Pieces of Perfect (12 page)

“Lily, I know you’re upset.  I can see it on your face.  Would you look at me?  Please.”  His voice was kind, almost pleading.
 

I turned my body toward him, but struggled to maintain eye contact.
 “I’m not upset.  Just embarrassed, I guess.”  I let out a low, nervous laugh.
 

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
 Really.  I think I understand, and we don’t need to make a big deal about it.  I just want you to know that it doesn’t change how I feel about you if that’s what you think.”  

I was relieved at his confession.  It took everything I had to ask him this next question, but I had to know the answer.  “How
do
you feel about me exactly?”
 

He breathed in deeply, clearly considering his answer.
 “A middle school parking lot probably isn’t the most appropriate place to be discussing all this.  I really just wanted to make sure you were okay.  I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.  Let me take you out Saturday night and we’ll talk about it then.”  There was a hint of a smile in his eyes.  He put his hand softly on my chin and lifted it gently as he leaned in to give me a small kiss.  It was innocent enough.  His lips barely grazed mine, but they lingered just long enough to leave me wanting more.  “What do you say?” he whispered with his mouth still almost touching mine.

“I say I'll see you Saturday.”
 

Twenty-One
 

The rest of the week passed without much excitement. I tried to stay focused on work, and even managed to take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather to run a couple of miles on Tuesday and Thursday. Adam and I spoke on the phone once and exchanged a few text messages about nothing in particular. On Thursday, he called to tell me that he’d pick me up at 7:00 on Saturday. He told me to “dress formally”
and that he’d take care of the rest. I couldn’t help but tingle with excitement, though anxiety wasn’t far behind. He had promised me a conversation and no matter the awkwardness it may cause, I intended to have it.
 

I didn’t see much of Max. He came down to lunch once or twice, but no visits to my classroom or run-ins in the halls. By Friday, I was starting to wonder if I had done something to cause his sudden absence from my day-to-day routine. Friday afternoon rolled around and I was contemplating sending him a text to see if he’d respond and to get a gauge of whether he was mad at me or not, when I heard him.

“Hey, doll.” His voice sent shivers down my spine as I realized that I had missed that voice this week, as well as the man behind it.
 

“Hey, yourself. Where have you been, stranger?” My tone was more accusatory than I had intended.
Christ, Lily, he’s not one of your students.
 

“Sorry I’ve been M
.I.A. A lot of stuff needed to be done this week. I had to finish putting the schedule together, going through the purchase orders and making sure all of the new equipment was accounted for, and a ton of other shit that really sucked. How was your week?”

“Fine. Nothing interesting to report.” My voice was disinterested, dismissive almost. I was feeling a well of emotions, but I couldn’t explain any of them. Was I actually
angry
that he hadn’t made time for me since Monday? That couldn’t be it.
Could it?
I needed to get over whatever it was that was causing this emotional upheaval. I had no right to be angry. We were just friends. I sometimes went weeks without talking to a lot of my other friends. Of course, I wasn’t fucking any of
them
.
 

“Any plans for the weekend?” I asked in an intentionally sweet voice, hoping to overshadow my initial bitchiness.
 

“No, not really. That’s actually why I stopped by.
 A bunch of the teachers are going to Flanagan’s for happy hour. I was thinking about stopping by. Do you wanna go?”
 

“Sure,” I said, entirely too eagerly.
Did I have Multiple Personality Disorder?
One minute I’m pissed at him for no reason, and the next I’m nearly jumping up and down to spend time with him.
“I’ll meet you there in about 20 minutes.”

“Great,” he said, smiling. I found my own smile lasting long after he had left my room. I had never spent time with Max beyond the confines of normal school hours. I was excited to hang out with him outside of this building, though I couldn’t have told you why. I shutdown my computer, grabbed my coat and purse, turned off my lights, and headed to Flanagan’s.

*              *              *
 

I parked my car next to Max’s and headed into the bar I had sat in with Tina only a month prior. So much had changed since
then; it almost felt like an entire lifetime had been lived between then and now. I walked in, smiled at a few other teachers, before my eyes settled on Max. He was sitting at a high-top on the far side of the bar. He was holding a pint of beer, talking to a few of our male teachers about who knew what, though one could guess. Sports.
 

The females on the faculty were mostly huddled together, and an amateur observer may think they were partaking in gossip and exchanging beauty secrets. However, I knew better. They had gathered about 10 feet from Max, directly between him and the bar. A few stood there with their backs against the bar, their elbows resting on the counter, effectively pushing their breasts out as far as they could. If Max wanted another drink, he’d have to push through them, and, if one of them were lucky, his chest would meet theirs in a pseudo-sexual encounter they could thrive on for weeks.
Poor, bitches
, I thought as I walked toward Max’s table.
 

With every step I took, I felt more powerful, more important, more confident. Because I knew damn well that if anyone was going home with Max Samson tonight, it was going to be me.
Watch and learn, ladies. The master is here.
 

“Hi, guys,” I said cheerily. The men mumbled hellos, anxious to get back to their conversation.

“Here, Lily, I saved you a seat,” Max said as he pulled a bar stool from under the table and pushed it toward me. I laid my coat down on it and then turned toward the bar.
 

“I’m going to get a drink. You want one?” I asked Max. I almost asked if anyone else would like a drink, but thought better of it. I was not about to buy all these guys a beer, and
since they were
teachers, I knew they’d take me up on it if I offered.

“I’ll go. What do you want?” he said, rising from his stool.
 

I sat down on mine as I said, “Surprise me.”
 

He smiled mischievously as he began walking toward the bar. “You guys all good?” he asked as he walked away, not allowing them time to actually respond. Clearly Max didn’t want to buy these guys a round either.

I watched with interest as Max approached the estrogen snake pit. The women saw him coming and instantly improved their postures: shoulders back, chest
s out. “Excuse me, ladies,” Max said amicably. The women had clearly hoped that Max would push through them, giving them opportunity to brush up against his rugged form, which was only slightly covered by a white thermal shirt that showcased his muscular arms and khaki cargo pants that snuggly hugged his hips.
 

But he didn’t even attempt to climb through their web of palpable desire. He actually waited for them to move out of his way. I damn near laughed out loud. I could only imagine the disappointment flooding through each one of them, and I almost felt bad.
After all, I liked most of them well enough. I wouldn’t call them friends, but I had carried on conversations with all of them at one time or another. I even ate lunch every day with a few of them. But I didn’t appreciate anyone trying to get cheap thrills from Max. He was worth more than that.
 

As he walked away from the bar and back to our table, I could feel the hate emanating from the den of lions. Not true hate, but a jealous hate that would ebb away as the weekend progressed.
Don’t hate the player, hate the game, skanks.

“Tequila sunrise,” said Max, as he placed the drink in front of me. I glanced up at him questioningly. “It looks pretty,” he explained as he sat down, shrugging his shoulders. The other men drew away from our table, realizing that they no longer held Max’s attention.

“So,” he said.

“So,” I replied. We both laughed. Max and I typically fell into conversation so easily, this hesitation was foreign to us. It was like neither of us knew the other outside of Swift Middle School. We were starting from scratch.
 

“So,” I began again, “why did you come back to Pennsylvania?” I already knew the answer to this, but I wanted to hear his version of it. I also wanted to know if he’d tell me the truth.
 

“Long story,” Max exhaled, staring at his beer. When he finally lifted his eyes to me, I raised my brows, prompting him to proceed. “I’m sure you already know most of it. It’s been all over the press.”

“Are you insinuating that I use my free time to scour the Internet for information about you?” I asked jokingly, though the joke was on me. I had, in fact, done just this on numerous occasions.
 

He chuckled silently, and then stared at his hands as they cupped his glass while he continued, “It seems that the dashing man before you has a bit of an image problem. Since I decided to retire last season, my agent said that there has been some interest from a few sports stations in having me join their broadcasting teams. But, they were all reluctant to hire me because I’m notoriously difficult to work with.”

“You? Difficult? I would never have guessed,” I teased, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

“I know, can you imagine?” Max laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. My heart felt for him. It was clear that the judgment that followed him around weighed on him. “It’s my own
fault,” he continued. “I know that. I’m really such a prick.” As he said this, he ran his hand through his hair, clearly disconcerted by his own openness.

I sat silently, giving him the time he needed to decide whether to continue or change the subject. Ultimately, he continued.
 

“Confidence is one thing I have never lacked. I have been an arrogant son of a bitch since I could walk. And when I made it into the NHL, I got so caught up in my own importance that I thought I could walk on water. I felt impervious and got involved in self-destructive behaviors just to prove that nothing could touch me. Gambling, drinking, womanizing, not going to practice, not running plays the right way, grandstanding in front of my teammates. It was really fucking disgraceful.

"Then, three years ago, I found myself without a team. No one wanted me. I went from being one of the best players currently in the game to being a liability that no one wants to employ. And even then, I couldn’t get it together. A few teams gave me a shot, and I fucked all of them up. It wasn’t until this past season, when there wasn’t even a slight whisper of an interest, that I knew I had no choice. I either willingly retire with a tiny shred of dignity, or I go unsigned and deal with all of the embarrassment that comes with that. My agent told me he could get me into ESPN or one of the other major networks if I showed that I wasn’t a total asshole. So, here I am, trying to do just that."

When he was finished, he looked up at me, trying to gauge my reaction. I didn’t know what to say, so I went with the first thing that popped into my head. “That really sucks.”
I could be really eloquent sometimes.
 

“Yeah, yeah, it sucks.” He laughed again and this time, it showed in his eyes. I breathed easier, happy that I wasn’t going to have to keep him from swallowing a bottle of painkillers or anything.
 

“Uh, so, the womanizing. Give me a ballpark figure. Exactly how many women have you picked up in airports?” I spoke in an easy, casual tone, but that’s not what I felt. I wanted to know the answer to this question. I had to know it.

“I have no idea. Couldn’t even give you a ballpark. I can tell you that I was tested by our team doctor monthly, at my own insistence. And I always wore a condom. I was definitely not trying to knock up some gold digger, that’s for sure.”
 

I felt mildly better, but not completely. Of course, I was concerned about any sexually transmitted diseases that could be coursing through those veins across from me. But, I think what really affected me was that I hadn’t been special. Not in the least. Max had picked up girls all over this country, and probably some in a few others, and had had his way with each of them. This is what was truly bothering me when I asked my next question.
 

“Did any of the relationships last for any significant amount of time?”

Max stared at me a moment, as if trying to read on my face how he should answer this question. “Tell the truth,” I urged.
 

“If they did, it was out of convenience, not attachment,” he replied simply.

“You never met a single girl who you thought you could have a meaningful relationship with?” I couldn’t believe that Max had never loved a woman, never let himself emotionally invest in someone. I suddenly found him very hard to relate to.

“Lily, you saw
firsthand the kind of girl I attract at the bar last week. Those vapid bloodhounds are not settling down material. Besides, I never thought myself capable of committing to one woman before.”

My ears pricked up at his words. “Before?” What did that mean? Did he mean before I had forced him to discuss it? Or, did “before” include the present? So, could he see himself committing now? I desperately wanted to ask these questions. My mouth opened to unleash them, but . . . I couldn’t.
 

If I were honest with myself, which I had forced myself to be almost too often lately. I didn’t ask out of fear. Fear that he would say that he never thought about commitment before
me
; that I had been the one to change Max Samson. That I was the one he could commit to. I didn’t want to shoulder that responsibility, especially when I didn’t feel the same.