Out of the Game3 (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Barracudas played their regular season home opener on Tuesday. Claire went with Erin and sat with the other wives and girlfriends, or WAGs as they were sometimes known. They were polite and friendly, but Claire got the impression that they didn’t expect her to be part of the group very long. That didn’t surprise her, considering Alex’s history. From what he’d said, his relationships didn’t usually extend very far into the regular season.

It was even more of a thrill to watch him play in person now that she was involved with him. Dressed in a jacket and tie, as required by the league, he’d pulled her aside for a short talk before he left for the Mesa Arena. She was wrapped in a towel, having just gotten out of the shower.

“So, about tonight,” he said, scratching behind his ear. “Don’t expect me to score a zillion goals or anything spectacular. I’m not Hart. I’m just a grinder.”

“A what?”

“A player who stays in the background, doing the dirty work.”

She smoothed his lapel, admiring the sexy stubble on his cheeks and jaw. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“No. Every team needs that kind of guy.” He shifted his gaze to a spot in the distance over her shoulder and shrugged. “I just don’t want you to be, you know...disappointed.”

She noted a tightness around his mouth that belied the casual smile he was trying to pull off. This was important to him—her watching him tonight. She suspected more than one woman had expressed annoyance at his poor performance. But since becoming a fan last year, Claire had learned that every win was a true team effort and that even though they could only assign two assists per goal, often it took all five players working in concert to score the point.

As cocky as he was, he harbored a bit of insecurity and she hated thinking about women finding that chink in his armor and jamming pointy things in it.

“Alex, honestly, I just want to see you out there having fun.”

“Really? You don’t want me to score a goal for you or get in a fight for you?”

“No.” Lord, it was worse than she’d thought. Women could be such bitches. “Not at all. Do your best. Grind it up good. That’s what’ll make me the happiest.”

The smile that dawned on his face warmed her up inside. He took her head in his hand and bent to kiss her. The kiss got heated. His hand found her breast under the towel. As he caressed it, his cock hardened. So did her nipple.

“Fuck, Claire. I need you.”

“Alex, no, you have a game. You’re supposed to be on time or get traded, remember?”

He pulled back, breathing somewhat hard. She could see him calculating the commute time in his head just like she was. He could make it in time, if they really stepped on it.

Impulsively, she dropped the towel. With an excited yelp, he yanked at his belt and opened his pants. In under a minute, he was sheathed in a condom and pushing himself inside her.

“Oh, God,” she gasped as her body stretched to accommodate him. He was so damn big.

“I want you to come,” he said.

“It’ll take too long,” she protested, gasping as he filled her over and over.

“Touch yourself. I’m not coming until you do. Don’t argue.”

She framed his face with her hands. “Just tell me how you feel.”

His rhythm was thrown off slightly, but he recovered. “I feel you, tight around me.”

She canted her hips to intensify the slap of his groin against her. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Fuck, are you seriously doing this
now
?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face aside. How could she be so stupid?

With a muttered curse, he went at it hard and fast with none of the finesse he usually employed. She heard his belt buckle clinking as he thrust. She thought seriously about faking an orgasm, but he came before she could make a decision.

As he caught his breath, she said, “Alex, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

“Don’t worry about it.” He kissed her cheek but it felt perfunctory. “We’re good. Sorry I came so fast.”

He got up and went straight to the bathroom. When he returned, he was tucking his shirt in. “Look, Cream Puff, my feelings about you are complicated. They’re hard for me to even sort out in my head, let alone put into words.”

“No, I get it.” She got her towel, really not wanting to have this conversation naked while he was fully clothed. “It’s the same with me, actually. I don’t know why I even said anything. Now, go on. You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up.”

For the rest of the afternoon, she felt like an idiot. She
was
in love with him. That much had become clear. Coming off a divorce, she should have been more careful. Erin had warned her. So had Tim. Had she listened? No. She’d assumed he was shallower than a sidewalk puddle and that he’d be a fun diversion, nothing more. But she’d been so wrong. He was kind and generous, and dedicated to his job. He could be so incredibly supportive. Once he’d gotten past his initial discomfort over painting, he’d thrown himself behind the auction and her. When her confidence had waned, he was there to boost it. When she’d encountered speed bumps, he’d helped her over them. And last, but not least, he was the most amazing, skilled, caring lover she’d ever had.

So, what had she been thinking? What was the dumbest thing a woman could do to the playboy she was in love with?

Pressure him.

Shit. There was probably some handbook on the internet to teach women what to do when her feelings were stronger than his, and she’d likely violated Rule One. But on the other hand, up until now, they’d been fairly open with each other about their feelings. Maybe he felt the same way about her, but just hadn’t realized it yet. Maybe out of the hundreds of women he’d been with, she was The One.

She believed that about as much as she believed in Santa. Which was not really, but with a tiny bit of hope.

* * *

Alex was on edge when he arrived at the Mesa Arena with only a minute to spare. He saw Fischer the rookie on the way to the dressing room and the kid was wearing that ugly orange tie. Usually Alex would have praised the kid on his dedication to the team, but not tonight. Right now his mind was on what had just happened with Claire.

Christ, all he’d wanted was a little afternoon delight before the game. A quickie to get his juices flowing.

What he did
not
want was his girlfriend leaning on him to commit right in the middle of a fuck.

He was already uneasy about how serious it was getting with her. Any day now she was going to realize he was nothing more than eye candy and a great lay. She was very intelligent. He was just a dumb jock. She deserved a good man who could talk art with her, who wouldn’t embarrass her by mistaking gazpancho—or whatever the hell it was called—for salsa. Sometimes when he was with her, he felt like a kid in the peewees trying to skate with an NHL player.

He should probably break it off with her now and save them both some pain. But when he thought about calling it quits, his gall bladder or his liver or something dumped bile into his stomach and he felt physically sick. Was that love? If so, he fucking hated it.

Later when Marchand announced the starters, Alex’s name was called which surprised the fuck out of him. His clean-eating habits seemed to be paying off. He had more energy, more focus. He’d spent extra time with the coaching staff.

The game had barely gotten started before he got in a fight. Some asshole cross-checked Fischer behind the play and wasn’t seen by the ref. Sometimes seasoned players tried to intimidate the rookies by being especially rough on them. Alex had done the same thing when the shoe was on the other foot, but not only was Fischer a good kid who left it all on the ice and had so far been putting up more than decent points, he was a teammate.

Without hesitation, Alex abandoned his position, challenged the guy and they went at it. The shithead knew what Alex was on him for and it was a good fight. They both got a few punches in, Alex made his point, and the guy went down with a strong twist of Alex’s body.

Of course, they both received five-minute vacations in the penalty box, but it was worth it. Fischer most likely felt more like a part of the team and the opposing team got the message that shit like that wasn’t going down tonight.

* * *

Claire’s heart never failed to go into overdrive when Alex fought someone. Tonight, the audience roared when they saw him cross over to confront the other player. Their gloves flew off and they grabbed each other’s jerseys while trying to land a punch.

She stood up without realizing it, her hands in fists too, as if she could go down there and help him out. Luckily, the fight didn’t last very long, and when it was over, Alex seemed fine. Of course,
she
was an emotional wreck. She couldn’t imagine having a job where brutal fistfights were a real and regular possibility.

“What happened? Why did they fight?” Claire asked her sister.

“I don’t know. I didn’t really catch it.”

The Jumbotron replays didn’t show what lead up to the fight, so Claire would have to find out later.

The first period passed with no scoring by either team. The second almost did too, but in the final moments, Alex scored. With only .3 seconds on the clock, he zinged the puck toward the net and it slipped in under the goaltender’s glove. Everyone in the arena jumped to their feet. As the goal song boomed from the speakers, she danced with Erin and then watched the replays hooting and hollering.

“Doesn’t get any closer than that!” some random fan behind them said.

“And Sullivan! He’s one assist away from a Gordie Howe!”

Claire leaned in towards Erin. “What’s a ‘Gordie Howe’?”

“I have no idea.”

She’d have to ask Alex about that too.

By now, the players had retreated to the locker room to regroup during the intermission. While the Zamboni resurfaced the ice, the video screen flashed a graphic: “Vanguard Sports Medicine Group presents ‘What Was She Thinking?’” Then a photo of Leonardo DaVinci’s
Mona Lisa
appeared. She was smiling, sort of. They were playing goofy jazz music with a lot of xylophone as Hart Griffin came on. He was wearing his jersey and holding a stack of photos. He showed the camera a photo of the Mona Lisa and straight-faced, said, “My lips are tired.”

Claire gasped. “Erin, look. They’re doing it. They’re doing it. That’s my idea!”

They watched as several players were shown answering the question. Most of them laughed as they tried to come up with an answer. Claire remembered being there the day they shot the segments. It had been so much fun seeing the guy’s reactions as they looked at each portrait. The filming had taken longer than she’d expected. Someone on the video team told her that it was possible to spend an hour shooting and only end up with five good seconds. Claire watched, eager to see what they finally whittled it down to.

Gil Carpenter glanced at the photo then said in a falsetto, “If only I could be famous...”

Alex quipped, “What’s for dinner?”

Typical Alex.

Calder Griffin, resting his chin on his linked fingers and batting his eyelashes: “That Leonardo is one hot dude.”

They ended the segment with Jason Locke saying, “Nothing. She’s thinking about absolutely nothing.”

“That was funny,” Erin exclaimed when it was over. “You thought of that?”

Claire nodded. “The L.A. Kings did something like it but with candids of their teammates. I thought this would be a fun twist, what with the auction and all. There’s going to be a series of those, with them reacting to different works of art.”

Erin looked thoughtful. “That reminds me. I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. The auction? That was really something.”

“Thanks, sis. That means a lot.”

“You really have a knack for event planning. Maybe you should open your own business and give Quentin a run for his money.”

Claire smiled. “Oh no. One bridezilla was enough for me.”

With a light backhanded slap on the arm, Erin laughed.

* * *

The Barracudas ended up losing, which sucked. Claire and Erin flashed their VIP passes to get to the area where friends and family gathered after the game to wait for the players. One by one they emerged, most with wet hair and warm-ups on. When Alex finally came out, he scanned the crowded room then when he spotted her, he got a silly grin on his face that made her heart laugh.

They made their way toward each other.

“You look great.”

She’d worn jeans and a midnight blue jersey that said SULLIVAN in bold silver block letters on the back. She had others at home with other player’s names. Once upon a time, she’d had to dither about which one to wear. Now, there was no question.

He pulled her close and hugged her. “I like seeing my name across your shoulders. Makes me want to point at it and tell all the guys, ‘Read it and weep, motherfuckers. She’s all mine.’”

Her face heated. They seemed to be putting that awkward post-coital moment behind them. If he was planning to cast her aside, he wouldn’t have given her such an enthusiastic greeting.

“I’m sorry you lost, but I saw your goal. That was a beautiful shot.”

“Thanks. I heard the guys on the bench yelling that the clock was running out, and I just sent it toward the net and prayed.”

“It near about gave me a heart attack,” Elliot said as he joined them.

He and Alex did that fake-spit ritual she found so amusingly disgusting.

“Well, if you’re not going to die in bed with a beautiful woman,” Alex said, “the next best place is at a hockey game.”

“Amen,” Fleming said. “Say, have you seen Jeremy?” he asked Claire. “Is he here tonight?”

“Yes, he’s over there.” Claire pointed.

“Perfect. Come with me.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, suddenly nervous. Alex took her hand and went along.

Elliot smiled. “You’ll find out.”

They found Jeremy, with Hart of course, but he didn’t know what was going on either.

Elliot went to a small podium she hadn’t noticed before. “If I could have your attention please?” When the chatter died down and people turned to face him, he went on. “As most of you are aware, a few nights ago we held an art auction at which all of the works were created by our boys in blue. The proceeds are to go to the Barracuda Foundation, which funds programs for the youth of San Diego.”