Come on, then. No time like the present.”

  She let herself be led through the locker rooms and toward the rink door. “I don’t have skates,” she pointed out.

  “Not a problem—Georgia started giving free ice time to the Boys and Girls Clubs of Brooklyn. She has a whole stash of loaner skates now. I’ll show you.”

  He wasn’t wrong. The skates lined a set of shelves in a supply closet off the rink. Ari found a pair of figure skates in her size and swiped her thumb across the blade. They’d even been recently sharpened.

  “Girly skates?” Patrick teased. “Don’t you want to learn the right way?”

  “These are what I’m used to,” she argued. “You don’t want me to fall down and break something, right?”

  “Good point, rookie. Have a seat on the bench and I’ll be right back to help you.”

  She sat down and began to lace up. It had been a long time since she’d done this. Right after she’d gotten the Bruisers job she’d had the itch to go skating again. She’d asked Vince if he would go with her to the rink in Prospect Park one weekend. But he’d turned her down, and she didn’t ask again. Stupid girl, she chided herself.

  Be kind, her mother’s lingering voice reminded her.

  Patrick returned with his own skates in hand and sat down beside her to lace up. He glanced at her tight laces. “You did that very well.”

  “I’ve been tying my own shoes since kindergarten, thanks.”

  He gave her a smirk.

  “You’re still wearing your suit,” she pointed out.

  “Well, you didn’t get a chance to change, so I figure it’s only fair. You can hold onto me if you feel shaky, okay?”

  “Was that your plan?” she teased. If it was, he was about to be disappointed.

  “The thought did cross my mind. But I really just wanted to spend time with you.” He turned to look at her with those cool blue eyes, and her pulse skipped a beat or three. “I missed you, Ari. The only reason I spend time with you is because you’re important to me. You’re everything that I want, and everything I need. You already have my heart, and I don’t want it back. You understand?”

  Slowly, she nodded. I miss you, too.

  “Ready?” He stood up and offered her a hand, which she took.

  Rising, she felt blades under her feet for the first time in more than fifteen years. “I forgot that I’d be taller,” she said with a laugh.

  “But so am I,” he pointed out.

  When she raised her gaze, she got another little jolt from those blue eyes. And it suddenly dawned on her how close together they were. His hand was warm around hers. If she took a small step forward, she’d be close enough to kiss him. “Let’s skate,” she suggested for her own good.

  He grinned, as if reading her mind. “Right this way.” He led her across the rubber pads to the door, which he opened by sliding the bolt. The bright surface gleamed back at her. She’d forgotten how magical it was to step onto a fresh sheet of ice. “We’re going to scuff it up,” she pointed out. “Will anyone care?”

  “Not much. Come on, now.” He turned around so that he stepped backwards onto the ice. He offered his other hand, too.

  She took it and stepped out onto the slickness with her left foot and then her right. Patrick gave a tug on her hands and then they were gliding together effortlessly. He moved in a gentle backward rhythm, towing her.

  It was like waterskiing, but the tow rope was the hottest man in Brooklyn.

  “See?” he crowed. “You got it. You’re really stable.”

  “Mmmhmm,” she agreed. “Let’s see how I do on my own.” She let go of his hands.

  Smiling, he did an easy crossover, curving around with the shape of the rink. God, he was beautiful, powerful muscles visible through his suit pants, strong forearms visible beneath the rolled-up cuffs of his shirt.

  But she had to stop
staring and start skating. The first couple of steps were a little shaky as she felt for the edges of the blades for the first time in years. Then she was able to lengthen her strides and find a natural gait.

  “You’re . . . wow,” Patrick said, still skating backward, watching her. “Nice.”

  It was like flying. How had it taken so long to do this again? Although it probably lacked grace, she pushed forward on her right foot and lifted her back leg into the air, arms outstretched, then carved gently into a turn.

  “Jesus.”

  Ari didn’t spare Patrick a glance. She was too busy remembering how this was done. She flipped her hips around and skated a few backward crossovers. That felt graceful enough—on one side, anyway. Then she pressed out to the left and wrapped her right leg around, pulling herself into a spin. The rink flew by a few times in quick succession before she slowed herself to a stop.

  And damn it, she was dizzy. That’s what you get for not skating for half your life.

  When her eyes could focus again, she looked over at Patrick. He was standing still, feet together, bent over to clutch his knees, and laughing.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” she protested.

  He straightened, shaking his head, his face red. He couldn’t even speak he was laughing so hard. “Baby,” he wheezed after a minute. “You kill me. I swear to God.” He skated forward to wrap his arms around her. “All I do is try to impress you, and it’s impossible. Because you’re the most impressive person I ever met. I’m so screwed.”

  Even as she leaned into the hug, his chest bounced with laughter. He smelled so good, like clean man and icy air.

  “I’m so gone for you,” he ground out, still laughing. “I’ve got it bad. It might take me years to convince you I’m a good guy, but I’ll never stop trying.”

  “The thing is . . .” She took a shaky breath against his warm chest. “I believe you.”

  Two big hands rubbed her back. “You do?”

  “Yeah.” She pushed her nose into his shirt collar and took a deep breath. Fighting him didn’t make sense anymore. She didn’t have to punish them both for all the scary near-misses of the past month. She could just be with him—take him home, make him dinner, and take him to bed. It didn’t mean that she’d sacrificed all her principles, or that she couldn’t stand on her own without a man.