Making a Play

by Victoria Denault

  As my eyes fluttered closed, he murmured, “Okay, Fleur, I will.” And then he’d shown up every day since with a different flower.

  The first bouquet was roses and I had laughed. “Beautiful, but I’m not much into clichés.”

  Today as I look at the bundle of fluffy flowers in varying shades of pink, my entire face lights up and he lets out a whoop of victory like he does on the ice when he scores a goal. He goes to high-five Callie but she just shakes her head and walks out of the kitchen so I offer my hand for a high-five but he pulls me into a kiss instead. I’m not complaining.

  “Ready to go? I need your help with something,” he whispers against my lips as I take the flowers from him. They’re so pretty.

  I nod. “Just let me put these in a vase.”

  Forty minutes later, we’re standing in the middle of the banquet room at the Silver Bay Golf Club. We booked it for the Hockey for Hope opening night cocktails and silent auction. It’s happening tomorrow night and the room is already decked out. They’ve got two bars set up, one on each wall flanking the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the golf course. There are high-top tables scattered throughout and a small table set up in the corner for the DJ. It’s clean and nice but I understand why he brought me here now—it’s missing something.

  “Help me, Fleur,” he says with a sigh. “This seriously stresses me out.”

  “It needs… a theme,” I remind him and rub his arm gently. “Just some decorations that pull everything together. Right now it’s… bland.”

  “So like we should put hockey sticks on the wall or pucks on the tables?” he asks, and when I crinkle up my nose he groans. “I need this to be perfect and I suck at perfect.”

  I want to argue with him. He’s more than perfect to me, but I don’t tell him because he wouldn’t listen anyway. I want so badly to reach out and take his hand or kiss his cheek but we’re in public. Any golfer or employee could walk into the room or by the open door and see us. It’s been more than two weeks since we started our “secret” relationship and I hate it as much as I love it. But I do love it—and him—so I’m not giving up.

  I stare at his beautiful, earnest face and contemplate climbing on top of him right here in the middle of the banquet room. Instead I lean over and whisper softly, “You have the right attitude, but you’re letting it paralyze you.”

  He closes his eyes and sighs. I run a hand through his hair and kiss his stubbly jaw. The sensation of his almost-beard on my lips sends a trickle of pleasure down my spine. “Just listen to your gut. Trust your instincts. With your career and this event. You’re a smart guy, Luc. You always have been.”

  He stares into my eyes with such a long, steady, deep look that I swear it makes my heart beat harder. “I like nauticul stuff.”

  “Okay…” I say slowly as an idea starts to bloom in my head. “I’ve got an idea. Come with me.”

  Later that night we pull into his driveway with piles of shopping bags between us in Claudette’s cab. I told him we should swing by the antiques stores in Portland. Luc thinks he hates “old junk” so it took a little negotiating to get him there. This particular shop has a nautical theme and I knew there would be lots of unique stuff we could buy to spruce up the banquet hall.

  We found seven delicate, round, short vases—three with anchors etched into the glass and four with starfish etchings. This shop also sold seashells and beach glass so we bought a bunch to place in the bottom of the vases, under and around the tea lights we’d put inside too. We also bought two old lanterns shaped like lighthouses. They were in rough shape with peeling paint and rusted metal but that’s what added to their charm. Luc suggested we buy them and put one on each bar, which was a brilliant idea. I also had him stop at a craft and party supply store and I picked up white swizzle sticks with boat wheels at the top and white-and-navy-striped cocktail napkins.

  We carry the bags inside and pile them in the den. “Let’s lay out all the stuff and I can assemble the centerpieces for the tables now so that we just have to drop them off in the morning.”

  Luc nods and starts opening the bags. “Can you grab me a drink, please? And grab some snack food from the pantry? I’m starving!”

  I smile at that as I head into the kitchen. I’m learning Luc eats more in one day than I do in three. It’s mostly healthy stuff—fruit, veggies, lean meats—but even his “snacks” are bigger than my meals. I’m further amazed how Donna kept Luc and three other guys fed without going insane or bankrupt.

  I grab some sparkling fruit juice, pour two large glasses with ice, then walk over to the pantry and look for something that’s healthy but also filling. I grab a bag of Trader Joe’s popcorn and as I’m reaching for a bag of turkey jerky, because I know he’ll want protein, a bag on the bottom shelf catches my eye. It’s not from a grocery store, which is why it grabs my attention. I pull it out and look inside. It’s a toothbrush, a chunky silver bracelet, a silky, very tiny nightgown and a lace thong. I drop the thong back into the bag as soon as I realize what it is and wipe my hand on the side of my sundress. What. The. Fuck.

  I carry it into the den. Luc is sitting on the couch, carefully placing the shells and beach glass out in rows on the coffee table. Without looking up, he explains. “I thought if I laid it out you could get a better look and decide what should go with what in the vases.”

  When I don’t respond, and stay planted in the archway to the room, he looks up. I hold up the bag. “What’s that?”

  “You tell me. It was in your pantry.”

  He takes it from me and glances at the contents and then he groans. “I’ve been meaning to mail this to Ness… or take it to Goodwill.”

  At the sound of her name I feel like our little bubble of love and serenity has popped. “That belongs to Nessa? She was here? In Silver Bay?”

  He nods and stands up. “I popped back last fall, when we had a break in games. The house was just finished being built. Wyatt had been overseeing the build for me, but I wanted to give it a final inspection myself before giving the builders their last check. She came with me.”

  They were together for more than two years. He’d said it was more of an agreement than a relationship, which suited the both of them. I think what helped me believe that someone could stay with someone for just the sex for that long and not develop emotions was that he really hadn’t let her into his life. She never met his mom or the Garrisons. She never even met Jordan or Devin, even when they were in town for games and Luc would go out with them afterward. And she’d never come to Silver Bay, not even in the off-season. At least that’s what I had thought… until now. Now I know she was not only here but she left stuff—personal stuff—because clearly she thought she’d be coming back.

  He must be able to read the discontent on my face because he walks around the coffee table and tosses the bag a short distance so it lands by the back door. “I’ll throw it out. It means nothing.”

  “It means she slept here. In this house,” I mutter.

  “Not exactly,” he replies. “I didn’t have furniture or anything. I’d blown up an air mattress but she bitched and moaned about it. She also thought the place smelled like paint and fresh wood and it was giving her a migraine. By two in the morning we’d checked into a hotel in Portland and she hopped a plane back to L.A. the next morning.”

  “Oh.” The news lessens the heavy ache in my chest, but doesn’t make it go away. “Did you have sex here?”

  “Fleur…” he whispers and I’m too embarrassed to look at him. I shouldn’t have asked the question but I have to. I don’t know why, but for some reason it matters. “No. Not in this house.”

  He specifies location because they did have it in the hotel. He’s trying not to hurt me and not to lie to me at the same time. Sometimes I wish he’d just lie. And I know I’m an idiot to be hurt, but she saw our hometown and had sex with him in my state. It’s so dumb, actually, that I almost smile and he sees the slight curve to my lips.

  “She hated
it here, by the way. Hated the lake, the town, the mountains but yet she still left her shit here to stake a claim. That was Nessa’s personality.”

  “You never say anything nice about her. You couldn’t find a nice girl to have a casual relationship with,” I can’t help but blurt out.

  He tugs me closer. His breath tickles my cheek as he says, “I can’t be casual with nice girls, Fleur. You of all people should know that.”

  My heart does a little tap dance in my chest. I snake my hands around his waist as his lips graze my jaw. I tilt my head and capture his lips. The kiss doesn’t build; it starts hot and heavy, his tongue finding mine right away. Our bodies press into each other as if they’re trying to merge and there’s no hiding how hard he is. As his hands start pulling up the bottom of the sundress I’m wearing, I grab his beautiful ass but end up with a handful of something other than his muscular, round butt. Something square and hard.

  He pulls back and he’s got a twinkle in his eye as he moves my hand away and pulls a small brown cardboard box from the back pocket of his jeans. “I bought this at the antique store while you were browsing.”

  I blink. “Sneaky, aren’t you? What is it?”

  He grins. “Your birthday present.”

  “In the words of your best friend, Jordan, you already gave me a birthday present on my birthday, remember?” I wiggle my eyebrows like an idiot.

  “Please don’t ever quote Jordan. Ever.” He laughs and rolls his eyes, handing me the box. “I wanted to get you a real birthday gift, even before Atlantic City, but I wasn’t sure what I should get you. Then I saw this necklace today and… I don’t know, it just reminded me of you.”

  I pull back the lid on the box and stare inside. There is the coolest, tiniest, most delicate antique silver compass I’ve ever seen on a simple, long silver chain. It’s really unique and beautiful. “I love it.”

  “Good. So do I,” he tells me as I put the box down and slip the necklace over my neck. It’s on a fairly long chain and it rests nicely between my breasts. “I feel like you’re my compass, Fleur. You guide me to be a better man.”

  I kiss him. “I can’t believe you ever worried about not being romantic enough. That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

  He smiles against my lips and as he starts to lift my dress up and off my body he confesses with a twinkle in his chocolate eyes, “I also thought it would look incredibly hot bouncing between your perky breasts as you rode me.”

  I laugh but make sure the necklace doesn’t end up on the floor with my dress so he can have his fantasy fulfilled. It’s the least I can do because he’s fulfilling all of mine—even the ones I didn’t know I had.

  Chapter 31

  Luc

  I expect her to still be asleep when I get back from my workout. Last night after amazing sex in the den we’d finished the centerpieces and gone to bed to have more mind-blowing sex. She shook me awake at four in the morning because, as usual, I didn’t hear my phone ringing. It was my agent. He was supposed to be arriving in Silver Bay in less than twelve hours so I assumed that either something had happened to change his plan or I was being traded. Every damn time he called me I felt like the sky was falling.

  “Paul? What is it?”

  “Just know that the whole fucking piece is a bullshit opinion piece and it means nothing,” he blurted out without so much as a hello. “And just so you know, I can confirm the Vipers have told me they are in talks with Toronto and Brooklyn. Serious talks.”

  I sat up in the dark. Rose laid a supportive hand on my back as I stared out at the darkness of my room. “Brooklyn? It’s serious?”

  Then she sat up too because just mentioning the city must have something to do with the trade—and Brooklyn meant playing with Devin. That wouldn’t just be a fresh start—it would be a dream come true.

  “Yeah. Not a done deal by any means, but they are interested,” he confirmed. “I just hope this asshole’s blog doesn’t scare them off. I wish we could sue the fucker.”

  “What blog?” Right. He’d originally called to tell me some opinion piece was bullshit. “Arthur Bryce. The former goalie turned ESPN dickhead. He wrote a blog for them about the top overrated players in the league.”

  “And I’m number…?”

  “One.”

  “One?!” I spat back and feel humiliation burn through my veins where my blood used to be. Number fucking one. Fuck him. “That old fuck hasn’t played since the eighties. He doesn’t know shit about modern hockey. Why the fuck do people even pay for his opinion? You’d get more knowledgeable information from a ten-year-old girl.”

  “That’s it, buddy. Get it out now with me because when the press asks you about this tonight at your charity event, you have to be cool and casual,” Paul explained to me. “Because this just became more than a nice gesture to the community. It’s your chance to prove you’re a professional by not reacting to this asshole. You wanted this event to be proof you’re not the tabloid boy-toy bar star the media tried to make you out to be, and now even more people will be watching you.”

  He told me he’d be arriving late afternoon and was staying at the Silver Bay Inn and then he hung up. Rose sat up and pressed her warm, bare torso to my back as I Google the blog. Sure as shit, there was my name and a particuarly unflattering picture of me getting slammed into the boards, by Devin of all people, next to a giant number one on his little slam book article. Rose read it over my shoulder; I could tell because I felt her body tense and her breathing stopped for a second.

  Then she’d kissed my neck softly and said, “He means nothing. Don’t let him get to you.”

  I’d let her pull me back down into bed but I couldn’t fall asleep, so I’d gotten up at five-thirty while the sun was cresting the mountains across the lake and I’d gone for a run.

  I meant it when I told Rose that I was going to try harder—take an active role—in my career. I’d definitely been giving my training my all this summer, but that article had made me really push myself today. I ran all the way into town, stopped at the diner for eggs and a protein shake and then ran home.

  When I get back, drenched in sweat and still breathing heavy, I’m shocked to see her standing in the front of the island in nothing but a bikini. It’s the minuscule black one she wore to the lake. That day feels like a lifetime ago, but the bikini is still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

  She smiles as she pours piping hot water from the kettle into one of the colorful mugs Donna bought me as a housewarming gift. “Morning, sexy.”

  “You wear that and call me sexy?” I counter as I pull my sweat-soaked tank top up over my head and drop it on the floor. A piece of hair escapes the haphazard bun I had it pulled back in and I push it from my eyes absently. I sit down at one of the stools across from her and gulp from my water bottle as she steeps her green tea.

  “That ESPN guy is a jerkoff. He has no business judging you.” Rose’s voice is soft but clear. “Jordan and Devin both called while you were out to tell you the same thing.”

  Although I didn’t see it as warranted, I think the Garrisons felt guilty because they were part of the reason I was judged so critically. There’d been a lot of articles written when I was drafted first overall about the sacrifices I had made to be a hockey player. Leaving my mother, living with the Garrisons in Silver Bay, working part-time jobs to help pay for equipment and still getting decent grades in school. And of course growing up with the Garrison brothers made for media comparisons now that we were all playing professionally. I had been the highest drafted player of the three of us and they’d both performed better since going pro—at least that was the media consensus.

  “‘At number one on the disappointment list is Luc Richard,’” I whisper fiercely, repeating pieces of the article that were seared into my brain. “‘Who would have thought the boy who looked like he was the hottest thing to come out of Silver Bay, Maine’s vast hockey pool would turn out to be so underwhelming the Las Vegas Vipers
can’t find a single team interested in trading even a bag of magic beans for him.’”

  “This from a guy who let in seven goals in one game to lose the Stanley Cup the one time he made it to the finals,” Rose snarks and shakes her head.

  “I’ve never made the playoffs,” I mumble as she takes a sip of tea.

  “Devin doesn’t make the playoffs every year.”

  “But he won the Cup his second year. Jordan won a Cup too.” I walk over and sit beside her on the swing.

  “All by themselves? No. Their team won. You can’t do it on your own, Luc.”

  “I was chosen number one in the draft. I’m supposed to carry a team.”

  “I know you’re working your ass off. Jordan always talks about how hard you’re working at the training sessions. And whatever team is smart enough to pick you up will by the one you win a Cup with,” she says with a resolute certainty, like she has a Magic Eight Ball and she’s seen the future. “And when you do, it won’t matter if Devin or Jordan did it faster. No one will care anymore. You’ll find your own path. You’ll make your own stats. And I’ll email that reporter every damn day and update him on every point you get to remind him how stupid he is.”

  I smile at that. She winks at me, the mug perched in front of those perfect, pouty lips of hers. If I was still with Nessa, Nessa wouldn’t have said any of those things. She’d whine that I was talking about myself too much and then strip so I would just fuck her and stop talking.

  Suddenly I realize this is what Jordan and Devin have. This is what makes a relationship right. This intense level of understanding and knowing how to say the right thing without even thinking about it. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with feelings for her. Not lust or desire—although they’re lurking inside me, as always—but the feeling that completely engulfs me right now is love. Pure, deep, passionate love.