Out of the Game3 (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

A couple of days after Alex painted the soup can, the Barracudas were to host the Sharks for a pre-season game. As always, the day started with a morning skate at the Barracuda Ice Center, their practice facility. Alex went in, checked the cubby where they put his mail and found a laminated “Veggie Cooking Cheat Sheet” from their strength-and-conditioning coach. He was proud/embarrassed to find he already knew some of the stuff on it. Like the fact that carrots and onions needed to be steamed for five minutes, and lots of vegetables tasted pretty good when they were roasted in the oven, especially when Claire made them. She was a great cook and he found himself wanting to impress her with the “good food choices” he was making now. He hated to admit it, but he did notice a difference in his performance now that he was eating healthy about eighty percent of the time.

After the morning skate, he had to go to the warehouse where the Bring Hockey Back clothing company made its home. He and the owner had made a deal. Alex would go on a shopping spree in their packing center and take home whatever he wanted, and in exchange, he would post pictures of himself wearing the clothing six times in the next three months. Since their clothes were cool, it seemed like a good deal to him.

After lunch and a nap, he headed to the Mesa Arena alone. He would have seen Claire today but she was busy with the auction. She wasn’t even sure she could make it to the game. This project was taking up a lot of her time, but he liked seeing her so passionate about it.

When he got to the arena, he grabbed some chicken and pasta in the players lounge with some of the guys. The cook made a great spicy marinara sauce. He asked for some added zucchini for the hell of it. The taste was growing on him. After he was finished—in about four minutes—Carpenter remarked, “Too bad they don’t have any donuts for dessert. I really like the cream-filled ones.”

MacDonald snickered but didn’t make a sex joke out of that like Alex would have expected.

Later during warm-ups before the game, someone yelled, “Nice shot, stud muffin!” after he hit the back of the net with a backhander. He gave a condescending wave as he rounded back to the blue line to grab another puck.

A few moments later, someone called him cupcake and he knew something was up. He went to stretch where Carps was already working on his hip flexors near the boards.

“Should be a good one tonight,” Alex said.

“Yeah. Me and Couture were on the same junior team. It’s always fun to go up against him. Brings me back.”

“I know what you mean.” Alex switched legs. “So, ah, what’s with the dessert shit?”

“Dessert shit?” Carps grinned at him as he got to his feet.

“Yeah. You guys getting me mixed up with Griff?” Alex got up too. “He’s the one with the sweet tooth, you know.”

Carps, the bastard, laughed and skated off.

Alex stood there, puzzled, knowing something was going to happen, but not able to figure it out.

He didn’t have time to think about it during the game. He was too busy reminding his body this was what it was meant for. The game in San Jose hadn’t quite done the trick. He felt a little flat-footed, wasn’t reading the plays as quickly as he thought he should be, but he wasn’t the only one. Watching the other lines, their timing seemed a bit off—passes weren’t connecting, there were a couple of ugly turnovers that, thankfully, didn’t result in goals. They did win, however, 3-2 so the mood was exultant in the dressing room.

Just before the media came in, Booth MacDonald stood up and gave an ear-piercing whistle. “Pipe down, motherfuckers. I have a special award I’d like to give out.”

Alex chuckled. Mac’s “special awards” were always amusing. Alex had completely forgotten about the dessert mystery until Mac pulled something small and white out of the compartment under his stall and turned to him.

“Whoa. What’s this?” Alex stood up, wary. The balled-up item Booth was holding didn’t look threatening, but you never knew.

“Yesterday, I was at the museum harnessing my inner Picasso and I found out something so adorable I had to share it.”

Oh shit. What the hell had happened yesterday? He wished he had time to text Claire and ask her. He smiled uneasily.

Booth went on. “It just so happens that Alex Sullivan—the man who’s banged 85.9 percent of the female population—is in love.”

There were some chuckles, “awws,” and some baby talk and assorted kissing noises. Alex said nothing. Protesting would be was pointless and counterproductive. It would only egg them on.

Booth held up a finger. “But wait. There’s more. As you may or may not know, the lucky lady is Claire Marzano, sister to the newly minted Mrs. Tim Hollander.”

Alex shot a glance at Tim who looked perfectly innocent, which didn’t mean a thing.

“Sully is so much in love that he has a little pet name for his special lady.”

“What is it, Mac?” Chastain asked from across the room.

Booth allowed the pause to grow as pregnant as possible before pointing at Joe Rutherford, who pressed his cheek against clasped hands and said on cue, “Cream Puff.”

Nodding at the laughter, Alex wondered how they hell they’d found out. Did Claire tell them? She might have, not knowing what a hockey player could do with a damning bit of information like that.

“Laugh it up, guys. Just know that if you bother her about it, I’ll kick your ass.”

Booth held his hands up. “Calm down, Sully. No one’s going to mess with the Sarge.”

“The Sarge?” Alex asked.

“Yeah,” Carpenter said. “She handed all of us our asses on a plate yesterday when we were joking around. She’s bad ass, dude.”

At the mumbled agreement, Alex grinned.

“So what does she call
you
, Sully?” someone asked.

Alex did his best Sidney Poitier impression. “She calls me...Mr. Tibbs.”

Nobody laughed.

“I don’t get it,” Fischer said. Fischer’s
mother
probably wasn’t born when
In the Heat of the Night
came out.

“Fuck. Never mind,” Alex said. Damn it. No one on the team was as into movies as he was.

“
Anyway
,” Booth said, finally throwing the mystery item at him. Alex half ducked as he caught it in midair. “I thought you needed a pet name yourself.”

It was a white T-shirt on which someone had scrawled in Sharpie...

“Puff’s Daddy,” Alex read aloud, laughing in spite of himself. “Cute, guys.”

There were high fives and a bit of manly laughter as the reporters then streamed into the dressing room with their phones, recording devices and cameras. Alex stuffed the shirt into the cubby under the seat in his stall.

A little while later as he was walking into the parking garage, he decided on a scale of one to ten, one being mild and ten being fucked up, this T-shirt prank was a lame level one. Mac was losing his touch. Or maybe he was just creatively bankrupt from coming up with the tie prank.

Ryan Fischer was a rookie who had been given a necktie the team swore belonged to the great Kurt Wolfheim, one of the greatest players to wear the Barracuda jersey. But Kurt Wolfheim had never even laid eyes on it. In reality, Calder Griffin had found the ugly orange thing on a discount table in New York a couple of months ago. Fischer was to wear it to every game of the regular season or “screw up the team mojo.” It was the practical joke of all practical jokes with the potential to last for the better part of a year. So maybe Mac could be forgiven for dropping the ball on—

“What the fuck!” Alex stopped short.

What was...was that his car? From this distance it looked like someone had thrown a tan-colored lumpy blanket over it, but as he drew closer, he saw it was not a blanket. It was a layer of cream puffs, opened up so the creamy part adhered to the vehicle. Every exterior inch of his Mercedes, except for the tires, was covered with gooey pastry.

“Fuck me.”

He heard a sudden whoop behind him and turned to see the team had crept up behind him to witness the big reveal. Mac stood, his hands on his hips, guffawing. Some of the guys had their phones up taking pictures or video.

“You asshole motherfuckers,” Alex said, angry and amused at the same time.

He really should have known Mac wouldn’t have been satisfied with a level-one prank.

* * *

Later that night after a stop at a do-it-yourself car wash, he went home to his empty house. Claire had texted she was tired and was going home. Which sucked. He’d wanted to share with her what had happened with the car and talk about the game. Even if they didn’t have sex, he liked cuddling with her in bed.

As he got out of his clothes, he thought about Claire getting a legitimate nickname from the guys. That meant she had status with the team. He didn’t think they’d ever given a
real
nickname to any of the women he’d dated before.

Even though he didn’t need his teammates’ approval when it came to women, it still made him ridiculously proud.

Was it going to last, this thing with Claire? He was waiting for the indifference to set in. It always did. Around the two—or three-month mark, he would start to feel bored with a woman. Or annoyed. This usually began right before training camp, and he’d thought maybe there was a correlation—that maybe he could only maintain a relationship during the off-season. He could do hockey or he could do a relationship, but not both at the same time. But here they were, about to enter the regular season and he and Claire were still going strong.

It helped that she wasn’t needy or clinging. She was full steam ahead on the art auction. To tell the truth, he was just as excited about it as she was. Her enthusiasm and belief in him and his teammates’ artistic abilities were contagious. And she knew what she was doing. She was so fucking smart. And she pulled stuff out of him he didn’t know he had. He was damned proud of that soup can. If he didn’t think it would look bad, he’d have planned to nab it himself at the auction. He was pretty sure he could paint another one. Plus he was interested to see how much the thing would go for.

The auction was all Fleming talked about and he must have prodded the PR people to start publicizing it because people were already stopping him in the grocery store and on the street asking about it. It was crazy.
He
was crazy—crazy about her. Instead of looking for excuses to get away from her, he was constantly looking forward to the next time they would be together, but resisting because he didn’t want to seem too eager. He’d been on the other side of that—where the interest ratio was way too skewed. He didn’t want to scare her away.

The next day, he worked on his face-offs then took Fishy the rookie under his wing to show him how to put more force into his hip check. Throughout practice, he heard random shouts of “Who’s your daddy?” followed by exaggerated guffaws.

Afterward, he went to the studio at the museum to “see how things were going,” but in reality, he just wanted to be with Claire and watch her work with the guys he loved most in the world.

It was unsettling to feel himself falling for her. He’d just watched Tim get blindsided by love. Calder wasn’t far behind with Becca, from the look of it. Was it his turn? Maybe. Did he want it to be his turn?

Maybe.

But he was scared too. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to be exclusive for very long. So far, so good. No other women attracted him. The booty calls he got on Twitter were easily ignored. He was tempted to unfollow a lot of the women he’d slept with occasionally because they were annoying him.

But he didn’t. He wasn’t that far gone.

Yet.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Claire was excited because the auction was the first chance she’d had to dress up since Erin’s wedding. When she was married, she’d made clothing choices she knew would please Vic—dresses and tops that showed off her breasts—and he’d been very appreciative. But now that Vic wasn’t around anymore, she realized she had something to say, style-wise. And it wasn’t a tata manifesto of any kind.

As she checked her appearance one more time in the mirror, she thought briefly of Alex, who also seemed to be obsessed with her chest. The little black dress she wore did not show any cleavage or side boob. The scoop neckline was relatively high and there were no translucent material nor cut outs. It was not, in her opinion, a sexually stimulating dress. But if he didn’t like it, tough shit. She wasn’t ever going to dress for a man again.

She was just slipping on her shoes when Alex walked into the bedroom.

“Well, someone looks pretty as a picture.” He laughed. “Get it? Art auction? Picture?”

“I get it,” she said, wiggling her toes to get the pinkies comfortable.

“Very classy.” He walked in a circle, looking her up and down. “You look almost exactly like Holly Golightly.”

“I do?” She beamed at him. “I wasn’t sure you’d get it.”

A couple of weeks earlier, she and Alex were watching
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
together, and she had been struck by the iconic style of Audrey Hepburn’s character, especially her morning-after look as she gazed into Tiffany’s window.

Alex had said after the movie, “Wow. The way she handled that cigarette holder made smoking look sexy. And I hate cigarettes.”

Having not yet shopped for an appropriate outfit for the art auction, Claire decided to try and emulate that same sixties party-girl flair even though her bustline was four times as big as Audrey’s.

Because the event didn’t call for a floor-length gown, elbow gloves or a tiara, she’d opted for a dress with a form fitting bodice and a flared skirt. She stuck with black flats and managed, after a lot of searching, to find a similar choker with an elaborate clasp that could have been a piece of jewelry all by itself.

“Of course I got it,” Alex said. “That necklace you have on is a dead giveaway.” He coughed. “Plus, I saw your computer open to all those photos the other day. I may be a dumb jock, but I can put two and two together.”

“You look pretty good yourself there.”

“Thanks. When it’s a team event and we’re not wearing jerseys, I like to at least wear Barracuda colors. Plus this is my night, baby. The night I get discovered as the new art prodigy of the 21st century!”

Chuckling, Claire admired him from the back as they walked to his car. He wore a dark blue suit and matching blue shirt with one button undone and looked sexier than one man had a right to be. His tight-assed walk never failed to catch her attention. They’d barely left the house and she wanted to turn around and drag him back to the bedroom.

* * *

The auction was being held in a ballroom at the downtown Marriott. The closer they got to the hotel, the more excited and nervous she became. Even though the Barracudas had a marketing team, Elliot had said yes to every idea she had regarding the event—the glossy full color, hard cover catalog, the “Making Of” DVD that would be up for sale after they filmed and edited the auction itself, and the high-priced dinner preceding the auction. What if this turned out to be a dismal failure like her food blog or the time she’d tried to organize a book club for her apartment building?

They pulled up to the entrance to the hotel. A valet came toward them.

“Alex, I’m going to throw up.”

He grinned at her. “You’ll be fine. It’s going to be terrific. We’re going to raise a ton of money. You’ll see.”

They got out of the car and walked toward the entrance. Right behind them in line for the valet she saw a limousine. She also saw a familiar face behind the wheel.

A lump of dread formed in the pit of her stomach. “Shit.”

Alex glanced at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Let’s go inside.”

Nodding at the person manning the registration table, she led them inside. The auction room looked perfect. A dais at the far end held an empty easel and podium festooned with the team logo. Neat rows of seats awaited the bidders. On the periphery were displays of the players’ artwork with labels denoting the lot number and the name and jersey number of the artist. They’d decided to serve appetizers and drinks here to allow the guests to view the paintings before having dinner in the adjoining ballroom.

Claire made a beeline for the bar.

“Hi there. I’ll have a martini. Apple, if you have it.”

While the bartender made her drink, Alex said, “Tell me what’s going on. You only drink apple martinis when you’re really upset.”

“I think my ex-husband is here.”

Alex looked around with a frown. “You
think?
”

She glanced at the door. Two people entered. Neither of them was Vic. “Outside. I saw a limo drive up and his favorite driver was at the wheel.”

“That doesn’t mean the dickwad is here.”

“Don’t call him that.” She took a big sip of her drink and nodded at the bartender. “I’m going to need another one of these.”

Alex held up a hand. “No she doesn’t. Just calm down. You don’t want to get shitfaced on your big night. He might not even—”

“
Crap.
There he is. Don’t look! What is he even doing here? He doesn’t like art
or
hockey.”

Vic had a woman on his arm. Was this Antonia, the woman he’d left her for? Had he come to show her off? That didn’t seem like him.

Alex put his mouth close to her ear. “How do you want to play this, Cream Puff? Just say the word and I’ll take him outside—”

“Alex.”

“—and tell him he’s not wanted here. The boys’ll back me up.”

She put a hand on his arm, alarmed because she knew he meant it. “No, no don’t do that. That would be a promo nightmare. Someone would be sure to video it. No, we’ll just play it cool. We’ll be cordial. Okay? I’ve worked really hard on this event and I don’t want to ruin it with a scene.” She downed the rest of her martini and put the empty on the bar. “All right. Let’s do this.”

Feeling the burn from the alcohol, she made her way toward Vic and the unidentified woman.

Her ex-husband’s date looked like a chic circus performer, dressed in a form-fitting pink gown with lots of frills and some honest-to-goodness feathers in her hair. She had a choker on like Claire did, but hers was a pink leather with a tiny charm hanging from it. All of that would have seemed normal if it hadn’t been for the little dog in her shoulder bag.

At first, Claire thought she was carrying a stuffed animal in her purse, because it was absurdly cute, but no, it was a living, breathing animal. In clothes.

The dog had a matching pink outfit and collar. Was this woman for real?

Vic nodded at Claire as she and Alex walked up. “I should have known you’d be here, what with you being such a Barracuda fan and an art lover.”

“I actually organized this entire event,” she said as she pressed her cheek to his.

“Did you? Good for you. That doesn’t surprise me.” Vic coughed. “Ah, Claire, this is Antonia. Antonia, this is Claire.”

Wishing she’d gotten that second martini, Claire reluctantly held out her hand.

Instead of taking it, Antonia reached out, took hold of Alex’s lapels and pulled him down for an air kiss. “Alex, darling, I was hoping I’d run into you. It’s been forever since I saw you.”

“Hey, Antonia.”

Claire turned to Alex in shock. “You know each other?”

“We dated once a couple of years ago,” Antonia said breezily.

Claire froze as her brain tried to reset. Alex and Antonia...? It didn’t compute.

Vic cleared his throat. “Are you a Barracuda?” he asked Alex.

“Yes. Alex Sullivan.” Their handshake was perfunctory.

Alex and Antonia not only knew each other, they’d slept together. Why had she not seen this coming? She knew he’d gone to bed with half the women in San Diego. It was inevitable that they’d run into some of them. But why did it have to be Antonia? Tonight of all nights?

“It was nothing serious, Victor. I’m a fan and when we met, we...clicked.” She shrugged. “It didn’t last long.”

Alex had an unconcerned expression on his face. “A week at most,” he said.

“So where is your piece, darling? I came here especially to see it.”

With a smile plastered on her face, Claire nudged Alex. “Why don’t you show Antonia your painting? I wanted to talk to Vic for a second anyway.”

He hesitated but Claire gave him a look. “All right,” he said, frowning.

After Antonia and Alex walked away, Claire faced Vic. “What were you thinking?”

Vic winced. “Antonia is a die-hard Barracuda fan. We had to come or I’d never hear the end of it. I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

By unspoken agreement, they headed back to the bar where Vic ordered a scotch and soda. Claire asked for another martini.

“You’re seeing a hockey player?”

“I am,” she said, chin lifted.

Vic pulled his wallet out and paid for the drinks. “I never saw that coming. You sure got yourself an upgrade.”

She shrugged.

“Are you happy? Does he treat you good?”

“He does.”

“I’m glad. You deserve it.”

She glanced across the room and saw Alex still with Antonia. She was laughing. Claire hated her.

“What about you?” she asked him. “That is
the
Antonia, isn’t it? You didn’t develop a fixation on women named Antonia...”

“No, that’s her.” He had the good graces to look ashamed. “I swear, I didn’t do this on purpose, Claire. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

She believed him. He did cheat on her, a despicable act, but the marriage had been in deep trouble long before he began his affair. He wasn’t the type of man to throw the other woman in her face. But she was a bit puzzled over his choice. Gigantic boobs? Check. She didn’t expect anything less from Vic. But Antonia seemed like a sidekick out of a romantic comedy.

“What’s with the dog?”

Vic blinked. “Oh, she’s a clothing designer.”

Claire couldn’t help the sharp laugh as he tipped the bartender. “The dog is a clothing designer?”

“Come on, Claire.
Antonia
is the designer. She makes clothes for dogs.”

With difficulty, she bit back her laugh. “How many people buy clothes for their dogs?”

“Quite a few, as a matter of fact.” Antonia had returned, sans Alex. “My designs have appeared in the pages of several national magazines and even on the red carpet at the Sundance Film Festival. In fact, I dare you to walk down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills and
not
see a dog wearing something from my line.”

“And what do you do?” Antonia asked Claire.

“I work for the Bayside Art Museum.”

“Are you a curator?”

“No. I’m a docent.”

“Ah.” With a smile that swam with condescension, Antonia nodded.

“I also organized this auction. In fact, I was there every day with the team. What a bunch of sweethearts they are,” she said with a tight laugh. “We had a lot of fun. They even gave me a nickname. They call me ‘Sarge.’” She laughed again as if remembering all the good times that Antonia, the “die-hard Barracuda fan” had not been a part of.

Antonia’s face closed up and Vic jumped into the conversation. “Hey, so what a crazy idea. Paintings by hockey players? Why don’t we go look at some of them?”

“Good idea,” Antonia said. “I’ll show you Alex’s. It’s very good and I’m going to bid on it. It would look wonderful in my kitchen.”