Game On

chapter 34


“YOU GOING TO TELL ME what’s up?” Luc asked when he caught up with her.

“This is your party. You tell me,” she said.

“That’s not what I meant. You’re irritated, and I’d like to know why. Was it the phone call?”

“Can’t a girl have a bad day? Maybe I’m PMSing. Can we leave it at that?”

“No,” he said and picked up his pace to keep up with her.

The first two days in Washington had been filled with sightseeing and fine food. They’d laughed their asses off the night before while writing the critique, using their words to snipe at each other’s intellect while praising the cuisine. Their columns had such amazing rhythm, a synergy that could only be credited to their real-life chemistry. So for Clara to change her act so abruptly and behave completely out of character left him confused and angry.

The telephone call, which he’d never have known about had he not forgotten his wallet, had him burning with curiosity. He hadn’t overheard much, only caught the tail end of what appeared to be an intense conversation. Her responses were short, angry—you’re lying and what do you want from me—and he replayed them over and over in his mind, wondering to whom they were directed and what they meant. And why the hell did he feel nauseous about it, for God’s-damned-sake? He had enough to worry about today without this shit.

They didn’t linger by the Reflecting Pool, nor at the large phallic thingy, as Clara had called the monument. She seemed impatient and antsy, had lost the insatiable curiosity for all things American and, worst of all, her spark. God damn it to hell, he wanted to gloves-off clock the bastard responsible for taking it away.

“Can we try this again?” he said again when they got in the taxi. “What’s going on with you, Clara?”

“Nothing.” She smiled but it didn’t reach her cheeks, let alone put the brightness back in her eyes.

“I’m not blind, love. Or stupid, remember?”

Again, she gazed through him as if he were nothing more than a spectre, and forced a patronizing grin.

“Can we cut with the pretend amusement?” Luc pressed his fingers into the side of his knee. The dull throb wasn’t helping his disposition.

“I’m just not prepared to discuss this at the moment,” she said.

“Here we are, the phone booth,” said the cabbie as he pulled up to the curb.

“Later, then,” Luc said, impatience making his words angrier than he intended. “After we’re done here, Clara, I expect some answers.”

“We’ll see,” she said, sliding out of the backseat.

He watched puzzlement cloud her face when she looked up at the sign for the Verizon Center. “Isn’t this where—”

“Yup. My old team is in town for tonight’s game against the Capitals. They’re practicing right now so I thought...” He shrugged.

“And you’re okay with being here?”

He took a deep breath and reached for her hand, relieved that she didn’t pull away. “Uh-huh.” It was only a small lie. “As long as you’re with me.”

Every step toward the building became slower, more difficult. He should have told the taxi to wait.

Panic attacks are funny things. They toy with you first, taunting you from the shadows of your mind like some kind of horror movie monster calling, I’m cooooming, as your logic center screams, get back, please-please-please, just leave me be. The cold sweat begins to form on your forehead and upper lip, your heart starts to hammer, your ears buzz like your senses are trying to escape your corporeal self, then someone like Clara snaps you out of it with a “Do I smell okay?”

And it all just stopped. He squeezed her hand to acknowledge gratitude that she’d never know she deserved. “Lovely. An entire basket of laundry-fresh towels.”

She looked at him like she was having her own brand of panic attack. “I wish you’d told me we were coming here. I feel horribly unprepared.”

“What’s to prepare?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Something. Look at their stats, maybe? Put on perfume.”

Luc slowed and pulled her up against him, or tried to, but her body felt as tight as a compacted spring. “Hey, relax. It’s not like you’re meeting my parents. And do you have any idea what a locker room smells like? Even on your dirtiest, nastiest, just-walked-through-a-bog-then-bathed-in-sour-milk day, you’d smell and look like sunshine to these guys. Trust me.”

“Trust you,” she echoed in a hollow tone. She gave her hair a toss and asked, “Are you sure you’re okay being here?”

“I think so,” he said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head before she could pull away. “I’m not sure yet, but it feels…okay. Up until last week, I never thought I’d be able to set foot in a place like this again—and for the big, crowded games, definitely not—but it’s nice to know I can get some face-to-face interviews, catch pre-game practices, that kind of thing.” Before the shadow monsters hurled more taunts, he slipped his arm around her waist. “And someday, when I have sons of my own, maybe I’ll actually get to take them to their games. You gave me an incredible gift, mon amour. Thank you.”

He expected her to squeeze him back, maybe lean in for a kiss, so when she looked away, it stung.

Dieu, he was so stupid, showing her his vulnerability like this, clinging to her like some kind of drowning man to a rope. No wonder she looked away. She was probably embarrassed for him. He released his hold and stepped ahead of her, using the sharp end of the humility blade to stave of the panics.

“We’ll just watch from here until they’re done,” Luc said, leading her up a few stairs into the first row of seats.

Whatever bothered her seemed to ease after a few minutes of watching the players run drills. Her shoulders didn’t appear as hunched, and her face softened.

“It’s not as much fun without the rock music blaring,” she said, referring to the music they played during games.

“Or the pumped up organ music.”

“That too,” she said. “Hey, do you guys fight in practice as much as you do in games?”

“No. No reason to.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I mean, come on, grown men, grabbing each other’s shirts like bullies, punching on each other’s faces. Why? What’s it all about? I asked Riley, and he says it’s testosterone, but I think you all just want to rest for two minutes in that VIP box over on the other side.”

Luc laughed. Only Clara could come up with that. “No, it’s not like that. And there really is a reason. Reasons, in fact.”

“I’m waiting, and it better be damn convincing or I’m going to annihilate you on the blog tomorrow.”

“Sometimes it’s strategic—you just need to change the tempo of the game, like if your team is scored on, you pick a fight to get them to lose their momentum—”

“That’s a rather juvenile approach,” she interjected. “Why not just try harder?”

“Hold on, I got more,” Luc said, giving her hair a playful tug. Anything to touch her, to make some kind of physical contact with her. He wanted to clear the strained air around them but wasn’t sure how.

He was hoping for reaction, a smirk, hair toss, but nothing came. So he cleared his throat and continued, “Touching my goalie is a big no-no. Gotta protect your goalie at all times. Someone gets in his face, he needs a lesson.”

“That actually makes sense,” she conceded. “What else?”

“If you get a guy who’s usually not a fighter picking a fight, you can bet it’s something personal, like you got hacked on or trash talked.”

“Trash talked?”

“Yeah. I’m sure I don’t have to give you an example of the shit guys will say to each other to distract them. Things about your wife, you sister…just use your imagination. And sometimes it’s just because the other team is playing dirty. If you can’t do it with the puck, do it with your fists.”

“And we’re back to juvenile again.”

“Not really. The original reason for fighting is to give payback where the refs couldn’t or wouldn’t. That goes back to the moral fibre thing. There are certain codes in hockey, any sport really. Big guys don’t go after little guys and spearing and butt-ending are bad form, so if a player does these things and the refs don’t see it, the other guys will get back at the offender.”

Luc flexed his knee a couple of times to alleviate the burning sensation in his muscles. “Look, they’re about to wrap up. Any other questions before we go down?”

“Puck bunnies.”

“What?”

“Something you mentioned once, and I didn’t ask for clarification. But it made me picture dust bunnies hiding in the corners of the rink.”

“Ha! No. Puck bunnies are girls that like to hang around hockey players. Like groupies.”

“Oh!” Clara said, her cheeks reddening as the corners of her mouth turned down. “Like the C/Kaitlyns.”

“Exactly.”

“And you guys,” she said, cocking her chin toward the players. “You like that kind of thing? Hoards of girls all around you?”

“Before the game, they’re annoying as hell.”

“And after? Easy sex?”

“I can’t speak for us all, but most guys just want to relax and have some beers. Or maybe that’s a Canadian thing.” Luc chuckled. “I guess for the young guys it’s handy, but really, Clara, once you realize that everyone else has done her, the shine wears off.”

“And you…with the C/Kaitlyns?”

“Never!”

Her eyebrows shot up in disbelief, her mouth in a tight, grim line.

“Bean! I’d never had invited them for lunch if I had. I can’t believe you’d even think that. Dieu!”

Luc led her onto ground level, into the area reserved for players. He loved the arena from this perspective: bigger, brighter, and like being at the bottom of a very big bowl. The scrape and swoosh of blades cutting across the ice, the rack and clack of wooden sticks, pucks hitting the boards with such speed and power, he felt it in his bones, and amidst the sharp retorts of the coach’s whistle, there were shouts of “Biscuit!” and “Luc!” as they noticed him standing in the players’ box.

They were big, broadened by pads, heightened by their skates, imposing and intimidating. Most skated out of their way to where Luc stood, to salute, to nod, to fist bump, most of their hard-bristled jaws breaking into wide, genuine grins. And he grinned back with fondness, with pleasure. Maybe a little envy.

He spoke with a string of people, some suits, some players, some he introduced Clara to, some he didn’t because it didn’t matter, but she never let go of his hand, as if she knew his sanity was somehow entwined with their fingers. He assured all who dared ask that he was fine, busy, too busy, that yes, he missed playing but hey, it was no big deal and, with a laugh, that now he got to tell them all what they did wrong.

“Bored yet?” he asked Clara after a few minutes.

“No, no, I’m good,” she said and released his hand so she could turn her back and gaze up at the darkened stands. Her eyes were full of wonder, maybe a little bit of awe, and he remembered what it felt like the first time he stepped onto the ice n Montreal when he was a kid. He was just about to ask her if she wanted to lace up when it happened, when he heard the slap against the boards, when he saw a black streak of lightning coming toward them at a speed greater than his reactive instincts could match, and the Fates took another cruel swipe at Luc Bisquet.





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