For the Win

by Sara Rider

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No,” Gabe said emphatically, feeling just as annoyed as when it happened. “They said it violated security protocols. I searched all of Los Angeles for takeout cabbage rolls, but couldn’t find any. Probably wouldn’t have done any good anyway. Nothing compares to Ma’s cabbage rolls.”

  Lainey offered him a condescending smile. “You truly believe you were knocked out of the play-offs by LA, the team with the top-ranked players in the league and that went on to win the year, because you didn’t eat cabbage rolls before the game?”

  Gabe walked out to the deck to toss the meat on the grill. “Yeah. Well, that and the fact Johnny hooked up with some random girl in the stadium parking lot ten minutes before the match. Game-day sex is always bad luck.”

  When he came back inside, she was sitting with her forearms stretched along the counter. Her eyes were wide with disbelief.

  “Ten minutes before the game? How is that even possible?” She shook her head and ran a hand through her bouncy new haircut. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. The fact is every team has their superstitious players, but someone still has to lose, no matter how many cabbage rolls you eat.”

  “That’s because someone always screws it up. Like Johnny did. Every athlete has his or her superstitions. I’m sure even you have a routine that you stick to religiously before each game.”

  “Yeah,” she said in a straight voice. “I fuck at least twelve guys right before every match.”

  He froze. He knew she was kidding. Of course she was kidding. She had to be kidding.

  She burst out laughing. “Relax. I’m joking. My pregame ritual isn’t too crazy. I visualize putting the ball in the back of the net from every angle possible. Then I put on my clean uniform and my clean socks, and listen to the coach’s pep talk. After that, I go kick ass. Simple.”

  “That’s what superstitions are: rituals that can’t be broken.” Sheesh, she was frustrating. Good thing Gabe was always up to a challenge, especially when it involved a woman as feisty as Lainey.

  “It’s simple and it works because I take control of my actions, not because of any magic or voodoo. And if for some reason I had to change my ritual at the last minute, I’d still be awesome because I believe in myself, not in fate. Look, I’ll prove it to you.” She reached over to the saltshaker on his counter and tipped it over, spilling tiny white crystals across the speckled blue-and-gray granite.

  Gabe sucked in a breath. Lainey raised her eyebrows expectantly. “You need to toss salt over your left shoulder.”

  “No.” She crossed her arms and quirked the side of her mouth into a defiant half smile.

  “It’s bad luck.”

  “Bad luck doesn’t exist. There is no such thing as luck.”

  “You don’t think we’re lucky to have the opportunities we do?” Gabe didn’t consider himself particularly special, yet he had a successful career, the adoration of fans, friends, family, and now a beautiful woman in his bed. He had it all, at least for the next few weeks before he and Lainey parted ways.

  “I think we worked harder and longer and sacrificed more than anybody else, and when the right opportunities came our way, we gave it everything we had. Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful for my life and my career, but it wasn’t a lucky rabbit’s foot that made it happen. I made it happen. I won’t sell myself short. And if it all goes to hell, I’ll only have myself to blame. Not a curse.”

  A sudden, uncomfortable tension filled the room.

  “I can’t believe we’re already fighting,” he mumbled. “It’s the salt.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The salt,” he repeated emphatically as he turned around. “See, bad luck is a real thing. You spilled the salt and now we’re arguing.”

  “I don’t know whether to be upset, scared, or disturbed by that comment,” she said, though the laughter that followed gave him a pretty good idea as to her reaction. “Look, I may have my misgivings about us, but I promised you I’d give it a chance and I don’t renege on my promises. I’m not going to let a little bad luck get in the way of that. Why don’t we agree to disagree, here?”

  He nodded but still felt uneasy. She slipped off the stool and walked up to him, running her palms along his chest. When she pressed her lips against his neck, he wound his arm around her back, clenching her to him. “I guess that could work,” he said, his voice shuddering as her tongue worked its way along his pulse.

  “I’m glad you agree. And now I’m going to prove to you that there is no such thing as luck.” She trailed her hand to his belt. “Your hot tub just reminded me there’s something I need to add to my list. Want to help me cross it off?”

  16

  Fear is for the weak.

  —Lainey Lukas’s high school yearbook quote

  “THIS IS YOUR IDEA of fun?” Lainey asked, peering up at the bright yellow sign above the entrance to the Kiln Time Pottery Studio.

  “Are you afraid of a little paint?” Gabe asked. A group of kids, looking no older than seven or eight, blew past them through the door.

  “No. Just surprised,” Lainey said, holding steadfast at the threshold. The truth was that the idea of engaging in something artistic scared the bejesus out of her, especially with Gabe watching. What if she sucked? What if she was so devoid of talent that she didn’t just suck but was the absolute queen of suckiness? Anxiety pooled in her stomach.

  “It’ll be fun.”

  “Says who?” She crossed her arms, debating whether to actually follow him in.

  “My sister. She had her fourteenth birthday party here and swore it was ‘totally cool,’ ” he said, mimicking Tessa’s voice.

  Lainey relented and stepped into the crowded studio. After all, she’d promised herself and Gabe that she’d experience new things over the next couple of weeks. Pushing her boundaries was the only way to learn whether she could live her life while living her dream.

  Gorgeous, multihued pieces of pottery lined the shelves along the walls. At the center of the room were a half dozen paint-spackled tables surrounded by blue, yellow, and red chairs. Though most of the patrons were younger, she was relieved to see at least a few other couples there on dates.

  An enthusiastic woman wearing a well-used apron greeted them. “Welcome. I’m Anne. You must be Gabe and Lainey. I have your table ready. The first step is to choose the piece you want to paint. Follow me to the display area.” Anne spoke so quickly, Lainey couldn’t help but admire her lung capacity. Anne listed off the prices of the various plates, mugs, bowls, and other items as she led them through a long hallway to the back of the building.

  “This is the room where we keep the pottery wheels and molds to create the pieces. The kiln, where we fire the pieces once they are done, is back there, too.” Anne pointed to a dusty room, where a giant metal cylinder sat in the back corner. “We also offer pottery-making classes if you’re interested in learning to use the wheel.”

  Gabe stepped behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, and rested his chin on her shoulder. He started to hum in her ear, so quietly she almost couldn’t make it out.

  It was “Unchained Melody.”

  Lainey burst out laughing and pushed him away. “Are you trying to reenact the scene from Ghost?”

  He grinned. “Maybe.”

  “I assume I can count you two in for the extra classes?” Anne chirped.

  “Let’s see how tonight goes,” Lainey said. Following a hunch, she looked over at Gabe, who was nodding his head silently but enthusiastically.

  Anne led them to a room where hundreds of pale cream plates, mugs, teapots, and other delicate pieces sat untouched like newborn babies on a row of shelves. Gabe immediately chose a large plate, and after some deliberation Lainey settled on a tall mug, figuring it’d be fairly difficult to screw up.

  Their table was set up near the windo
w, which, unfortunately for Lainey, meant that any passersby would have a direct view of their efforts.

  “Why’d you choose the mug?” Gabe asked casually as he dipped a meaty brush in a well of orange paint.

  “Why? Should I have chosen something else?”

  “Just curious. You’re staring at it like it’s about to explode.”

  “I don’t know where to start,” she admitted. The rows of a dozen paint pots sat at the edge of the table taunting her with possibilities. The haphazard smattering of paintbrushes was the extra kick in the gut when she was already down.

  Gabe slathered on some clashing blue next. “Start wherever you want. If it feels good, go for it. If it doesn’t work, who cares?”

  “Easy come, easy go. Is that how you treat every decision in life?”

  He shrugged. “There are some things in life that I never compromise on. My family. My career. My home.”

  Her heart pounded as his words sunk in. No matter how much fun she was having, she couldn’t let herself be duped. Maybe he really did enjoy spending time with her as she did with him, but no matter what reassurances he gave, she knew there was an ulterior motive to his charm.

  “What would you be if you weren’t a soccer player?” Redirecting her dour thoughts seemed like a good idea.

  “Is this an interrogation?” Gabe asked amiably.

  Feeling mischievous, she nodded. “I guess it is.”

  He broke into a wide smile that had her itching to tear his clothes off right then and there. His dimples were irresistible, but it was the naughty meaning behind the smile that set her on fire. “Never thought about it too much. A teacher, I guess. What about you?”

  “There was never another option for me, either, but I’m pretty good with a nail gun. Favorite season?”

  “Nothing beats ski season in the Pacific Northwest.”

  She cringed and shook her head. “The risk of breaking your leg is so high. I’m getting heart palpitations just thinking of it.”

  “Are you sure it’s the thought of skiing doing that to you?” His leg, which had been brushing against hers at the cramped table, pushed her thighs open. “But seriously, I will get you out on the slopes one of these days.”

  They continued their verbal volleys for the next hour, shifting the topic to the teams they rooted for in all the major European leagues, the best stadiums in the United States and abroad, and—always a favorite topic among players—worst referees. The latter debate turned rather heated but ended the way most of their conversations seemed to go. With gut-busting laughter.

  Eventually Lainey settled on painting a soccer ball on her mug while their chatter faded. First she layered green paint on the whole thing for grass. It didn’t really look like grass, so she pressed the bristles of her brush upward, hoping to make it look properly textured.

  It looked ridiculous.

  She gave up on the grass and worked on the ball instead. Using the black paint, she used a slender brush to draw a small hexagon. It immediately smudged into the green. “Dammit!” She blew her hair out of her eyes and looked at Gabe. She would have sworn she saw him smile, but his mouth was drawn into a stern line, expression impassive.

  Seeing as she couldn’t wait for the paint to dry, she added a few more black blobs, hoping to even out the lines with the white paint. As soon as she did, the white streaked into the black, leaving a soggy gray mess. Gabe’s chin was trembling as he struggled to keep his lips sealed.

  Undeterred, she used the edge of her fingernail to remove some of the excess paint. Unfortunately, she kept her fingernails ridiculously short and ended up with paint all over her fingertip. She grabbed a tissue from a box set next to the jar of brushes and tried to wipe away the mess she had made.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded, seeing Gabe’s shoulders shaking up and down. He burst out laughing.

  “You have paint on your cheek.” He gestured to the side of her face. “And in your hair.”

  “I do not!” She twisted around to look at her faint reflection in the window. “Crap. I do.”

  Gabe snickered again.

  “Not funny.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s totally funny.”

  She grabbed her paintbrush and smeared it along the edge of Gabe’s plate.

  His eyes narrowed. “Perfect addition. A splotch of black is just what I needed.” She closed her eyes as he reached for his brush, knowing a messy retaliation was coming.

  A thunderous bang on the window jolted her back to reality. A couple of teenagers were banging at the window, pointing at them. One of them stuck his lips against the glass and pressed until he looked like a giant, disgusting suckerfish, while the other one yelled at Gabe that he was his favorite player. They made a few more semi-obscene, amusing gestures, and then continued on their way.

  “They clearly liked your plate,” she offered with a chuckle. Admittedly, she was a bit jealous. The random splashes of colors made the piece look airy, like a sunset. Hers looked like a two-year-old was given free rein with finger paints.

  Bang!

  The teenagers were back. One of them shouted through the window, “Who’s the girl?”

  “Oh my god! That’s Lainey Lukas!” the other shouted. “Go Falcons!”

  The other one shoved his friend playfully, then pounded the glass again and proclaimed his love for the Surge.

  Sensing the disruption, Anne came back to their table. “Wonderful, Gabe. What lovely use of color. And yours, Lainey. It’s . . . uh . . . interesting. What exactly is it?”

  “A work in progress,” Lainey muttered just before Anne flitted to another table.

  “I think it’s beautiful, like you,” Gabe interjected. And just like that, her heart melted into a sappy puddle of goo.

  They spent a few more minutes putting the finishing touches on their pottery. Lainey tried to salvage hers by adding a red trim along the lip of the mug, but ended up making it look like an angry Muppet.

  A few tables over, the telltale cries of a sibling squabble distracted Lainey. A young girl with her black curls in pigtails reached for the pot of paint being held out of reach by a slightly older boy next to her. She was smaller and younger than the rest of the group, likely the little sister tagging along to the older kids’ party.

  “Girls can’t have blue paint! Pink is for girls!” the boy teased as the youngster reached for the pot.

  Gabe must have sensed Lainey’s reaction. “Easy. They’re just kids.”

  “I’m not going to do anything,” Lainey responded.

  “Really?” His gazed shifted to her hands, tightly clenched on the edge of the table. He sighed. “Just be nice about it, okay?”

  “Aren’t I always?” She picked up the blue paint from her table and walked over to the kids. “Here, you can use mine.”

  The girl beamed at her. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, Madison, your plate looks like fairy barf!” the boy who’d been pilfering the girl’s paint said, clearly jealous of any attention she was getting.

  Lainey picked up the girl’s jar of pink paint. “I’ve never understood why some people think pink is just for girls. Have you ever seen a gazelle after a lion has torn its stomach open? The blood and guts are all pink. Mind if I borrow this?”

  She left the kids’ table, hearing the older boys argue about who was now going to use the pink paint for the camo patterns in her wake.

  “Nicely done,” Gabe said as she sat back down.

  She shrugged, though her actual emotions ran much deeper than she let on. It burned her soul to witness a girl being told she wasn’t good enough. That she didn’t deserve something as simple as a bit of blue paint, much less all of her hopes and dreams. She looked at Gabe and her chest tightened, like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. The Battle of the Sexes was more than a silly squabble long since forgotte
n between the two of them; it was about all the little girls out there who were told they’d never be good enough. The stakes were higher than she could’ve imagined, and she’d let herself get distracted.

  “So,” she said casually to Gabe, not wanting him to pick up on her tension. “What’s your favorite color?”

  He leaned forward on his elbows, gaze piercing her. “A few weeks ago, I probably would have said green, but now, it’s unquestionably whisky brown. What’s yours?”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. Maybe the good fight could wait for another day. “I’ll deny it if you repeat this, but it actually is pink.”

  17

  How do I maintain my fitness in the face of temptation? Easy. I just do. Willpower is for losers. If you have to struggle to diet and eat healthy, then you don’t want it badly enough. But, uh, also, I never really learned how to cook anything more complicated than salad.

  —Lainey Lukas, quoted in Sports Nutrition Magazine

  “OUCH, DID YOU SEE that hit? It was practically a body check.” Lainey leaned forward to get a better view. The woman in front of her with the giant bouffant and tendency to shake her head side to side while tsking loudly kept blocking her view.

  “Nah, just a little shoulder-to-shoulder contact,” Gabe said breezily, relaxing back in his seat.

  “More like spatula-to-shoulder contact. That has to be illegal!”

  “Shh!” The woman in the next row cast a sneering glare their way. “Have some respect for your elders. Some of us are trying to learn something here.”

  As soon as she turned around, Lainey and Gabe snickered.

  It was hard to take the first live taping of the “Marnie and Marika in the Kitchen” segment seriously when the two stars were bickering like an old married couple, flinging passive-aggressive jabs and the occasional physical ones at every turn. The segment focused on creating the perfect Sunday brunch. The disagreements started as soon as it came down to poaching eggs. Aunt Marnie preferred the clean presentation of an egg poached in a metal cup. Marika Havelak insisted that such modern shortcuts were the devil’s handiwork. She advocated instead for a complex and, as far as Lainey was concerned, dangerous method that involved dropping the egg into a pot of swirling boiling water.