Seduced by the Game (37 page)

“That’s George?” I still
feel like I’m missing something. I watch the way her curls bounce as she laughs
at something Harris says, laughing deeply like she just heard the funniest
thing ever. It’s the exact opposite of the way I feel. I wonder how long it’s
been since I’ve laughed so freely like that.

“Yup, that’s her.”

She sees us looking at
her, and she waves at us, pats Harris on the bicep, and makes her way down to
us. With every step, her high heel clicks on the floor. She greets us. “Hey,
y’all.”

“Yo, George, how’s it
hanging?”

“Just like yours, Mark,”
she chuckles, her eyes sparkling as she looks at him, “shriveled and a little
to the left.” Then she turns her attention to me. She sounds more serious when
she’s talking to me than how she addressed Klingensmith or the way it looked
like she was interacting with Harris. “Hi, Bryan. Good luck tonight against the
Monarchs. I’m looking forward to watching you play with Justin.”

“Thanks, uh, George.” I
stumble over the name.

“You don’t have to call me
that,” she informs me, and it makes me feel a little better. I feel pretty
ridiculous calling a girl like her George. “You can call me Georgiana. Or my
friends call me G.”

“Nah, she’s George,”
Klingensmith laughs, and he puts her in a headlock. I expect her to squeal or
say that he’s messing up her hair, but she doesn’t. She surprises me by
elbowing him just hard enough for him to let go of her. He rubs the spot on his
ribs. “She’s just like one of the guys.”

* * * *

I can only laugh at Mark
when he pouts and rubs his side, complaining to me about how the trainer’s
going to give him grief. We have enough injuries and certainly don’t need any
more, but the second I let any of these guys get away with anything is the
second that our team order spirals out of control. I gotta keep my boys in
line.

Like I said, I’m the mother
hen. As the Director of Team Services, my sole responsibility is taking care of
my Comets. Sure, the majority of my time is spent reserving blocks of hotel
rooms for road trips, organizing flights and buses to pick the team up,
scheduling team activities like dinners on the road and charity events—but in
Bryan’s case, I feel like an ambassador to Dallas and a representative of this
team. At the very least, I’m a concierge. I want to make sure he’s comfortable,
and he clearly is not.

“One of the guys?” he
asks, eyeing me carefully. He doesn’t know how I fit in here, which is
understandable considering he obviously doesn’t feel like he fits in here
either.

“Just about. You’ll be
seeing an awful lot of me around here.” I could offer him my back story, like
how I went to the job fair because I really wanted to work for the football
league, but I got a position with the Comets instead. I was a lowly assistant
until there was some kind of mistake or mix-up about rooms in Colorado, and I
took the initiative to sweet talk a desk clerk and got the boys into rooms with
barely enough time to nap before their game against the Colorado Storm.
Sometimes, it’s not enough to have good ideas; you’ve got to take initiative.
That’s the only reason someone as young as me got this top position. A little
southern charm goes a long way.

Mark asks me, “Where are
we staying when we go to Detroit? Please tell me it’s not the Embassy Suites
again.”

“The Embassy Suites,” I
reply with a smile, watching him pull a face and groan. I put my hands on my
hips. “Maybe you should have said something sooner, Marky Mark. How else am I
supposed to know?”

“You take special
requests?” Bryan questions, still trying to figure out my dynamic with the
players.

“No,” I joke, “but I do
take bribes.”

“She puts together the
team’s road schedule,” Mark says, putting his arm around my shoulders. “You
ever want a little free time when we travel, she’ll work it out for ya.”

“I accept cash only, no
checks or credit cards,” I giggle as I slide out from underneath the weight of
his arm. That earns the teeniest, tiniest hint of a smile from him, and I
accept that as a victory. I figure I should quit while I’m ahead. “All right,
boys, go get ready for the game. I’ll see y’all tonight.”

I spend the rest of the
early evening in my cool, air-conditioned office, attached to the phone like
usual. We’ve got two long road trips in March, one at the beginning and one at
the end. I have to confirm a shit ton of reservations and then try to book
practice times at various arenas. Only then can I figure out travel times. The
only reason I’m any good at this job is because I’m organized, and also I’ve
got a good phone personality. That’s what it takes to get things done in this
business.

Right before the game, I
change back into my jeans and then a Comets shirt for the game. I’m no diva; I
don’t usually make so many wardrobe changes during a typical day, but I was
dressed down to do the physical work of cleaning up the townhouse to prepare
for Bryan’s arrival, and then I had to make sure I was wearing something more
appropriate to be in the office. Now, I want to be comfortable to watch the
game. I never wear a number when I support the team because I don’t want to
appear to play favorites. Sure, some of the guys are a little more fun to be
around, like Adam, but I’d never let the players know that.

I watch Bryan carefully
when he’s out on the ice. Just like in Carolina, he’s wearing number 22. He’s
paired with Justin “Rocky” Rockwell, our number one defenseman. While the
Comets are in their offensive zone, the defense makes a change, and Justin and
Bryan pour over the boards and take up residence on the blue line. The
centerman and the wings buzz around the net, shooting the puck and trying to
bury a rebound to score against the Monarchs. After a solid minute of
controlling the play, one of the Monarchs’ defensemen gets his stick on the
puck and immediately shoots it toward center ice, with the hopes of allowing
his team to change lines and get fresh legs on the ice.

Bryan pinches down along
the boards, trying to keep the puck in the zone to further the onslaught
against the Monarchs. He’s almost there, but the Monarchs’ defenseman beats him
to the puck and chips it over his stick, over the blue line, and to the red
line. Bryan gets caught down low, and the Monarchs use that to their full
advantage. A new line of Monarchs spills over from the bench, and the Monarchs’
left winger pursues the puck to the opposite end of the ice, hoping to score.

Knowing he’s out of
position, Bryan does everything he can to get back. He turns on the jets and
skates full throttle; he’s trying to gain the zone so his partner Justin isn’t
stuck in a one-on-one situation. He’s getting closer, but it’s not enough. The
Monarchs’ left wing takes the shot, and Justin goes down on one knee to try to
block the shot. The puck glances off Justin’s shin pad but doesn’t change
trajectory enough and still heads for the goal. Our goalie Lars “The Wall”
Wallander is caught off guard by the direction change and can’t adjust in time.
The puck flies past him and hits the twine.

Justin slams his stick
against the ice, frustrated that his block may have been the reason Lars didn’t
make the save. Bryan slumps into a defeated posture, his shoulders low and his
head down. I can see that some of the Comets tap him with the blades of their
sticks to show their solidarity. It’s his first game as a Comet, and he tried
to help the team out. Unfortunately, the outcome isn’t what he had hoped for.

That’s the only goal of
the game. The Comets never respond with a tally of their own and lose to the
Monarchs 1–0. It’s not a bad game, and Bryan shows some glimpses of just why we
wanted him. By the time I make it down to the locker room to offer my sincere
condolences, I find that they’ve made plans to go out to deal with the loss. As
usual, Adam’s the one to make the plans. It doesn’t matter that he’s injured;
he’s always in the middle of these plans—especially since he’s so close to
returning and is bubbling over with pent-up, unexpended energy. He looks at me
and immediately invites me along, too. “Tonight, George! Club Onyx!”

“No thanks, Harris. I’m
not going to a strip club with you.” I pause. “Not again, anyway. Twice was
enough for me to learn my lesson.”

“Aw, come on! You’ve gotta
come. I’ll pay for your lap dance. It’s the only thing that will make us feel
better after this.”

“I can’t,” I tell him with
a laugh. “I’ve already got plans. I’m going line dancing.” I sling my bag over
my shoulder, ready to leave after a long day of hard work. “Y’all are more than
welcome to come with, though. It’s no Club Onyx, but it’s still fun and will
get your mind off everything.”

He looks like he’s
thinking about it. Adam glances around at his teammates, who shrug and leave it
up to him. When he turns back to me, he’s wearing his patented mischievous
grin. “Are you bringing your friends?”

“Yeah, they’re going to be
there,” I laugh. Adam swears up and down that he loves my friend Allison, who
pretty much wants nothing to do with him. I’ve warned all my friends to never
date a hockey player—after all, I hear all kinds of things in the locker
room—but that doesn’t mean that they don’t enjoy the company of hot, buff men
who can afford to keep the liquor flowing.

“All right then. Boys,
we’re going line dancing.”

As I head for the door, I
see Bryan sitting in his brand new stall. He doesn’t even have a permanent
nameplate above him. He looks fucking miserable, and I know what he’s thinking:
that he should have had some effect on the team in his first game here. I pause
there and ask, “You’ll be coming out, too, right?”

* * * *

I don’t know the first
thing about line dancing. I get roped into this like a calf in a rodeo. But the
team’s going out and I’m a Comet now, so I don’t feel like I should say no.
George is some kind of ringleader. After all, I don’t know how this team works
yet, but I feel like it would have to take more convincing for Harris to not
want to go to a strip club.

But I decide that I can go
and not participate. Just because I’m in Texas, it doesn’t mean I have to wear
boots and a hat and drawl my words. I don’t have to line dance. When we get to
the place, it’s just like a bar with a huge wooden floor. The place is in full
swing with country music blaring, and I immediately start to wish that I hadn’t
bothered to tag along. Not only do I feel like I don’t belong here, but I feel
like it doesn’t matter if I’m here at all.

It wasn’t that bad of a
game, I guess. I mean, in Carolina, we played games like that against some of
the teams in that conference: tight, low scoring games, which are so
frustrating because of the way they play the trap. But the Comets can’t afford
any more losses if they want to secure a good spot in the play-offs.

I don’t know what I was
expecting, considering I didn’t get to practice with the Comets. On a couple of
occasions, I had been caught out of position—which was only because I didn’t
know the system to know where I was expected to be. The power play wasn’t as
good as it could have been because we had such a hard time gaining entry, but a
lot of that was because of how the Monarchs play their game. But I was brought
in to be a PP specialist, and I look like a mistake because I failed in that
regard tonight.

Corinne hasn’t called yet,
even though she had told me that she was going to watch the game. I text her
but never get a response. Not even a stupid little message. I know she’s busy,
too, because she’s taking care of all this stuff back in Raleigh for me, but I
wish she’d call. I really feel, I don’t know, unwanted?

The guys all show up at
the same time, so we gather around some tables and ask for some pitchers of
beer so we can drown our sorrows. I look around and try to take in the ambiance
of the place, and I get sucked into watching the synchronized movements of
several girls on the floor. Their feet are moving, and they’re laughing and
swinging their hips. It’s kind of mesmerizing, and I get caught staring as the
girls in the line turn and all face in our direction. My eyes meet George’s,
and she smiles at me as she never misses a step.

She’s dressed similarly to
what I first saw at the airport. She’s got on short little jean cut-off shorts
and a red tank top, and she’s back in her cowboy boots and hat. Her skin has
the sheen of subtle perspiration. This is what they mean when they say girls
don’t sweat—they glow. George definitely has a glow to her. In fact, there are
quite a few guys who ogle her as she dances, not because she’s the prettiest
girl here but because of the way her personality shines through. She’s laughing
and moving confidently, obviously having a great time. None of the leering guys
approaches her, though, because they see the way she’s interacting with all the
big, burly Comets as she waves to greet our arrival. It’s like she’s protected,
automatically off-limits unless they want to risk life or limb. I wonder if it
bothers her.

Meanwhile, my teammates
treat her pretty asexually. None of them looks at her like the way these other
guys do, which I can’t quite figure out. George is beautiful and vibrant. I
can’t take my eyes off her whenever she’s in the room. Maybe it’s because
they’re like a family, and digging on her would feel incestuous—but as much as
we all know that you’re not supposed to dip your pen in company ink, it happens
way more often than anyone wants to believe.