On the Surface (In the Zone) (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

The next morning at Tim’s apartment, Erin got out of bed without waking him, put on one of his shirts and went to the kitchen to make breakfast. Last night, they’d gotten to his place around one-thirty. He’d looked so sexy in his suit, even with all the wrinkles it had gotten in the limo, so when he told her that games always made it hard for him to get to sleep, she’d put her hand on his groin and said, “Funny, I don’t feel anything hard at all.”

His eyebrows had gone up, then he’d laughed and marched her right to his bedroom. They’d probably gotten all of four hours of sleep.

In his kitchen, she found stuff for breakfast: eggs, fruit, coffee, bread. She was cracking eggs into a bowl when he came into the kitchen looking deliciously disheveled.

“Why’d you leave the bed?” he asked, pouting a little. He wore a pair of gym shorts. He had some random bruises on his legs and torso from the game the previous night.

She took a moment to admire his magnificent chest as she beat the eggs with a fork. “Self-preservation.”

He grinned and after pushing the bowl of eggs aside, he gave her a minty good morning kiss. Even though they’d spent most of the night messing up his sheets, she found herself getting aroused when he slid his tongue into her mouth and his hand over her behind.

She broke the kiss. “Tim. Again? Really?”

He just started nuzzling her neck. “Silly question.”

“Oh my God,” she panted. “We can’t.”

But they did. A quickie right there in the kitchen in that misty-gray San Diego sunlight. That confident bastard had come prepared with a condom tucked into his waistband too. Her lack of underwear just made it that much easier for him—not that she put up much of a protest. She couldn’t get enough of him. It was insane.

Afterward, he kissed her again and said, “Nothing like a little pre-game workout.”

“You have a game today? But you just played last night.” She composed herself and figured out where she’d left off with the breakfast preparations. Tim had already dug into the big fruit salad she’d made.

He shrugged. “Sometimes you play back to back. It happens. Tonight it’s the Ducks, here at home. This is good. I love fruit salad.”

She put some butter in the pan. “Is that that Disneyland team?”

“Disney sold them a few years ago. They’re just the Anaheim Ducks now.”

“I can’t go,” she complained, stirring the eggs. “Not that you offered me tickets.”

He got up from the table. “Hey, anytime you want to go to a game. Let me know. A day or so advance notice would be great, but if not, I could probably still swing something.” He came and put his arms around her. “I loved having you there last night. It meant a lot. I think that’s part of the reason why I got that hat trick. I knew you were watching. I wanted to impress you.”

She divvied up the eggs onto the plates she’d put out earlier, enjoying the feeling of his big, warm body behind hers. “I wish I could go to every game. I loved watching you, but I have to work tonight.”

Erin thought hard about calling in sick, but she couldn’t let her infatuation with him turn her into one of those people who shirked their responsibilities. She took her job seriously. When that nurse in labor and delivery finally retired, Erin wanted to be the first person they called. And besides, she needed to talk to Adrian.

* * *

They said goodbye not too long after breakfast because Tim had to get to the BIC for practice. When he arrived, everyone from the parking attendant on up congratulated him on the night before. He felt like fucking royalty. Even though he respected the Blackhawk management, a small vindictive part of him hoped they were second-guessing themselves right about now because old Tim Hollander still had the shit.

During practice, the team worked on forechecking, rebounds and penalty kills, and Tim practiced face-offs and shooting. Throughout the morning, he felt good and loose. He’d been a little worried about his gear because all of it was new, but his skates were broken in by now. Judging from his performance at last night’s game, obviously his stick was perfect. He’d tried a different tape on the blade and of course, Erin’s good luck kiss had sealed the deal.

He grinned like an idiot as he took off his pads. Last night had been one of the best in his entire life. He couldn’t help but wonder if that could
be
his life for the next few years until he retired. Not the hat-trick shit. Obviously he couldn’t score those willy-fucking-nilly. No. The part of last night he’d valued more than anything was having Erin in the arena watching him, rooting for him, cheering for him and afterward, sharing herself in the most intimate way possible. God, he wanted that more than anything. Players he knew with happy marriages—those guys had it all, and Tim envied them. His own brief marriage to Waverly ten years ago had been a farce, a sad example of what a marriage should not be. With Erin, he dared to hope he might, soon maybe, have a real marriage, a relationship based on love and trust, companionship and hot, frequent sex. Because he
was
in love with her. Head over fucking heels in love.

He wanted to spend every minute of the day and night with Erin. He was ready for her to move in tomorrow and bring all her girly woman shit with her. The pink razors and the tampons and a thousand pairs of shoes. Hell, as long as he had Erin, she could bring whatever the hell she wanted.

As he left the dressing room, he suddenly realized if she moved in with him, he’d have someone to come home to after road games.

Fuck.

Thinking about how sweet that would be made his eyes and chest hurt. He abruptly walked faster toward the lounge where the staff usually laid out food. Players sat at tables, chatting. Others were on their phones. Some kicked back on the couches and watched the NHL Network. Tim spotted Jean Claude Chastain eating and walked over to sit next to him.

Chastain nodded a greeting.

“Great job last night, Holly.”

“Thanks.”

They ate in silence for a few moments. Even though he’d had breakfast with Erin, Tim splurged on a stack whole-wheat pancakes with blackberries and syrup, a pile of turkey bacon and a banana.

“So, I was wondering, how long have you been married?” Tim pointed toward Chastain’s wedding ring with his fork.

Chastain shrugged. “Six years. I have two boys. René is three and Antoine’s the baby. He was born a year ago next month.” The typical proud father, he pulled out his phone and showed Tim several pictures.

“Good-looking boys.”

“Thanks,” Chastain replied.

“How is that? Being married?”

Leaning back and sucking at his teeth, Chastain regarded Tim with a wary, puzzled expression. “It’s good.”

“I’m just wondering because...” Tim scratched his chin.

“Wait a second. I get it. You’re getting serious over that nurse from Q Burger. The one you beat on that guy over.”

“First of all,” Tim said, “that wasn’t ‘over’ her. He didn’t want her. He just wanted her to butt out of his business.”

“But that’s her,” Chastain insisted. “The same woman.”

“Yes, it’s her. Her name’s Erin.”

“Did you know her before that?”

Tim shook his head. “No. I’d never seen her before in my life.”

“And you’re that serious about her already? That Q Burger thing was only a few weeks ago.”

Tim winced. “Keep your voice down, will you?” He looked around. No one seemed to be paying attention, thank God. “I don’t want the whole team knowing my private business. Yes. It’s serious. I’m serious. I don’t know if
she
is yet, but there’s this doctor guy at her work...”

“Ohhhh.” A knowing expression came over Chastain’s face. “So you’re feeling territorial.”

Tim exhaled. “Shit. Forget I said anything.”

Chastain laughed. “Hey, calm down. I’m just fucking with you.” He chugged some orange juice and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “So, let me see. The marriage thing. Well, it’s got its pros and cons, like anything. When PMS hits, or as we call it in our house, ‘The Rage,’ you can’t go to your own place like you could when you were single. And the kids really put a cramp in your sex life.” He leaned closer to Tim. “I mean, fuck. You a breast man?”

Tim blinked. “Yeah. Fucking love them.”

“Exactly. So, here’s the deal. I get that breast milk is like nature’s superfood for babies and it creates this unbreakable bond between the mother and the kid, but I really fucking miss having her tits to myself. I think she’s planning on weaning Antoine by Christmas, which would be like the best present ever. Merry Christmas, Jean Claude. Here’s that pair of knockers you asked Santa for.”

Tim laughed. He’d had no idea Chastain had a sense of humor, or that he would share intimate details of his life with him either. This was a kinder, gentler Chastain than the one who used to slam him into the boards when they were on different teams.

“On the other hand,” Chastain continued, “you never have to use condoms. I don’t know about you, but that right there is heaven on fucking Earth.”

“Yeah. I remember.” At Chastain’s raised eyebrow, Tim said, “I was married for a while, but we got divorced after Mollie died. I actually wanted to know more about what it’s like to be married to someone you really love. I mean, I cared about Waverly. I still do, but we weren’t head over heels or anything near.”

Chastain nodded. “Gotcha.” He thought for a moment. “Well, honestly, talking from this side of the wedding, I wonder sometimes why we guys resist it so hard. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty, but take it from me, what you miss out on in variety, you gain threefold in constancy and support. I mean, Marie is my rock. She’s my number-one fan. She always leaves a note for me if she’s not awake when I get home from a game.”

Tim nodded. “Nice.”

“She knows me, in and out. She knows when to leave me alone. She knows when I need a kick in the ass. She knows when I need to blow off some steam. She knows everything about me, good and bad, and loves me anyway.” He chuckled. “And she gave me my sons. Tim, I never expected what being a father would mean to me. Those little guys are my world. Everything I do,
everything
is for them and Marie. The three of them are my reason for living.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not having kids.”

Chastain looked surprised, then seemed to realize. “Sure. I can see how you might not want to go down that road again.”

Tim lifted a shoulder but said nothing more. Just because Chastain shared his life story didn’t mean Tim felt like it.

“All right,” Chastain said after a moment, “you might change your mind. Give it a little more time. Not too much, though, because you’re not getting any younger.”

Tim laughed. “Fuck you, you tit-worshiping whiner.”

Tim expected a juicy comeback, but Chastain just looked at him. Tim realized that a lot of the guys were looking at him. Chastain tapped his glass with his knife.

“Oh, fuck no,” Tim said with a sinking feeling.

He pushed his chair back and sure enough he’d been shoe checked.

The shoe check was a time-honored but highly juvenile prank that took place anywhere hockey players gathered to eat. One player crawled under the table and placed a spoonful of some kind of sauce on someone else’s shoe. Usually Tim had his guard up and could catch the culprit before he completed his mission, but today, he’d been intent on his conversation with Chastain, the rat bastard who knew and hadn’t said anything.

A messy blob of whipped butter slid down the side of Tim’s cross-trainer as one of the goddamn rookies emerged from under the table, a spoon in his hand.

Tim cursed. He should have been expecting this. A month ago, the Barracuda organization had hosted a luncheon to commemorate the end of training camp and the beginning of the preseason, and because it was tradition to prank the rookies at this event, Jason had enlisted Tim and Alex’s help. Tim and Alex had roped in the two rookies, ostensibly to wax on about their Stanley Cup glory back in the day and impart valuable advice, and the rookies were obliged to stand and listen. A good portion of one’s rookie year in the NHL was spent demonstrating respect toward the more experienced players. Whether this meant fetching towels and water or waiting until the older players had gotten their food before helping themselves, each of the new guys was expected to pay his dues. So, while Tim and Alex acted like pompous assholes, Jason had found their place cards and dropped a tasty little sardine in their water glasses. (Barracudas, Tim found out, loved pranking with sardines or anchovies.) The fish turned the water murky and put a disgusting oily sheen on top. Tim had howled with laughter when the boys discovered they’d been pranked.

Tonight, the rookies had decided to show they had teeth. Tim didn’t like the butter on his shoe, but he respected their need for retaliation.

“So, come on,” Tim said, taking his shoe off to show everyone as was the custom. “How come you didn’t nail Locksy? He’s the one who put the sardines in your water.”

Jason chortled. “They know better than to fuck with me.”

That’s when Tim saw movement under Jason’s table across the room. He picked up his glass and moved it to the right for no apparent reason. Jason noticed, as Tim had intended. A long time ago, the three friends had devised a way to signal each other when a shoe check was in progress. Tim guessed that rookie number one had been too stealthy to have been noticed, otherwise Alex or Jason would have alerted him.

“Oh, right,” Tim said. “No one fucks with the captain. Except that one ice girl...what’s her name? Cassidy? The one with the amethyst belly ring?”

Everyone knew damn well Jason would never even
joke
about sex with a member of the Ice Crew, let alone have sex with her. Fraternization with ice crew members brought strict punishment and fines. But Tim had needed a conversational diversion interesting enough to gain everyone’s complete attention.

“First of all, I’m not fucking Cassidy,” Jason said. “She’s not my type and she’s way too young. Second of all, when you try to fuck with the captain—” He pulled up the tablecloth to expose rookie number two, Mike Primavera. “You’re the one who ends up getting screwed.”