Seduced by the Game (41 page)

Harris laughs as he rolls
up his shirtsleeves. “See? Makes a world of difference.”

Klingensmith chirps,
“Almost. Here, you need this, too.” He loosens his tie, pulls it over his head
and then tosses it around her neck. We all chuckle as she looks down at
herself, dressed in mismatched, oversized men’s clothing over her jeans and
Comets shirt after the game.

Harris laughs at George in
her new outfit. “You need at least fifty more pounds and six inches before
you’ll look like a real hockey player. Then maybe you’d be the same size as
Comstock here.”

George looks up at me
sheepishly, and I can just tell, somehow, that she’s thinking about my body. She
purses her lips together and looks away from me, and the guys notice her facial
expression. “Thanks a lot, guys. I look totally presentable now.” She sighs as
she holds up her hands, which are completely covered by the length of the
sleeves. The hostess gives George a strange look as she waves us back to the
banquet room—the only place in the restaurant big enough to accommodate our
large group of people—but she doesn’t say anything about the dress code to
George, not while she’s surrounded by so many well-dressed, obviously important
guys.

“See? Not a problem,”
Harris laughs again as we all gather around the table. It’s a game of musical
chairs as we figure out who sits where and next to whom.

I’m looking out of the
corner of my eye because I don’t want anyone to see that I’m really trying to
figure out where George is sitting and where I should sit in relation to her. I
want to sit nearby but not too close to her. Even though she was merely being
nice by congratulating me after the game, I can tell she’s still trying to keep
some distance from me. Not that I blame her for that, and I certainly want to
respect that. Not only were we unprofessional by sleeping together the very
same day we met, but then I had to tell her that when we had sex, I was part of
a couple. I can’t imagine that that’s news anyone ever wants to hear, so I
can’t blame her for not wanting to be around me. I wish that it didn’t have to
be this way though, because I really like being around her.

* * * *

A lot of the time, I liked
sitting in the middle of the table, completely surrounded by my loud,
boisterous men. I can get just as rowdy as them. Usually I like the way
everyone talks over each other in order to be heard and the way that, after a
few beers each, the ties and suit coats come off, the top buttons of their
shirts come undone, and they relax and let loose after a game. It’s a fun
atmosphere to be a part of, and it’s even more fun to be right smack dab in the
middle of it all—the one who gets reached across for the pepper or the one over
top a high five gets slapped.

But I really don’t think I
can be amidst that tonight at this table with all these guys. Sure, I had a
blast at the game, but it’s easy to get into the games—especially when it’s a
close game and a big one on top of that. Hockey’s such a fast-paced, emotional
game, and I don’t think it’s possible to not get swept up in it. I’ve since
come down from that high, and now I’m back in the funk that I’ve been in since
I woke up on Wednesday morning.

I strategically pick a chair
at one of the corners of the table because that will minimize the amount of
people who can sit around me, and I’ll only be forced to interact with whoever
sits next to me and across the table from me. The guys argue—like usual—over
where they want to sit, who they want to sit by, and which seat will give them
the best vantage point to check out the hot bartender or the television,
whichever their preference is. Mark takes the seat next to me and asks, “How
did you get relegated out here at the end?”

Smiling, I come up with my
best white lie. “I just didn’t wanna get elbowed on both sides tonight. You
guys eat like pigs.”

“But pigs with table
manners,” he laughs, tucking the cloth napkin into the collar of his shirt.
“Does it make me a cannibal if I order the ribs?”

I look at him with a
cocked eyebrow and open my mouth to offer the first snappy retort I can think
of, but Mark interrupts me and exclaims, “Stock! Come sit down here, with us!”
When I turn my head to see Bryan, my mouth is still wide open and I’m sure my
eyes are, too, looking stunned and unsure. The tips of his ears are red as he
ducks his head and takes the seat across from me without a word. There aren’t
many other available seats at this point, and chances are he would have been
forced to sit here in the corner anyway. Just my luck. This man is unavoidable.

Mark, who invited Bryan to
sit down here with us, ignores him and talks to me again. “So George, what have
you been up to all week? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I’ve been busy,” I
mutter, grabbing my napkin and spreading it out across my lap. I’m looking down
at my hands as I smooth out the white linen. “Long road trip coming up in a few
days, so there’s lots to do. And plus you guys were in Detroit for a couple
days there.”

“But still, it seems like
normally I still see you in the hallways or something. It feels like I haven’t
seen you at all. Are you coming on the road trip?”

“Yeah,” I sigh, but then I
force myself to smile at him. I don’t want to sound like I’m upset or nervous
about having to be with these guys nonstop for a four-game, eight-day road trip
or even give them that impression. I’m trying not to disturb the equilibrium of
the team, especially since they’ve been playing well and have won the past two
games—two out of three since Bryan has joined the Comets. I don’t think anyone
can deny that he’s made a positive impact on our team, but he’s wreaking havoc
on my personal life and possibly my professional life, too. I guess only time
will tell how this will affect my ability to do my job. “Of course I will be.”

“Just checking.”

The conversation lulls,
and I think about trying to find something to talk about, but then I realize
that I’ll probably just say something stupid. So whenever I’m tempted to make
an ass out of myself, I take a sip of my beer. I’m uneasy and I keep trying to
avoid looking up because every time I do, I somehow manage to catch Bryan’s
gaze. That makes both of us blush a little and then quickly look away. I’m
surprised Mark hasn’t noticed yet. I keep fidgeting and accidentally kicking
Bryan under the table, which makes it worse. I mumble an apology every time,
but I’m sure he’s getting just as annoyed as I am.

Before I know it, my glass
is empty. The waitress notices and brings me a new one without even bothering
to ask. The guys have commandeered the bread basket, so I’m drinking my second
beer on an empty stomach. I think about Tuesday and put my glass down, refusing
to drink any more until I get my food.

The alcohol is making me
warm, especially since I’m sitting next to Mark who’s practically a heat
factory, so just like how some of the guys are doing, I take off the jacket and
tie I’m wearing. I pull my hair off my neck, twisting it and then sweeping it
over my shoulder to my front to try to get some cool air against my skin. I
lean away from Mark to try to get away from his heat output and, in the
process, move my foot somewhere to get better leverage. It hits something, and
I simultaneously see Bryan twitch.

* * * *

“I’m sorry,” George mumbles,
flicking her eyes down to the tabletop as color sweeps across her cheeks.

“It’s okay,” I assure her,
again, because it’s okay. I wish she didn’t feel so bad about it, like she’s
mortified that I may be construing this as her trying to play footsie or something
like that under the table. Also, I wish she’d just look at me so I could smile
at her or something to let her know that this is all okay—not just the
accidental kicks, but being around me. I can understand why she thinks I’m a
horrible person. After all, I used her to cheat on my girlfriend, and what kind
of person does something like that? But I didn’t purposely use her, and I
certainly didn’t mean to hurt her in the process. Things have just been messed
up for the past couple of days in so many ways. After everything she’s done for
me since I got here, I don’t want to repay her by making her miserable. On the
contrary.

She’s acting quite
different from the girl I first met, the one who manhandled my bags and smiled
at me from ear-to-ear. Now she’s not smiling at all and is lacking that fun
presence she exuded when I first saw her at the airport. I can tell it’s my
fault, and I’m sorry for that because I miss that girl, the one who made me
feel so welcome and at home in strange new place, even if I didn’t appreciate
it at first. I appreciate it now.

But I don’t know what to
do reassure her or get her back to her old self. Maybe she thinks I’m mad at
her for what happened, that she wrecked my relationship with Corinne, but I’m
not mad. And it certainly wasn’t her fault. Maybe she’s embarrassed that she
got drunk and slept with someone she works with, but I’m not embarrassed and I
don’t think she should be either. It may not have been the smartest move or the
most professional, but it’s not like I regret it.

It’s almost kinda funny
and definitely a little ironic, I think, that when I start to feel comfortable
as a Comet, surrounded by my new teammates here in Dallas, she’s the one who’s
starting to look uncomfortable. I wouldn’t be feeling so good without her help,
and now she’s the one who looks miserable. George looks absolutely relieved
when our dinners start arriving so she can eat and keep herself distracted by
that task.

When we’re all finished
eating, the guys begin planning their evening. I can tell that George wants no
part of this but feels like she doesn’t have a choice since, because Harris
practically dragged her here, her car’s left at the arena. I figure I can help,
so I nudge her foot under the table to get her attention and then quietly say,
“I’ll take you back to the rink, if you want.”

She hesitates but looks
like she’s going to accept my offer, but we get interrupted. “Yo, George. Club
Onyx? This time, we’re celebrating!” Harris bellows.

George winces. “No Club
Onyx, please. Seriously.”

“Aw, come on! I’ll buy you
a lap dance!” That’s something I’ve heard from him before, when he tried to
coax her to go there on Tuesday after our loss against the Monarchs. He laughs
as he claps me on the back. “I oughtta buy one for Stock here, too, to celebrate
his first goal.”

I can feel my face get hot
but don’t say anything to Harris, even though I’d prefer no lap dance. George
looks at me with her brown eyes and sees right through me, picking up on the
fact that I’m a little uncomfortable with that situation. I never did like
strip clubs and always try to avoid them. I think she even tries to cover for
me, “I told you once, Adam, and I’ll tell y’all again. No. Don’t you remember
what happened last time?”

“So what? Candy had a
crush on you. I’d be flattered if a girl offered me a free dance in one of the
back rooms.”

“I could see her herpes
through her see-through G-string!” She gagged, shaking her head like an Etch A
Sketch to get that memory out of her mind’s eye. While I wasn’t there to
witness that, just the idea of it makes me laugh. “Don’t you get how gross that
is? I did not want that anywhere near me. I do not want to see Candy again.”

“Whatever,” Harris
mumbles, obviously wanting to go to Club Onyx but coming to grips with the idea
that it wasn’t going to happen if he couldn’t convince George to go.

So I decide to offer a
suggestion of my own. “Why don’t we go back to that one bar we were at? You
know, that one on Tuesday?”

I watched as the guys look
around at each other and debate that option, and they seem to be okay with
it—at least enough that they agree to head there after dinner. We all just
throw handfuls of cash on the table, enough from each of us to cover our
individual bills and then some to tip the wait staff. Then we all make our way
to the bar, which is more packed than it was on Tuesday. But we find a couple
of tables to crowd around. People are line dancing, which is what I was hoping
to see. George likes dancing—it was so evident when I saw her move on the floor
on Tuesday—so I hope that dancing now will make her happy.

George sits on a high
stool around one of the tables, rolling the sleeves of her t-shirt up to her
shoulders to combat the heat. We all get beers, no fancy drinks, and hang
around. We can’t really talk much over the music, which is probably a good
thing. After a little while, some of the guys branch out to talk to some girls,
and some guys leave to head home to their families, wives, and girlfriends.

George’s been mostly
quiet, so I decide to do something more. I first head to the bar before I
approach her, the first time I really try to talk to her on a personal level
all day. I set a shot glass on the table in front of her and nod at her to take
it, and then I knock back my own. I choose my words very carefully. “Do you
dance?”

George smiles, like she
knows exactly what I’m doing. She smiles like she did the moment I saw her at
the airport: wide and genuine. Then she copies exactly what I did and said when
I replied to that question when she first proposed it a few days ago. She downs
the shot of whiskey, grimaces from the burn, and says, “No. Definitely not.”