Game On (32 page)

They were big, broadened by pads, heightened by their skates, imposing and intimidating. Most skated out of their way to where Luc stood, to salute, to nod, to fist bump, most of their hard-bristled jaws breaking into wide, genuine grins. And he grinned back with fondness, with pleasure. Maybe a little envy.

He spoke with a string of people, some suits, some players, some he introduced Clara to, some he didn’t because it didn’t matter, but she never let go of his hand, as if she knew his sanity was somehow entwined with their fingers. He assured all who dared ask that he was fine, busy, too busy, that yes, he missed playing but hey, it was no big deal and, with a laugh, that now he got to tell them all what they did wrong.

“Bored yet?” he asked Clara after a few minutes.

“No, no, I’m good,” she said and released his hand so she could turn her back and gaze up at the darkened stands. Her eyes were full of wonder, maybe a little bit of awe, and he remembered what it felt like the first time he stepped onto the ice n Montreal when he was a kid. He was just about to ask her if she wanted to lace up when it happened, when he heard the slap against the boards, when he saw a black streak of lightning coming toward them at a speed greater than his reactive instincts could match, and the Fates took another cruel swipe at Luc Bisquet.

Chapter 35

S
he heard voices, soft, unintelligible
sounds before the pain registered. Her head was consumed by a dull ache punctuated by sharp throbs that seemed to keep tempo with her pulse. Confusion, disorientation, unfamiliar accents, everything black, then blurred, then black again. A sharp prick, a feeling of warmth and blissful sleep, more pain, more voices, more sleep.

Franco dropped his camera, shouted to her. The gelato cart came out of nowhere. She swerved, the wheels of her Vespa bumped, slid over cobbled stones.

Italy, Rome, Lydia. Where was Lydia? She couldn’t hear Lydia. The accents were different. Speaking English, but different.

She sucked air in through her nose, looking for a scent, an odor, anything to make her feel connected to her surroundings.

A familiar male voice, low, strained, murmuring comforting words.

Franco?

No. Franco didn’t come.

Where am I? What’s happening?

Everything was fuzzy, every thought ungraspable, appearing and disappearing like wisps of smoke. She struggled to open her eyes but the light pierced, like shards of glass against her eyeballs. She struggled to speak, but her mouth was thick, cotton filled. Panic rose in her chest.

“Clara?”

Her heart squeezed at the sound of the low, masculine timbre. In that moment, it was just a feeling, but she wanted more of it. It made her feel warm and…safe.

“Clara, love, I’m here.”

Luc. Yes.
Her
Luc.

She needed to see him, to touch him. She concentrated on prying her heavy lids open.

“Too bri...” It was her voice, but forced, croaky, unintelligible. She swallowed, tried again. “Bright.”

“Of course,” he said. She heard the clatter of a blind being shut, the swish of a curtain.

Better. Not as harsh. A blurred silhouette, then, as she blinked, Luc’s features slowly came into focus. Painfully dry, she tried to clear her throat, felt a straw slip between her lips, sucked the cool liquid into her parched mouth.

He was there. Luc. Her Luc. Brow furrowed, mouth drawn in a tight line, hair sticking up like he’d slept against a pole and his lovely golden complexion had paled to dull yellow.

“Are you okay?” she rasped. “You look like hell.”

“Me?” he shook his head. “Me? Jesus, Mary, Mother of God.” He came close, kissed her forehead, shook his head again, touched her face, her cheeks, her hair. She reached up to take his hands in hers. Strong hands to warm her icy fingers. Only then did she notice the I.V. needle taped to her forearm, connecting her via tube to a dripping bag.

“What’s happening? Is this Rome? Where’s Lydia? Did I trash the scooter?”

He tried to mask his worry with a reassuring smile, but the lines remained around his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “You’re in Washington, love,” he said and kissed her forehead again. “You took a nasty blow to the head yesterday.”

Her head did feel heavy, tight, achy. But also woozy, like whatever she was feeling was distant, dulled by drugs. Good, powerful painkillers.

His thumb made circles across the top of her hand, caressing away her fears, erasing the confusion. “We went to see my old team, remember?”

Yes. Yes! They were in the arena and the players weren’t in their team colors but in boring shades of gray. She remembered that. They were big—titans on skates.

She tried to nod, but it felt as if she had lead weights knocking around in her brain.

“Try not to move around.”

“Why—what—”

“You were hit by a…a…” He stopped, swallowed. Tried again to give her a reassuring smile, but failed miserably. “One of the guys took a shot and the puck rebounded off the boards. It caught you here,” he said, touching the back of his own head. “Knocked you unconscious.”

“Ouch,” she said. “Will I live?”

He laughed, a big relieved sound that made her smile. “Yes, yes,
mon amour
, you will.”

At three a.m., the hall outside of Clara’s private room was alive with sound, from the squeaking of rubber-soled shoes on freshly washed floors to the muted intercom system, though none of it seemed to bother Luc, who was fast asleep in the chair next to her bed, his large frame slouched sideways. He hadn’t slept at all the night before, keeping vigil over her and driving the nurses crazy, so she’d heard, so he was sleeping hard. He was going to be stiff and achy come morning, but the stubborn ox wouldn’t go back to the hotel no matter how she’d insisted.

She and Luc had awkwardly tried to ignore the large pachyderm in the room. His attempt to keep the conversation light, carefully avoiding any mention of hockey, pucks, accidents, or disasters in general, failed miserably. That Luc felt to blame for her accident was clear, and no argument from her would dissuade him.

But what really upset her, made her feel sickish and twisty in her guts, was the fact that he’d probably never enter another arena. Ever. She was the reason he’d gone back. How was that for mind-blowing irony? He’d seemed so excited to be there, so animated while talking to his mates. It hurt her very bones to think about him missing out on all that because her stupid thick noggin had a penchant for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d ruined everything, all the progress they had made.

Now he’d go back to Valentina and Clara’s memory would only bring horror and mockery.

So she marinated in her own regret-filled stew of misery while Luc prattled on about his summers in Vermont and how attached his sister used get to the young turkeys his grandmother raised, only to find them all gone when they returned for Thanksgiving. His grandparents made an elaborate story of the turkeys flying to the Caribbean for the winter but he, being the tormenting older brother, told her the truth. Right after dinner.

She listened, nodded, smiled, attempted a chuckle, but she desperately wanted to be alone to regroup, to think, maybe cry a little…and suspected he wanted to escape just as badly, though he wouldn’t leave her side.

Pretending to drift off, she closed her eyes and waited for the sound of magazine pages to stop turning, until his breathing evened out. In the low light, she could stare at him and succumb to her worries and fears, let her pathetic luck smother her until she choked as her insides churned and hate of Valentina soured her mouth.

Karma. It was the only explanation. She was paying the price for being a selfish little girl. All this time, she thought she was a fixer but really, what problem did she solve that didn’t have a purely selfish angle? If she examined all the incidents she gladly took credit for, she found, without exception, a self-serving outcome.

Would she have moved in with lonely Aunt Jude if the woman had lived in Guernsey or Liverpool instead of on the outskirts of Greater London, where Clara just so happened to want to live? Probably not.

And prompting Charlie to pursue a romantic relationship with Sue was more of an elaborate scheme to get Sue into the boss’s bed and away from driving the rest of them nuts on staff pub nights.

Sure, she did buy Lydia a ball of wool and needles to get her mind off her stress, but her friend actually learned the skill from some Canadian woman who’d sheltered her in the aftermath of Lydia’s sex tape scandal. And as the beneficiary of most of Lydia’s beautiful handiwork, could Clara claim that as true altruism? Not a drop.

Confessing her story to Luc…now that was complicated, but if she had to reduce it to bones, it was due to the fact that she didn’t want to leave with
nothing
. She wanted to open the door for some kind of relationship, even if it meant staying in touch long distance.
Ka-boom!
That one exploded in her face. Or the back of her head, as it were.

Even getting Luc back to the arena was more about how great she’d feel if she were to fix him, how he’d always remember it was she who put him back into an arena, that no matter who he chose to be with in the future, the memory of Clara Bean would be synonymous with his return to the arena..

Shame cut through her with steel-like precision. Bloody hell. She had the audacity to accuse Valentina of using people? Could she not do one thing, one deed that benefitted another without reaping some sort of reward herself? Was there nothing she could do to prove to the universe that she was not a selfish little girl? A sacrifice for the greater good?

The greater good. She wasn’t sure what that even meant.
The greater good.
To the benefit of others and not yourself. Why bother?

Sacrifice.
The very word mocked her as it rumbled through her head, over and over, not leaving her to move on to other thoughts or to succumb to the painkillers dripping into her arm.

Sacrifice…
it taunted her, challenged her.

By the time the sky began to lighten, she knew what she would do…and it began with soliciting the help of the night nurse. It may have taken two hard knocks to the head, but Clara was finally prepared to deal with her life instead of run from it. Or maybe running was the only way
to
deal?

Luc yawned and tried to rub the ache out of his neck. He’d probably have to visit a chiropractor to get rid of all the kinks in his spine.

“I told you to go back to the hotel,” Clara said, her skin tone its normal shade of rose-cream. The pretty smirk on her face had more effect on his emotional state than a thousand sunrises. “You’re far too big a man to fall asleep in a chair.”

He shrugged. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, I think I am. Except for…” She wrinkled her nose and shrugged.

“What? Should I get a doctor?”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that. I just feel… I feel like something is off, different, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“I’d better get the doctor,” Luc said, pushing his aching bones out of the chair.

“No, Luc, please don’t bother. I’m fine. Please believe me.”

Luc got up anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to let a nurse know. But as he opened her door, an orderly was coming in with a covered tray.

“I’ll take that,” Luc offered and relieved the man of his load. “Breakfast is served, madam,” he said and set her meal on the wheeled table at the foot of her bed. “Are you hungry? I’m starved. Hope you don’t mind if I pick—”

Clara sprang forward from her semi-reclined position. “Luc, stop!”

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed by her frantic wide eyes.

“Don’t uncover the tray!”

“Okay,” he said, backing away as if the lid were booby-trapped. “Why?”

“I think… I think I know what’s under the lid.”

“So do I,” he replied. “Food.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Clara fluttered her hands. “I know what’s on the tray because I can
smell
it!” She looked between him and the food. The bluish circles under her eyes couldn’t hide the glimmer of excitement that made her irises look greenish-gold in the morning light.

“Go on,” he said, nodding. Hoping.

She closed her eyes and sucked air through her nostrils. “There’s coffee, and toast I think, or some kind of warm bread, and sausages. And maybe, I think, eggs? I can’t quite nail that one.” She opened her eyes, a nervous smile tugging the corners of her mouth. “Now, open it, open it!”

Luc lifted the lid with a silent prayer. He peered down at the small patty of sausage meat, cheese omelette, orange slices, a wedge of oatmeal loaf and a mug of steaming coffee. He wheeled it closer to Clara so she could see for herself.

“I’m fixed!” Clara squealed. “I have my smell back! The puck must have reversed the damage!”