Game On (18 page)

“You should have seen Luc out there. Man, he was a legend. Watching him on skates, the way he handled the stick as though it was an extension of his arm, the amazing puck manoeuvres…he made it look as though it had all been choreographed in advance.”

Luc.

Luc used to do this.

Luc used to be part of this, be the cause of the cheers and exhales, the applause, the chants. She wished she could have seen him play. She would have screamed herself hoarse, never would have missed a game.

How could he live without it? It made sense, now, why he couldn’t come to watch. He didn’t want to be part of the game from this side of the Plexiglas.

“I mocked him,” she muttered, half hoping Riley wouldn’t hear. “I got mad at him, told him he was cheating his readers by not going to the games. I didn’t get it, Riley. I’m so stupid.”

He put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Not many people do, Clara, so don’t beat yourself up.”

“No, no. I’ve been an insensitive fool. Oh God, I’m horrible. No wonder he…”
No wonder he thinks me and my rules are ridiculous.
Luc played by the rules his entire life; there was a bloody book of rules when it came to professional hockey, but Fate damned the rules, dealt him a card from the bottom of the deck.

“It would be heartbreaking for him to be here, in the stands. But how can he even watch it on television? How can he write about it, talk about it? Isn’t that just as painful? To have to see other players break your records or achieve things he didn’t have a chance to?”

Riley retracted his arm and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “That’s not the only reason he doesn’t come to games, Clara.”

“What do you mean?”

Riley blew out a breath, hesitant. He looked around, changed positions, focused on the game for a few more minutes, Clara’s curious eyes on him the entire time. He waited until the second period ended, until the people in the seats next to them got up and left, before speaking. “I’m not sure how to explain. Or even if I should.”

“Please, Riley? It’s important that I understand.”

He expelled another sigh and, with a half shrug, he began, “Somebody pulled a gun on him, Clara, in an arena, a place more familiar than home, somewhere he felt comfortable, secure. But it was more than that. Luc was the superstar of every venue he played, unstoppable, indestructible. Do you get that? This was his playground, and he was the king. And in one pull of a finger, he was dethroned, made vulnerable—no, that’s not the right word,” Riley said, shaking his head. “Luc exemplified what a hockey hero should be, and in one second, it was gone.”

“How did it happen?”

“The team arrived, there was a crowd, people waiting for a glimpse, kids wanting autographs, or just to be noticed by their heroes. A guy wearing a long coat limps out of the crowd, gets within feet of Luc, opens his coat, and points a gun.”

Clara swallowed, wanting more but unable to ask for it.

“Fans are supposed to support you, cheer for you, and yeah, sometimes they boo and hurl insults, but they’re not supposed to shoot you. Luc never denied fans. He did charity events, gave free skating clinics to kids, but it was a crazy-ass fan that ultimately took him down.” Riley shook his head, clearly mystified at what could drive a human being to commit such an act.

“Shortly after he took the job with BMG, Luc and I went to a Panthers game to get some interviews. He freaked, couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He was pale and sweating, clutching his chest like he was having a heart attack. Scared the shit out of me and humiliated the shit out of him. He hates crowds now—not sure if you noticed that, the way he hesitates and scans a room before he takes a step in the door. And though he’ll never deny anyone an autograph, do you see the way he tenses up when someone approaches him, like he’s unsure whether they’ll have a gun or a pen? He’ll deny it, but he hides away most of the time, comes up with a list of excuses to avoid going out.”

Clara wrapped her arms around her middle, feeling cold to her bones. She didn’t know what to say, how to respond to Riley’s story. She felt like she’d glimpsed a sliver of Luc’s soul, his damaged, broken psyche. And all she could think was
how can I make him better? How can I fix him
?

Chapter 20

C
lara pounded against the rubber-lined
treadmill in the hotel gym for two reasons: she needed to sort out her conflicting feelings, and she wasn’t ready to face Luc. Over an hour later, she hadn’t come to any resolutions and her legs felt like jelly. She hoped he’d be asleep when she got back.

The suite was dark and quiet when she entered, so presumably he was. After a quick shower, she sat down at the dining table and wrote her half of the blog article. She’d made copious notes at the game, so it shouldn’t have taken as long as it did, but her mind wouldn’t stop drifting back to the night before, when she was prone on this very table. Visions of Luc, eyes dark with lust, kept intruding, stealing her focus. And his hands. The mere recollection of what his hands and mouth did to her made her body pang with need.

Hours later, when she finally she hit send, she lay in bed and stared at the door to the bathroom. His bathroom. His bedroom a few steps beyond.

It was futile. She couldn’t resist tiptoeing through to the other side and peeking in. His face, in the soft glow of the clock radio and his phone charger, was peaceful: no scowl, no knitted brows, no cocky smirk. She imagined him as a boy, a boy with dreams of a future in the NHL. He’d worked hard for his success, and he should still be playing, scoring goals and winning games.

Sure, he’d had a taste of it and some would he say he should be grateful he had years of doing the thing he loved, but that didn’t make what was done to him any less than a grave injustice. Like Riley said, Luc lived for the game and nothing, certainly not writing about it, could replace being in that arena with fans chanting your name. Writing about the game wasn’t the same as playing the game, but he still wanted to be a part of that. She understood.

But what about her? Was she any different? Holding on to her career, albeit a less passionate one, when she had no right to be there?

The answer, as much as she’d like to ignore it, sat like a bridle of stone around her neck.

Watching him made her heart ache.

“Luc?” she said softly, hoping he wouldn’t wake so she could leave yet praying he was so she could beg for his forgiveness.

“Clara?” he said sleepily. “You okay?”

She dropped to her knees at the side of his bed. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you talking about? Sorry for what?” Luc propped himself up on one elbow and scrubbed his face with his hand. She looked at him, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to make him know how horrible she felt.

He pulled her onto the bed next to him. “What happened?” He glanced at the clock before looking her over. “It’s after two. Where’ve you been?”

“Luc, listen to me,” she said, framing his face with her hands, the warmth, the stubble on his cheeks, tugging at her instincts to lay down, let herself be enveloped by him. “I’ve been stupidly insensitive.” She spoke softly, calmly, though her heart raced. She swiped her thumb across his cheekbone as she continued, “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go to the game the other night. I didn’t realize that you…I should have known—”

Luc pulled away from her touch. “Fucking Riley.” He said it in anger but she heard an underlying tone of hurt.

“Riley has nothing to do with this. It just took me an embarrassing amount of time to put two and two together.”

“Is that right? What else did he have to say to get you to spend half the night with him?” He bunched his pillow and turned away from her.

“I wasn’t with him half the night,” she said, shocked to hear a note of jealousy. Surely he didn’t think…

Clara stretched out in bed next to him, careful not to make contact. She wanted him to touch her, to hold her, needed his warmth to make the icky, icy feelings in her disappear.

He didn’t. He didn’t move.

She put her hand on his shoulder. “It’s just taken me this long to realize that I’ve been a complete idiot,” she whispered. Everything inside her ached.

“You’d better leave, Clara.”

“I don’t want to leave, Luc,” she said, her voice tight. She tried to blink away the prickles in her eyes before the tears came. She slid her hand down his back, felt his muscles go taut. “I want to stay.”

“Just. Go. You don’t get to make no-sex rules then crawl into a man’s bed.”

“What if I said the rules were utter nonsense?”

He lay perfectly, frighteningly still, as if the slightest movement would kill him. When he spoke his voice was like broken glass on gravel. “I don’t want a pity fuck, Clara.”

No, no, no! It wasn’t a pity fuck or a surrender fuck or a please-forgive-me fuck. She wanted him,
needed him
, to make love to her. If she walked away now, she’d keep walking until she got to her flat in London.

“Fine. What about an ‘I can’t stop thinking about you’ fuck? Or an ‘I can’t catch my breath when I’m around you’ fuck?”
What about a goodbye fuck?

He didn’t speak. He didn’t respond in any way. Clara wasn’t sure he was still breathing.

She slipped her arm around him and placed her hand on his heart, felt it hammering against his sternum, echoing the frantic rhythm of her own. “What about an ‘I sat and chatted with charming, loveable Riley for hours and the only thing I wanted to talk about was you and you and you’ fuck?”

A low rumble came from his chest. “Sutter must have loved that.”

“Luc?”

“Hmm?”

“Please won’t you kiss me?”

“If I do, I won’t stop. Not this time.”

“I don’t want you to.”

Luc pulled her on top of him, the easiest position in which to get her naked. The tank top was easy enough to tug over her head, the shorts, both his and hers, he doffed while feasting on her mouth and shoulders. It occurred to him maybe he was dreaming, that Clara being in his bed was merely a hallucination, a chimera, a result of madness borne of extreme sexual frustration. And if so, he should take her as quickly as possible, before he woke up.

“Are you real, Clara?”

“’Course I am,” she moaned as he ran his tongue over her nipple.

“Prove it.”

“Gladly,” she said, pushing him down onto his back. Luc’s head swam in sensations as she kissed a trail down the center of his chest, then proceeded lower, using her tongue to trace the ridges of his abs. If he was dreaming, he’d better not fucking wake up before she reached her destination.

“Ah, God, love, yes,” he said, or something to that effect when her lips went around him. Maybe that shot had been fatal, the last two years of his life a coma-induced nightmare. Maybe he was dead because this,
her,
doing
that,
felt like heaven.

His balls tightened and every nerve in his body lent themselves to his cock, leaving his extremities numb and tingling from lack of blood flow. Every thought, every feeling focused on this one primary area as she massaged his shaft with her deft fingers, with her tongue, her lips, her teeth.
Mon dieu,
let this be real and not another dream.

She pushed him hard and fast toward ejaculation. He was ready to explode, ready to surrender to days of sexual frustration. But he wouldn’t come, not like this, not the first time. The need for release was crucial, but his need to be inside her was critical.

“Clara, love,” he managed to say. “Hold on.”

Luc fumbled for his wallet on the nightstand. With trembling hands—he
was
trembling, by God—he managed to extract a foil packet. He pulled Clara away—last time he’d do that,
ever
, he vowed—and slipped the condom on. He flipped her onto her back and thought hockey stats while he prepared her, sliding his fingers into her silky warmth, trying fervently to tune out her throaty mewls.

Her beauty filled his chest with a sweet ache. He caressed the soft skin between her thighs, nudged her bent knees further apart so she opened for him. She was wet, ready, and as much as he wanted to be inside her, he wanted to taste her, everywhere.

He teased her with his cock, sliding through her pussy to coat himself with her cream, nudging her channel without entering. He was torn between driving into her and devouring her, lapping her up. She had tasted like peach nectar on his fingers last night, and he’d been craving her all day.

Clara’s legs came around him, anchoring him against her.

Nope. Not this time. There’d be time to explore every inch of her skin with his mouth another time. And there would be other times. Obsession wasn’t strong enough a word for how he felt about her, mind and body.

“Oh God, Luc. Yes, yes please.”

Her breathy yeses made his cock iron hard. He rose onto his elbows and drove into her, mindless with need. As he slid into her tight channel, his only rational thought—irrational actually—was that they must orgasm together. He didn’t question why it was important to him when, technically, it was 2-0 for her. He could dwell on that later. For now, he had to hold on, had to keep from exploding before she was ready to join him. He splayed his hand across her abdomen, his thumb on the tight little gem inside her sweet pussy, and stroked it until Clara panted his name. When she replaced it with the name of our Lord, he knew he could let go. Her inner muscles pulsed against his cock as he pumped, pushing him into a wickedly intense release.

Limbs entwined, they lay on their sides facing each other. The room was dark and silent except for the wet muffled sounds of their kisses, slow and lazy, unhurried. He caressed her with long, gentle strokes across her back, down her thighs, over her abdomen. He palmed her breasts, keeping her nipples in a continued state of arousal. He rubbed her pussy, smeared her juices across her mouth, then went to work licking and nibbling her clean. It was intimate, arousing, and sexy as hell.

It was beyond what she’d imagined it could be with him, the union moving from merely physical to something of a deeper nature. Clara felt sated, peaceful, and excited all at once.

Tell him. Tell him, now.

No. She wouldn’t ruin this. Not now, when it would spoil a tender moment.

She’d tell him later. In the morning. She’d confess everything.