Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5)

by Heather Wardell

I re-focused on Magnus, spending another minute or two before he said, "I think that's good for now. It feels better."

  He turned to face me. "Thank you. Do you think you could work with me too?"

  I hesitated, and he said, "I'm sorry, I--"

  I shook my head. "It's just that I can't take on anyone else without Filmore's permission. If he gave it, then of course I would."

  Magnus smiled at me. "I will ask, if you don't mind."

  I smiled back, letting the warmth in his blue eyes soothe me. "Go right ahead."

  He sobered. Leaning in, he said, "I hope everything ends up all right. You know. Everything else."

  'Everything else' was a lot more than he knew. "Me too," I said through an enormous sigh. "Me too."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jen had left my apartment almost tidy, and I gathered the materials for the riverbed piece, delighted to have both an idea and uninterrupted time. The incomplete city hall weasels piece nagged me, though. I tried to convince myself to finish it before moving on, but I couldn't: the riverbed shone too brightly to ignore.

  I promised the weasels I'd return to them later and filled my mind with the new piece, refusing to wonder whether it would sell or if Jayne would like it.

  After a few false starts at focusing on my art instead of on how I'd massage Forrest that afternoon without letting myself hug or hit him, I settled into the piece and lost myself. The technical details of making the desolate side look dark and sad while the lush side glowed with life captivated me, and with the piece so clear in my mind my occasional wrong turns didn't upset me. I just changed what I needed to change and danced along.

  When I checked the clock, expecting an hour or so to have passed, I realized I'd been at it nearly four hours and had to leave. I grabbed a quick snack, then took one last longing look at my table and raced out to the car.

  At the rink, I spotted Forrest in a group practicing slapshots. He didn't look at me, and I didn't try to get his attention.

  "Hey." Mike dropped into the seat beside me. "If you see Filmore coming, run. He's pissed off."

  "With me? Why?"

  Mike lowered his head and glared at me, doing such a good Filmore impression I pulled back involuntarily. "'She's been working with him a month, and what have I got? A so-called star playing like a terrified rookie, and an extra salary on top of his. What's she waiting for, Christmas?'"

  I rolled my eyes. "He can play now. Doesn't that mean anything?"

  Mike resumed his own voice and expression. "I pointed that out."

  "And?"

  "And he doesn't care." He shrugged. "He admits you've made a difference, but it's not enough."

  "Then he's asking too much. Forrest's getting better all the time."

  He looked around, even checking behind us as if afraid Filmore lurked behind my chair, then leaned closer. "Come on. We both know he hasn't really improved since the first game after his week off. The psychologist says there's no point in seeing him any more, since from what Forrest's told him there are no issues there. Still, something's holding him back, and he skates fine so it's not the leg. Any ideas?"

  None I would share. "But he's playing okay, isn't he?"

  "'Okay' doesn't cut it. Have you seen his old games, how he used to play?" At my confirmation, he said, "Then you know. He was lit up out there, so driven. Hungry, know what I mean?"

  I did indeed.

  "That's how a star plays. Today?" He shook his head. "He's still better than most guys, no matter what Filmore says, but he could be so much more. He needs to be more."

  When he believed he had Marika on his side, he had been more. He'd played with joy and abandon and he'd become a superstar. Could he find that again? Not unless he could put aside the promise he'd made to her. Could he do that? I didn't know.

  I raised my chin and spoke as if it were a done deal, hoping it would be one. "He'll get it back. Filmore needs to be patient."

  "Have you met Filmore? You go ahead and tell him that. I'd rather let the whole team skate over my d-- um, my toes."

  His abrupt change of direction, clearly from something crotch-related, brought up a giggle I couldn't hold back.

  Mike grinned. "Sorry. Used to hanging out with the guys."

  "Men," I muttered, and we laughed.

  I sobered first. "But seriously, Filmore has to--"

  "Tess, get one thing straight." The amusement left his face, and his eyes bore into mine. "Filmore only has to do one thing: focus on the team. The whole team."

  I knew that. "But Forrest is part of the team. And he'll be great again."

  I'd tried to sound certain but I must not have succeeded because Mike said, "I hope so too, I really do. But he's running out of time. He's getting paid a star's salary and playing like a..."

  "Terrified rookie?" I supplied when he couldn't find a suitable description, unable to keep the sneer from my voice. "But he's just started playing again. He needs time."

  "He's got until February, max."

  "Why? What happens then?"

  "February twenty-fifth is Filmore's last chance to trade Forrest. He'd do it earlier, though, if he got a good enough offer."

  Forrest so wanted at least one full year in Toronto. I could not let this happen. "Then we have to get him playing so well Filmore would never trade him."

  He gave me a grim smile. "Better get a move on. You've got a month."

  "But it's only November."

  "You signed a two-month contract, right?"

  I started to nod, but froze as I realized what he meant.

  He sighed, and said it anyhow. "Unless things change, you'll be long gone by February."

  *****

  I watched the team's two goalies, Jeff and Tim, play Guitar Hero. They'd come to the open door, shuffling their feet like little kids, and told me Forrest had returned a phone call from his agent right after practice and still had to shower, so could they use the room until he arrived?

  I didn't mind. It gave me something to watch as I struggled with what Mike had told me. I hadn't expected to have my contract renewed, although the thought of abandoning Forrest made my stomach and heart twist, so I wasn't too worried for myself. With any luck, I'd be well into my art career in a month. But did Forrest know how Filmore felt? Should I tell him, or would the knowledge worsen his stress?

  For that matter, should I tell someone about Marika? The team psychologist had decided to end their treatments, but he'd been trying to help without knowing the truth of why Forrest was so conflicted.

  I couldn't imagine telling, though. Forrest hadn't told anyone else, and he'd certainly had opportunity to tell the psychologist if he wanted to, so I shouldn't take it on myself to do so. Should I?

  "Loser," Jeff said as he and Tim finished a song. "You're not worthy to play with me."

  Tim punched his shoulder. "As if."

  "Hey, Tess, wanna try?"

  I shook my head. "Thanks, but if he can't do it, I probably can't either."

  Tim offered me his plastic guitar, and Jeff said, "You couldn't be worse than him."

  "Thanks a lot," Tim and I said together.

  I considered, then jumped off the stool and took the guitar. The distraction might help.

  "Atta girl," Jeff said. After a quick lesson, he set us up to play cooperatively and we were off. I muffed my first few notes, but then caught on. The key was coordinating both hands at once, and both my art and massage required that.

  "Dude, she's better than you are." Tim stuck his head into the hall and yelled, "Tess is killing Jeff at Guitar Hero!"

  "Not killing." Jeff botched a riff.

  Magnus arrived, with several other players, and they teased Jeff until the song ended.

  "Yeah, but that was the easy level," Jeff protested. "She couldn't play on hard."

  "You can't play easy," Tim said. "So what do you know?"

  From what little I understood about men, if I impressed them here we'd be set forever. "Crank it up, Jeff." I gave him an innocent smile
. "Unless you're afraid I'll beat you?"

  The guys hooted, and Jeff said, "Terrified. Bring it on."

  Now we were opponents, and the hard level proved to be well-named. I fell behind at the beginning, and the players shouted encouragement and suggestions to me and mockery at Jeff. He was struggling too, though, and I began to catch up. When I pulled ahead, they all cheered, even Jeff, and he high-fived me when I won.

  "Nice job." He grinned. "Beginner's luck, of course."

  "Oh, of course." I smiled at him.

  "Play me next," someone called from the back.

  Magnus said, "Maybe later."

  I turned to see Forrest leaning against the doorframe. "Hey," I said, trying to sound relaxed and not like every one of my organs had leapt with fear and longing at the sight of him.

  Jeff took my guitar and put it with his on the shelves Forrest had bought for the equipment. "It's not over, missy. I want a rematch."

  "Whenever you want to lose again," I said, forcing what I hoped was a natural-looking grin, "I'm here."

  They all laughed and left us. Alone.

  Had Forrest always been so big? He seemed to take up half the space in the room and all its oxygen. I managed a tentative smile, but it crumbled when he didn't return it.

  "I'm really sorry." He held my gaze, but I could see the effort it took. "That was horrible."

  He clearly wasn't critiquing my guitar playing. I swallowed. "It's okay."

  He raised his eyebrows. "It is not."

  "No, it's not," I admitted. "What happened?"

  He tried to shrug, and I realized with a pang that his shoulders were so tight they barely moved. "I can't explain it. I just had to go."

  I turned around to get the massage oil, not wanting to show how much he'd hurt me.

  "Tess, look at me."

  The passion in his voice, so like how he'd whispered in my ear as he'd made love to me, froze me in place, but then anger rose, its heat giving me strength to face him. "What do you want me to say? It hurt, I don't understand it, and it shouldn't have happened in the first place. We have to move on."

  He drew back as if I'd slapped him. "It shouldn't have happened?"

  "You're my client, of course it shouldn't have happened."

  "Right. Because I'm your client."

  He sounded relieved, and I didn't understand that either, but it didn't matter. My anger faded into sad acceptance. "Let's forget it and go back to how we were before, okay?"

  As he studied me, I hoped he'd say it meant too much to forget. Then he looked away. "Like before."

  I nodded and stepped carefully around him so I wouldn't touch him by mistake, or throw myself on him on purpose. "Get ready. I'll be right back."

  I shut the door behind me before he could speak and stood in the fortunately empty hall with my arms locked around myself, looking for comfort. I'd been right, we shouldn't have been together, but I didn't like him agreeing so quickly. Why didn't he want me? Had he been pretending to care? Was I just another notch on his jock strap?

  Nausea twisting my insides at the thought, I replayed the night in my mind. When he'd been cold and distant, maybe. But then he'd told me about Marika, and I didn't think he'd been exaggerating his pain, or lying about not having told anyone else. And his expression just before he'd entered me, almost love in his eyes. He couldn't have faked that, I didn't believe it.

  Relief settled my stomach, but only a bit. He did care. But not enough to tell me why he'd left. Not enough to have stayed.

  No less confused and no more comforted, I went in and found him sitting on the table.

  Shirtless.

  The scar looked even worse in the harsh fluorescent light, and the memory of him shuddering in my arms as I pressed my lips to it swept over me. My mouth worked, but no words managed to slip past my shock.

  He scrabbled for the blanket, pulling it to his shoulders. "I'm sorry, I guess I thought you could do my back too, now that you know... it was stupid, forget it."

  I shook my head, trying to collect myself. I was a professional. Time to act like one. "No, it's a good idea. You just surprised me."

  "You're sure?"

  I nodded. "I'll do your leg first."

  He lay back, clutching the blanket's top edge, and I arranged the rest to cover his other leg and crotch. We didn't usually cover his chest, but I did what I could with what I had.

  It wasn't enough. Within seconds of my first touch on his inner thigh, the blanket rose unmistakably, temptingly close to my hands. I kept my eyes from his erection with an effort, struggling to control myself.

  Other than a few brief lapses, I'd never thought of him as a man while working on him. Now I couldn't think of anything else. His skin beneath my hands, his increasingly roughened breathing, the scent of his freshly washed body, all so like last night, sent heat pulsing through me with every beat of my quickening heart.

  "Sorry," he said awkwardly.

  "It's okay." I was lucky he couldn't see my response, because it was no less intense.

  His leg, when I managed to restrain my libido enough to focus, was in excellent shape. I made the massage clinical, nearly rough, and we both gradually recovered control. Once I figured he could handle lying on his stomach, I said, "I can do your back and shoulders now if you want."

  He nodded, and I lifted the blanket, shielding him from my sight, to let him roll over. Once he'd settled, I covered his hips and legs, leaving his back exposed.

  Shock ripped the air from my lungs, and I took a gasping breath to replace it. I remembered using my nails when he'd overwhelmed me with pleasure, but I hadn't realized I'd marked him so much. Every last bit of him reminded me of the glory of our lovemaking and the pain of its aftermath. And I had to touch him. How could I?

  Without raising his head, he said, "I showered after the other guys. That's why I made that phone call right then, so they'd all be done."

  My face burned even though he wasn't looking at me. "Thanks."

  "Can't give Corey any ammunition."

  "Yeah." I looked at his back again. "I'm sorry."

  He sighed but didn't answer, which I took as a cue to quit talking. Steeling myself, I ran my hands over his back, gently at first then with more pressure as I learned where the worst tension lay. At first it hurt to touch him, but he was in such bad shape I soon lost myself in his problems. I worked in silence, and he didn't speak either. He wasn't asleep, though; I could feel him tensing and relaxing and tensing again beneath my hands.

  After an hour, when my fingers ached too much to continue, I said softly, "I'm done for today, my hands need a break."

  He raised his head. "What about your art?"

  I shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "I'll figure something out."

  "Give me one."

  "Pardon?"

  He pushed up onto his forearms and held out his hand, palm up. "I owe you."

  I wasn't going to let him do whatever he had in mind, but my hand moved under its own volition to rest in his, so I watched as he gave me the sweetest and most uncomfortable hand massage ever. His touch felt amazing and awful at once.

  When he finished, though, the loss of contact felt worse so I offered my other hand. He took it but didn't massage it. Instead he stroked his thumb across my knuckles.

  "I'm so sorry," he said, mouthed really, barely making a sound.

  He didn't need to. I could read it in his eyes, read it in the pain and sadness and regret. I couldn't say it was all right, and I couldn't ask why since I knew he wouldn't tell me, so I just held his gaze and mouthed back, "I know."

  We both tightened our grips, then he looked down and released me.

  I drew my hand back and cleared my throat. "Tomorrow morning, right?"

  "Actually," he said without looking up, "I think only afternoons now. I should get used to..." He swallowed. "Playing without you."

  "Maybe you don't have to."

  He snapped his head up. "What do you mean?"

  I hadn't intended to speak, b
ut I knew what I meant. I meant we could be together. But I couldn't say that. Could I? I stared at him, trying to decide.

  He dropped his head as if its weight had quadrupled. "Go home, Tess," he whispered.

  Blinded by sudden tears, for myself and for his defeated tone, I left the room.

  I didn't go home, though.

  Magnus waited in the hall, lounging on a bench like a big blond panther.

  "Hi again," he said, and I tried and failed to smile.

  He sat up straight. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine." I blinked hard, searching for control and an excuse. "I... I got oil in my eye."

  "Ouch. Can I talk to you or do you need to fix it?"

  "It's okay." I sat down beside him, scrubbing the 'oil' away with the neck of my t-shirt.

  When I'd recovered, he said, "Filmore says you can work with me whenever Forrest doesn't need you. I assume he's still keeping you busy, though."

  Forrest opened the door and froze, and I said, "Actually, Magnus, Forrest just decided to cut back, so my mornings are free. He's still got the afternoons and evenings booked, but we can work in some shorter sessions for you if you need them."

  Magnus turned to Forrest, a grin unfurling. "Do you mind sharing her?"

  "Not at all." Forrest sounded like Magnus had wrapped his strong hands around his throat, and Magnus's grin collapsed.

  His voice still strangled but also neutral, Forrest said, "I'll see you both tomorrow," and walked away without waiting for a response.

  Magnus murmured, "Maybe we shouldn't--"

  I shook my head. Forrest had decided to cut back, after all, and Magnus needed help too. "No, he doesn't need me, so no worries."

  Forrest's back stiffened as he disappeared around the corner.

  Magnus smiled at me. "No worries."

  We arranged to meet the next morning and I headed home, full of worries.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wearing my long black dress and the misty blue shawl Jen had been knitting at my house, which turned out to be my 'thanks for letting me stay with you' gift and was so silky I couldn't stop touching it, I sat in the restaurant Jayne had chosen, alternating between fiddling with the shawl, drumming my fingers on the table, and praying I wouldn't faint. I'd arrived ten minutes early so I wouldn't make my potential boss wait, but twenty minutes later I still sat alone. Nothing to do but think.