Across the Line (In The Zone) (4 page)

“So, here it is,” she said, her face a little pink. “My pride and joy.”

Pulling his focus away from her soft skin, he smiled at her. “Becca, the place looks really great. I mean it.”

“Wait until you taste the food,” she said, leading him inside.

The lime-green and black color scheme continued on the interior—green walls, black tables, black-framed photographs of different types of vegetables, especially lettuces. Along the right wall was the typical beverage dispensing station. To the left was a clear path to the counter where people placed their orders. A cute girl who looked to be in her twenties manned one of the registers. The menu board above her was another blackboard with drawings and fancy lettering.

Scanning the dining area, he observed there didn’t seem to be any obvious preference for the soup over the lettuce cups or vice versa. Dozens of different smells hit him, but damned if he could pick out any of them. All he knew was they were making him hungry.

“How many employees do you have?” he asked. The idea of running his own business did not appeal to him. Too many decisions to make. He liked being told what to do and how and when to do it. Made life a lot easier.

“Eleven. That guy there taking orders is Raymond. I have Eddie in the kitchen. The girl next to him is Savannah. She’s a senior at Ithaca.” She looked up at the menu. “What do you feel like having?”

“The specials looked good.”

“Which one?”

He grinned. “All of them.”

Not too long after, she brought a tray to the table he’d chosen by the front window. He noticed the ledge was as clean as the rest of the place.

“Okay, I got you all three specials, plus the Classic Chicken Lettuce Cup, the one I told you about on the plane.”

“What did you get?”

“I got the chowder too. It’s only the second time I’ve made it and I’m still adjusting the recipe. And here are some warm rolls.”

He took a bite of the Classic Chicken Lettuce Cup. The lettuce was cool but the filling was hot and flavorful. Damn, it was good. He liked that wok-fried flavor and the pungent Asian seasoning. The veggies in it were perfectly cooked with a slight crunch. He gobbled the rest of it down and reached for the second one. There were two in an order. “This is amazing,” he said, still chewing. “I could eat that every single day of my life.”

She beamed with pride. “Try the soup.”

The soups were killer too. The flavor wasn’t as in-your-face as the lettuce cup, but it grew on him. The more he ate, the more he could taste. He liked all types of Asian food, so the meatball soup was right up his alley, and he told her so.

“I’m really glad you like it. I was worried.”

The girl, Savannah, came around. “How’s the food?” she asked, wiping down a nearby table. She had short glossy brown hair and looked...young. Becca had said the girl was a senior at the college.

“It’s fantastic,” he said.

“I know who you are, by the way,” Savannah said.

Calder grinned. “Who am I?”

“Hart Griffin.”

When he stiffened, she laughed. “I’m just messing with you. You’re Calder. The Barracuda. Your mom comes in here all the time. Didn’t you play for the Bombers?”

“I did. I was the captain in ’08,” he said.

“My boyfriend’s the captain now,” she said brightly. “It’s his last year and he’d be so thrilled if you could sign something for him.”

Calder looked around. “Is he here?”

“No, but he could be if I called him. He could get over here in about fifteen minutes. Will you be here that long?”

“Savannah,” Becca said with a warning tone.

He put his hand over Becca’s. “It’s okay. I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”

The girl turned to Becca and put her hands together in a pleading gesture. “Please? I’ll do anything. I’ll—I’ll clean out all the trash cans...”

Becca’s face lit up. “Deal.”

Apparently clean trash cans turned her on.

“He can have ten minutes with him. No more.”

“Promise,” Savannah said.

Chapter Six

Savannah’s boyfriend, Oliver, ended up staying for two hours. He brought half his team along and outside, they pushed all the tables together to talk shop and fawn all over Calder who did a good job of brushing off the adoration. Luckily, they’d chosen the slow period between lunch and dinner, so Becca didn’t mind. She kept an eye on the customers who did come in, watching for signs of irritation, but no one seemed upset. She also monitored Savannah to make sure she didn’t shirk her duties, but she was, as always, an exemplary worker.

It turned out to be a good thing that Becca was in the café instead of off with Calder. She was in her cubbyhole office going over the food order for the next week when whispering in the hallway caught her attention. Just as she was getting up to go see what was going on, Savannah poked her head in.

“Hey, can you come here for a sec? There’s something I think you should see.”

Savannah led Becca to the back of the restaurant outside. “I was cleaning out the trash can like I said I would and I saw that.” She pointed at a small plastic box set along the wall. “Isn’t that like a rodent trap?”

“It isn’t
like
a rodent trap. It
is
a rodent trap,” Becca said.

“That’s what I thought,” Savannah answered with a disgusted look on her face. “We keep the place scrupulously clean so I think it’s the place next door.”

“Donuts ’N’ More?”

“Yeah. Do you ever go in there? It’s dirty. The tables, the window ledges, the ceiling fan...all covered with dust.”

Becca shrugged. She didn’t want to bad-mouth the old couple next door, but they
could
do a better job keeping up the place, that was for sure.

When they went back inside, Becca saw Calder at the counter. “Is His Majesty finished holding court?” she asked him with a smile.

“His Majesty would actually like to see you in your office, if that’s okay.”

Curious, she showed him in. “What’s up?” They stood because there was only one chair.

“I want to ask you something,” he said. He wouldn’t meet her eyes and that made her uneasy.

“Shoot.”

“I feel stupid asking this, but you wouldn’t happen to want to watch me play hockey, would you?” He glanced up, uncertainty wrinkling his forehead. “Like...tonight?”

“Tonight?” For a moment, she got confused. It wasn’t hockey season. Then she realized. “Oh, I get it. You want to go play with Oliver and the guys.”

A little-boy smile tilted his lips. “Can I? Please?” He bent his head to give her a more intense imploring look. “I haven’t played hockey since November of last year.”

“And you’ve missed it.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” His demeanor went from playful to serious. “The surgery and the rehab wasn’t nearly as bad as having to watch my team play seventy-one games without me.”

Becca had never played a team sport. She’d never played any sport outside of gym class. Her parents didn’t approve of sports. Every moment of Becca’s spare time was spent studying, reading and practicing the piano. But she could hear in his voice how much he wanted to play tonight.

“Calder, I’m not your mom. You don’t have to ask permission.”

“I know,” he said, “but I pretty much bailed on you in the middle of our lunch date, which was really shitty of me.” Putting his hands on her waist, he took a step closer. “But I still want you to come watch because I really liked coming here and seeing your restaurant. I learned a lot about you, how passionate you are about your food, your business, everything, and it’d be cool if you could, you know...understand more about what hockey is to me.”

“Calder...” That sounded like a “we’ve been seeing each other for a while and I want to take it to the next level” speech. She wasn’t ready for that. Nor was she ready for the physicality he brought to the conversation.

She suddenly felt extremely feminine. It wasn’t just that he stood a full head taller than her or that he seemed powerful enough to break down a door. It was something intangible. Testosterone, maybe. Or pheromones. Maybe he gave off an abnormal amount of pheromones and that was why she wanted to run her hands up and down his front or rub up against him like a cat.

He slid one arm around her waist, so their bodies were in close contact from the hips down. An all-over body tingle swept over her and her senses opened up in anticipation.

The moment his lips touched hers, it was as if all the cells in her body decided to fall at Calder’s feet in an embarrassing display of feminine submission. She
had
a brain. It told her if she kept letting him kiss her, things could get out of hand.

And yet, as Calder pressed his mouth to hers, she couldn’t ignore the rush of heat between her legs. She forgot where she was or even who she was. Nothing registered except Calder’s tongue probing her lips and the thrill of his hard body pressed against hers. It had been a long time since she’d kissed a man. She surrendered completely to the shivery excitement of it, his warm mouth and the heady sensation of his hands skimming over her derriere.

He kissed with the perfect amount of restraint and intensity. He wanted much more than she was giving. His body vibrated with need, but he kept things easy even as he deepened the kiss. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this hot and bothered or if she’d
ever
been this hot and bothered. Going to bed with him wasn’t the worst thing she could do. A girl was allowed to sow the occasional wild oat, if only so she could look back on her “wild” youth with fondness.

Even so, she placed her hands on his chest. One of her employees could find them at any moment. She didn’t share her personal life with her crew, nor did she want to know all the intimate details of their lives. It made it easier for her to do the tough stuff like call them to the carpet for neglected duties or tardiness, and it made it easier for them to see her as an authority figure, not a friend.

“Calder, stop. Someone might see us.” She couldn’t quite catch her breath.

He withdrew with obvious reluctance. “Can’t we just close the door?”

Tempted, she glanced at the lime-green hallway. The coast was still clear, but she couldn’t risk it. If, or when, she had sex with Calder, she didn’t want it to be here, hiding in her broom closet of an office. She wanted to be able to let loose and really enjoy herself, something she wouldn’t be able to do here knowing anyone could hear them.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t just close the door. This is my place of business.”

His face fell. “We could go upstairs, then. You live up there, right?”

“Yes, but we’re not going upstairs either.”

“Damn. Why not? It’s private...”

“Yes, it’s private. But you have a hockey game to play, don’t you?”

He blinked at her, confused for a moment. It took him a little while to switch gears and remember why he’d come into her office in the first place, but when he did, his eyes lit up and a huge grin split his face.

Chapter Seven

Calder bought the Bombers dinner at Cups as a thank-you for letting them dominate the café for the better part of two hours. Those boys ate a lot and Becca was grateful for the business. After cleaning her out of several of the wraps and one of the soups, they left for their respective homes to gear up. Becca promised to meet Calder at the rink after the dinner rush.

“You’re sure it’s okay that I play?” he asked her.

“I’m sure.”

He stole a quick kiss. “You’re the best.”

When he got home, he found his mom in the family room, knitting something.
Jeopardy!
was on the TV. When had she taken up knitting?

“What is Madagascar? Hi, honey. How was the date?”

“Great. It’s actually still going on. I’m only here to get some stuff. I’m going to The Rink to play with some guys I met from the Bombers, and Becca’s going to watch, so do you know where my old gear is? My pads and skates?”

She looked up from her knitting. “Honey, are you sure that’s a good idea? What about your knee?”

It probably
wasn’t
a good idea, but damn it, he missed hockey. He missed the slick ice, the excitement, the mental challenge of anticipating the plays and the physical challenge of reacting to and executing them. Working out and physical therapy just didn’t cut it.

“I’ll be careful,” he said. “I have a sturdier brace upstairs. If I wear that, I should be fine.”

“All right. I suppose you know better than I do about that. Your old stuff is in the attic. There should be a couple of boxes on the right that say Calder Hockey. Everything should be in those boxes.”

“Thanks.”

The attic was dusty but orderly. He intended to find what he needed and leave, but ended up staying a few minutes. The stuff in the boxes brought him back. He found himself recalling people he hadn’t thought about in years, triumphs, trials, times that seemed so long ago, but weren’t. He looked at old jerseys and one small pair of skates and marveled that he ever fit into them.

Twenty minutes later, he came back downstairs with an armful of old pads, breezers and other crap, some of it only just big enough for him to wear. After dumping it in the front entry, he called Oliver and told him what he’d found. “But I need skates.”

“What size?”

Calder told him as he dug in the front closet for a duffel bag.

“I’ll find you something. I have a key to the equipment room at the college. See you at 7:45.”

As Calder was stuffing the gear into the bag he’d found, his mother padded down the hall barefoot. She had a can of air freshener in her hands and used it liberally.

“I cannot believe that stuff still smells after years in the attic. I do not miss hell-stink. At all.” She sprayed the pile of equipment like it was a bug she was trying to kill with Raid.

He chuckled as he stuffed the bag full and zipped it. “The whole team calls it hell-stink now, by the way.”

Years ago, his mom had picked up him and his brother from a hockey game. For some reason he couldn’t remember, her trunk had been full of heavy boxes. Hart managed to fit his bag in, but Calder had to put his in the backseat. As a result, the smell crept out and invaded the car like an olfactory bioweapon.

Hart, sixteen at the time to Calder’s thirteen, had lost the “shotgun” battle, so he was sitting in the back. “Something died in your bag, CS,” he said.

“Whatever, DB.”

Their mom thought that CS stood for Calder’s first two initials and DB meant “dumb brother.” But it was actually shorthand for cocksucker and douche bag.

“Mom,” Hart said, “we’re studying about the human body in science class, and I think Calder is constipated and when he sweats, crap comes out of his pores.”

“Hart Connelly Griffin, that’s disgusting,” their mom said as Calder snickered. Although the insult had been directed at him, it was still clever. Even as a kid, Hart had a talent for chirping.

“I agree,” Hart said. “Let’s open the windows.”

His mom shook her head. “It’s eight degrees outside.”

“I don’t care. I swear I’m gonna puke.”

“Here, I’ll turn the fan on.”

It didn’t help. Even Calder had to admit it. At times, he envied other athletes like basketball players whose protective equipment consisted of one item—a jock and maybe goggles. Hockey players, on the other hand, had that and much more, all of it soaked in sweat from each wearing. The odors seemed to build even after washing because sometimes the stuff never dried out between the morning skate and a same-day game.

The noise from the fan provided cover for what Hart said in Calder’s ear. “I swear to God, Satan’s shit smells like fucking flowers compared to your bag.”

Laughing in spite of himself, Calder turned around to sock his brother.

Their mom twisted her head to nail them both with a glare. “What did you say?”

Shit
wasn’t a word she approved of but would sometimes let go.
Fuck
or any of its permutations constituted a loss of dinner.

“I was saying what’s coming out of Calder’s bag is probably what hell smells like.”

She eyed Hart in the rearview mirror. Calder knew his brother’s expression was now more heavily guarded than the President. He must have passed inspection because their mom said, “It
is
pretty bad, Calder.”

From that day on, hockey bag smell was referred to as hell-stink.

“The Barracudas call it hell-stink too?” his mom asked, spraying the bag once more for good measure.

“Yes,” Calder said, slinging the strap over his shoulder. “The equipment guys, the coaches, even players on visiting teams have started calling it that.”

His mom smiled in amusement. “What happened to Becca? Did the date not work out?”

Calder thought back on the kiss they’d shared in her office and smiled. “Oh, no. It’s not over yet. She’s coming to watch the game after work.”

His mom frowned. “Watching you play hockey is not my idea of a date and it probably isn’t hers either.”

“Then honestly, Mom, she’s not the girl for me. Hockey’s my life. Any woman who wants to spend time with me has to accept that. See you later.”

* * *

The Ithaca Bombers practiced at The Rink, off of Route 34. Every Monday night was Adult Open Hockey for eight bucks, eight to nine p.m. The Rink hadn’t changed. Banners hung on the walls and in the rafters touting accomplishments of the various teams that played and practiced here. Calder had run drills with the Bombers every Tuesday and Thursday night for four years here. It still smelled like hot dogs and hot chocolate, ice and frozen metal, but mostly dirty socks. Hell-stink lite.

In the men’s locker room, he examined the skates Oliver had brought him. They were pretty thrashed and a little rusty. He ran a thumb over one of the edges.
Jesus.

“They need sharpening,” Oliver admitted, a bit red in the face. “It was the best I could do on such short notice.”

“Dude, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We’re good.”

Calder suddenly realized how much he took for granted as an NHL player. Usually he was so focused on his performance, he didn’t have the time or inclination to think about the luxuries he enjoyed, like having several sticks prepared to his exact specifications, dry gloves, his skates sharpened between periods.

He said a prayer of gratitude for the Barracuda equipment guys, unsung heroes, every one of them. Sure, he thanked them when they handed him a new stick or when he ran into them after they’d set up the dressing room, but that was just being polite. He ought to make more of an effort to let them know how much he appreciated all the hard work. Those guys were as much a part of the team as he was. None of the players could do their jobs without the support of everyone behind the bench. As he finished tying his laces, he decided he didn’t have to wait until Christmas to acknowledge them. Maybe he’d fund a Vegas weekend for them all before the season started or something like that.

Calder and Oliver walked out to the ice. The Bombers wanted to keep Calder’s identity a secret and see how long it took for everyone to realize. After Oliver introduced him as “Cal” and no one said anything, Calder wasn’t convinced anyone
would
recognize him. The TV commentators rarely said much about him. Everyone always seemed more interested in Hart.

They threw their sticks onto the ice so someone could split them up into two teams, and Calder and Oliver ended up on the same team. He spotted Becca in the stands. She waved at him. He raised his stick to salute her then took to the ice.

Fuck, it felt great. The Zamboni had finished up only minutes ago so the surface was fresh. Calder reveled in the whoosh of the cold air hitting his face, the glide and acceleration, the echo of voices bouncing off the glass. He did a couple of laps, tried some turns, some stops, to see exactly how far he could push the dull skates, not to mention his knee. Being the competitor that he was, he eyed the opposition as they warmed up and didn’t see anything alarming. A little while later, they squared up at center ice, the puck dropped, and the game was on.

Calder had even more fun than he’d expected. One reason was the guys on the ice had more than decent skills, especially the Bombers. Calder quickly discovered he couldn’t completely phone it in. A couple of times he had to shake his head at Oliver’s stick work. He wondered if the kid had been scouted. Something to look into. The other reason was Becca. He tried to play as if she wasn’t there watching, but found himself grandstanding anyway. If given the choice between a straight pass to a teammate and a zippy path around a defender, he chose the showier option more often that he should have.

A jostle from the opponent next to him snapped him back to the face-off at hand. The ref dropped the puck and a split second later it shot toward him direct from Oliver. The kid wasn’t bad at the face-off dot either. Calder caught the puck on his blade and moved it out of the neutral zone.

Whack.
Sent it back to Oliver on the right side.

Oliver held on to it while Calder sped toward the net. A teammate headed off a late-coming defender.

“Calder,” Oliver yelled, “heads-up!”

The puck zipped across and Calder top-shelfed that motherfucker.

Goal.

They were on the board, one zip. As he and Oliver bumped helmets and their teammates skidded to a stop to join in the celebratory huddle, a voice called out, “Hey!”

Pointing with his stick, a man in a dark jersey said, “You’re Calder Griffin, aren’t you?”

Grinning like a carnival barker, Oliver slapped Calder on the shoulder. “Ha! Took you long enough, Bart!”

Bartoni smiled, then guffawed. “I
thought
he looked familiar but I didn’t say anything. Then, you called him Calder...”

Laughter made the rounds. Calder took a glove off and shook hands with everyone. “No hard feelings?”

“Hell no,” Bartoni said. “Are kidding me? I’m shitting my pants that I was playing with you.
Am
playing with you.”

Calder tugged on his helmet strap. “Yeah, well, take it easy on me, okay? I sat out most of the season and my knee’s not quite a hundred percent yet.”

They went back to the game and the other players hung back physically, but Calder could feel their focus on him. He imagined they were a little intimidated and wary now that they knew who he was, but after a few plays, they seemed to get their courage up and started playing rougher, despite his request. Calder weathered a couple of hard hits as his team kept passing him the puck, expecting him to be their high scorer. This gave him more opportunities, but also made him the target. He was careful to protect his knee, but it was starting to ache. Against his better judgment, he kept playing.

About five minutes before their time was up, he, Bartoni, and it seemed like everyone else were fighting for the puck in the corner and—

“Fuck!”

A stick got him on the hand. He wrestled the puck from Bartoni anyway, sent it flying toward Oliver who scored.

Goal two.

But his middle finger hurt like a son of a bitch. Even though he suspected it was broken, he finished the game. His team exchanged celebratory helmet slaps before skating toward center ice to show respect to the losers who, despite having not scored once, had smiles on their faces. Calder shook hands easily with everyone since it was his left hand that had been injured.

“Nice game. Good play. Thanks for playing. Hey, great playing with you. Yeah, thanks. I had fun. Good to meet you.”

In the locker room, he asked Oliver if there was ice to be found somewhere.

“Why? What the...? Fuck, bro.”

Calder had taken off the too-small glove, wincing as it pulled on the hurt finger. He couldn’t see any bone, but it was swelling up. “I think it’s broken.” He was actually lucky he hadn’t sustained any other damage. That hadn’t been the roughest game he’d ever played, but it hadn’t been a walk in the park either. He felt stupid now for having risked injuring his knee after he’d worked so hard in rehab.

“When did it happen?”

“At the end.” Calder shrugged. “At least it’s my left hand.”

“So you’re a righty?” Oliver asked, miming masturbation.

Calder laughed. “Fuck you, junior.”

The Bombers had use of the showers, so after a rinse off, he met up with Becca and Savannah in the lobby.

“Congratulations! Great game,” Becca said. “Did you have fun?”

“It was a blast,” Calder said. “I think everyone had fun.”

“I noticed the teams looked pretty even, except for you,” she said.

“Yeah, we tried to make it as fair as we could, but it wasn’t like I could play on both teams. I had to be on one or the other.”

“That’s not true,” Savannah said. “You could have played on one team for half the time and then switched sides.”

“Shit!” Oliver said, joining the group. He whacked Calder in the chest with a plastic bag of ice. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

Calder nodded his thanks. “Because she’s smarter than we are?”

“What’s the ice for?” Becca asked.

Calder gingerly pressed the cold pack on his hurt finger. “A little run-in with a stick. Nothing major.”