Across the Line (In The Zone) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Becca Chen couldn’t believe her eyes when she recognized Calder Griffin. She should have known that the bad luck was coming. She always got good luck, then bad luck, then good luck, then bad luck.

The good luck had been a fantastic trip to San Diego. She’d attended the American Restaurateurs’ Convention to find out more about adding coffee drinks to her menu, a third type of cup. From what she’d learned, she might be frothing up cappuccinos by the time the cold weather came. Serving coffee drinks meant quite a few changes: another menu, a machine, cups and consumables, like coffee, milk, syrups. She’d discussed exactly what might be needed space-wise with some of the vendors at the convention, but had to go home, crunch some numbers and see if she had the budget and room for everything.

But as usual, bad luck had struck and her flight back to New York had been overbooked.

Then, good luck...she’d volunteered to get bumped, so they upgraded her to first class. She’d never flown first class before.

Bad luck...she’d run into the guy who had tormented her in the fifth grade and made her cry once.

On the bright side, she expected her luck to change back to good now.

Maybe Calder Griffin would choke on his muffin.

“I remember you now,” he said.

“Do you?” she asked. At least he looked embarrassed about not recognizing her.

“Yeah. I was a real jerk to you. Me and my buddy Pete. We called you that stupid name and I drew teeth with braces all over your stuff.”

“With a permanent marker,” she said. “On my Game Boy Advance, my pencil box and binder, my
Backstreet Boys backpack...
”

He ducked his head. “I’m really sorry about all that.”

“You should be.”

“But,” he said hesitantly, “that was a long time ago and you still sound really upset. Especially about your Backstreet Boys backpack.”

She rewound the conversation in her head and realized he was right. She
had
sounded a bit shrill. And in the first-class section too. If first-class passengers screeched, it was probably about the vintage of the wine, not vandalized school supplies.

If she put aside the fact that he was a snotty little shit when he was ten, he was actually very good-looking—dark, unruly hair a little too long, ears that didn’t stick out too much, hazel eyes that crinkled when he smiled, which was often.

And he played hockey for San Diego. She’d lied before when she said she wasn’t a hockey fan. She loved hockey. She just didn’t see too many San Diego games. They aired too late on the East Coast if they were aired at all.

His own smile crept back, like a dog after being reprimanded for peeing in the house. “I
am
honestly sorry, you know.” He peeled his second muffin. “For the record, I don’t call people names anymore.”

She shook her head slowly. “You. Are. A. Liar.”

“Am not.” He straightened in his seat, a righteous scowl on his face.

She pointed at him with her fork. “Are you telling me you don’t trash-talk during your games?”

“That’s not the same thing,” he said. “Chirping is just part of the job. Nobody’s feelings are hurt in a hockey game. On the other hand, what I did to you when we were in school...that was bullying, plain and simple. I guess I should have said I don’t pick on defenseless little girls anymore.”

“I wasn’t
that
defenseless,” she protested. “I punched you in the arm, if you remember. After the backpack thing.”

He laughed. “You know what? I forgot about that punch until now.”

“Of course you did. It was a girl punch. You said so. ‘You punch like a girl,’ you said. And I so cleverly came back with, ‘That’s ’cause I
am
a girl.’” She stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed.

“Ah, but what you don’t know is that you killed my arm.” He pushed the rest of the muffin in his mouth. “I couldn’t show it, of course, but my arm ached for days after that.”

“It did?” She perked up, then narrowed her eyes. “Or are you just saying that?”

He held up a hand. “I am not just saying that.”

She couldn’t resist a self-satisfied smirk. “Well, that
almost
makes up for my backpack.” She sighed. “I really liked that backpack.”

“I’d be happy to reimburse you for it,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Like I could ever replace my Backstreet Boys backpack.”

He shrugged and peeled his third and final muffin.

“So, what brings you back to Ithaca?” she asked. “Longing for the small-town life after the big city?”

He glanced out the window at the thin, wispy white clouds. “It’s the off-season. I’m visiting my mom, spending a week with her. What about you? What was so interesting in San Diego? A Backstreet Boys concert?”

She gave him an amused look. “Good one. No. It was a restaurateurs’ convention. I’m thinking about adding coffee drinks to my menu. You know, addict those college kids to caffeine and then reap the profits.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me.”

He asked her questions about her café and she found herself talking about the many challenges of owning her own business—from finding good help, to making sure her vendors didn’t rip her off, to attracting new customers. He was a good listener and seemed honestly concerned about her problems—not at all like the creep she remembered from Finger Lakes Elementary. He was funny and charming, and really damn good-looking. His upper body made her feel like a giggly girl whose one goal was to get him to flex. A bicep. A pectoral. Any muscle would do.

Calder angled his head and a lock of hair fell over his forehead. “So, you want to know what I think?”

She had just told him about a soup that wasn’t selling well, but that a few customers absolutely loved.

“You can’t keep a soup on the menu if only two people buy it. You’re in business to make money.”

“But I don’t want to lose customers.”

“How much money do those two customers bring in? Enough to justify you throwing out the rest of that batch of soup?”

“No,” she admitted. “And I don’t throw it out. I take it home and eat it myself.”

“Then done deal. Dump the soup. It’s a dud. Try something new in its place.”

He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know already. She just hadn’t wanted to take action, partly because getting rid of a soup seemed like failure, and she hated failure. She also didn’t want to disappoint her customers, even if there were only two of them involved. But Calder had a great point. Booting a soup meant room for a new creation. That’s how she’d have to look at it: not as a failure, but as an opportunity for growth.

“Yeah, you know what?” she said, getting excited. “I had this crazy idea the other day about a Cajun wonton soup. It’d have a clear broth with onion, celery and carrot, and then inside the wonton, andouille sausage, crawfish and grilled red bell pepper. Do you think that sounds good?”

“I think it sounds
awesome.
I volunteer to be your guinea pig. I’m serious.”

A voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has informed me that we’re on our final approach to Ithaca Tompkins Regional Airport. If you would please make sure your seat belt is securely fastened...”

Becca tried to hide her disappointment. The five hours had flown by. She’d been so busy talking to Calder that she hadn’t even gotten a chance to really enjoy sitting in first class. Damn.

Chapter Three

While waiting for his suitcase to slide down the chute at the baggage claim, Calder took a moment to admire Becca again. Now that she was standing, he saw she was about a head shorter than him and had a real nice ass. It looked soft and grippable, just the way he liked them. When a woman had a hard ass, it just didn’t seem right. In his world, women had soft asses. Men had hard ones. He started getting aroused thinking about fucking Becca in a nondescript hallway somewhere, him with his hands on that gorgeous ass. She’d have her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms braced on his shoulders so she could ride him.

Afraid she might read his face and somehow know he was fantasizing about her, he pulled out his phone. He had to call his mom anyway.

“Calder! Have you landed?” his mom asked with a hint of excitement in her voice.

“Oh hey, Mom. Yes, I’m getting my bags,” he said. He felt Becca’s presence beside him. She snort-giggled.

“So you’ll be here...?” His mom trailed off.

“As soon as I rent a car,” he said. “Probably four-thirty or so.”

Becca regarded him with an amused expression as he ended the call.

“My mom worries a lot when I travel,” he felt compelled to say.

“Of course,” Becca said, moving with purpose toward the rotating carousel.

“Which one is yours?” he asked.

She pointed. “The red-and-white Hawaiian print.”

Calder grabbed it and set it next to her. “She’s afraid the plane’s going to go down or something, so I always let her know when I’ve landed safely.”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain anything to me, mama’s boy,” she added with a smirk.

He laughed. “Nice. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to call people names?”

“Sorry. Bad habit I learned from some little turd I knew in grade school,” she replied pointedly.

“Touché.”

Her smile widening, she checked the tag to make sure the bag was hers. “Actually, I think calling your mom is sweet.” She raised the handle on her suitcase and sighed. They looked at each other and he felt a pang of regret that they couldn’t have more time together.

“Okay,” she said. “I guess this is goodbye. See you around. On TV maybe.”

He nodded. “It was great talking to you.”

He watched her go, regretting the shitty circumstances. He was trying to figure out if he could find time to sneak away from his mom for a few hours, when a man in his forties with thinning hair blocked his view.

“Calder Griffin? Forward for the Barracudas?”

“That’s me,” Calder said, giving him a nod.

“Harvey Rothenstein. Good to meet you. Big fan.”

Calder smiled. He always tried to give time to fans. He figured it was celebrity karma.

“Thanks, Harvey. I appreciate that.”

“How’s the knee?”

Calder had torn his anterior cruciate ligament during a game seven months ago when John Summerhayes had taken him out in a dirty open-ice hit. The $2,500 fine and game suspension they gave that motherfucker was small consolation to Calder, who’d been stuck on the injured list for the remainder of the season. It just about killed him to be unable to help his team make it beyond the first round of postseason play.

“It’s getting there,” he said, spotting his bag coming around the carousel. “I’m here to visit my folks, then it’s back to San Diego to get back in shape.”

“My kid Justin’s been upset all season. He was constantly saying stuff like, ‘If Griffin had been playing, they’d have won.’ We both thought if you and Hollander had been healthy, you guys might have gone all the way.”

“No doubt about it, Chicago got the raw end of the deal when they traded Holly to us.” Calder took his bag off the roundabout. “Hey, tell Justin I appreciate his faith in me. No, wait. Does your phone take video?”

“Yeah.”

“Get it out. I’ll tell him myself.”

“Oh, God. That’s
great.
That’s great. Hold on.” Harvey practically dropped his phone on the floor in his haste to get it out. A moment later, he pointed it at Calder and said, “Okay, go. You’re on.”

“Hey, Justin, your dad told me you’re a big fan and I wanted to say thanks for the support. It means a lot. We’ve got a good shot at winning the Cup next season, especially with fans like you rooting for us. Keep it up.”

Harvey put his phone in his pocket and shook Calder’s hand heartily. “This is going to make his year. Thanks, man. Really.”

“My pleasure.”

Feeling good, Calder walked outside to catch the rental-car shuttle. That was one aspect of being a pro athlete he never got tired of—making people happy with what amounted to almost no effort.

* * *

When his mom, Jenny, opened the door, he picked her up and hugged her. She laughed and squealed at him to put her down, but he knew she loved it. She was a small but round woman and often remarked upon how surprised she was to have produced two hockey players over six feet tall. Calder’s older brother, Hart, played for Seattle.

“Mom, you look great. Did you cut your hair?”

She beamed at him. “As a matter of fact, I did. Do you like it?”

“It’s great,” he said. “Makes you look like you’re sixteen.”

“Oh, you... At least try to make it believable,” she said with a laugh.

“Where’s Dad?”

“I forgot to tell you. Your dad is—get this—at the Miracle on Ice Fantasy Camp.”

“What?”

“There was a last-minute cancellation and your dad was on the waiting list. He’ll be gone all week, playing hockey with guys from the 1980 U.S. Miracle on Ice team.”

“Holy crap. He must be in heaven.”

Calder’s dad, William Griffin, had dreamed of being an NHL player, but his dreams had never come true. Luckily, he’d had a backup dream, which was to have sons who played for the NHL. He started by giving them both hockey-related names. The Calder Memorial Trophy, named for NHL president Frank Calder, was the league’s rookie of the year award. The Hart Memorial Trophy was given to the most valuable player each year. Calder had often wondered if his dad would have named a daughter Lady Byng after the trophy given for sportsmanship and gentlemanly conduct.

“He’s going to have the time of his life,” she agreed. “Go put your things away and come back down. I made cookies. Dinner won’t be ready for a couple hours yet.”

“What are you making?”

She smiled. “Your favorite, fried chicken. And mashed potatoes and gravy.”

“Yum.”

“And chocolate pecan pie for dessert.”

“Can I skip dinner and just have dessert?”

She patted his cheek. “You and your sweet tooth.”

“I inherited it from you, Mom.”

Chuckling, Calder went upstairs to his old room, which was now the guest room. Some of his and Hart’s hockey memorabilia hung on the walls and sat on shelves—jerseys in frames, Hart on a magazine cover, trophies, lacquered newspaper articles on slabs of wood. He imagined if his parents’ house had been a bed-and-breakfast, the type that named the rooms, this would have been the Hockey Room. He tossed his bag on one of the twin beds, took a leak, then went back down.

She’d already put a platter piled with homemade chocolate chip cookies on the table along with a tall glass of milk. He bit into a cookie. It was chewy, dense and buttery. The chocolate chips melted in his mouth. Heaven. Once in a while she shipped a couple dozen to him in San Diego. “Edible love,” she called it.

“Mom. These are amazing but don’t let me eat more than three. I have to watch what I eat.”

“You?” She scoffed and sat next to him at the table.

“Yes, me,” he said, poking a finger at his stomach flab. “See this? That’s what sitting around on my butt for seven months did.”

His mom disagreed. “Honey, I’d be thrilled to have a stomach that flat.”

“Well, regardless, I need to slim down. If I don’t, the guys’ll give me crap about it all year.”

Her eyes narrowed. She probably wished she could march into the dressing room and give the team a talking to, the coaches, too, for allowing the teasing to go on and he loved her for it.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle, Mom.”

“How was the flight? Did you read? Watch a movie?”

“Neither.”

His tone of voice must have pinged her radar. She raised her eyebrows. “You met someone on the plane, didn’t you.” It was more of a statement than a question.

How did she
do
that?

“I ran into an old...friend,” he said, shaking his head when she nudged the cookie plate closer. “Becca Chen. You probably don’t remember her. We were in the fifth grade together.”

“Of course I do. Lovely girl. She owns a café on the Commons that I go to all the time. Did you ask her out?” She took his empty glass and put it in the dishwasher. “If you didn’t, you should have.”

“I’m here to see you, not go out on dates.”

She shook her head and came back to the table to sit next to him. “Listen, honey, you’re going to be here for a whole week. You’ll see me plenty. Take advantage of the off-season while you can. I’d rather you spend time with a nice girl from Ithaca than some slutty puck bunny who just wants to add you to her personal roster.”

“Give me a break, Mom.” His cheeks warmed. It was disconcerting to hear his mom use a term like puck bunny. He liked to pretend that she remained ignorant of the seamier side of professional hockey. And his sex life, for that matter.

“I want some grandchildren before I’m too old to enjoy them.”

“What about Hart? He can do it just as easily as I can.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Why not? Just because he hasn’t had a girlfriend since high school?”

Calder wanted to tell his mom that as an NHL player, Hart could hook up with a girl with little or no effort. They hung around the arenas and practice ice facilities like ripe fruit. Lots of guys he knew planned to settle down after their careers were over. In the meantime, being a single man playing professional hockey could be pretty damn sexually satisfying, no commitment required. But he couldn’t tell his mom that.

“You know what?” his mom said after a pause. “Never mind. Forget I even brought it up. Just go call the girl.”

Later, while his mom was making dinner, Calder looked up the number for Becca’s restaurant and called.

“Cups on the Common. This is Becca. How can I help you?”

“Becca, it’s Calder.” Calder pictured her sexy smile, her silky straight hair up in that ponytail.

“Hey, nice surprise. What can I do for you?” She sounded friendly and businesslike.

“I had a really good time with you on the plane and was wondering if we could get together tomorrow.”

Shit, it was ridiculous how nervous he felt. His foot jiggled while he waited for her reply.

Finally, she spoke. “Do you like hiking? I was going to hike up to Green Veil Falls tomorrow.”

Score!

Calder rubbed his knee. As well as he could remember, the trail to Green Veil Falls was well maintained and not very strenuous. He decided as long as he was careful, his knee should be fine.

“That sounds great. I haven’t been up there in years. I could use some time outdoors, not to mention the exercise.”

“Great. I’ll meet you at the bottom of the trail at ten. I’ll bring some sandwiches.”

“I’ll bring dessert. My mom’s chocolate chip cookies.”