Game On (29 page)

Dieu
, he was smitten.

Clara was glad she hadn’t resigned, glad she got to spend her days and nights with Luc. As Lydia had wisely advised, Clara took full advantage of her time on the road with the most beautiful man on the planet. By the light of day, it was easy to ignore the doubts, the what-happens-whens and the what-ifs.

And the business of how it would all end only bothered her in the darkest hours, like four a.m., whilst Luc slept soundlessly beside her. If there was only some way she could hang on to him beyond their tour.

It was foolish to think the affair was anything more than temporary. They lived an ocean apart and soon wouldn’t even be employed by the same company. They were in a different league, and she needed to escape well before he realized that beneath the America-version of Clara, there was a selfish little girl who didn’t know how to not put herself first. For now, she was content to sit on his pedestal and not think about the big drop down to her own level.

Besides, he didn’t speak of the long term or of commitment. Not once. So to even entertain the hope was silly-cow thinking.

Still, she dwelled and, as the calendar days slipped by, the middle-of-the night fretting became increasingly more anxious.

Would he forget her the moment she flew away? Would he ever give thought to their brief affair, consider her fondly, wonder about her with a twinge of regret? She hoped so, desperately. Because there was no doubt that she would go to her grave in the English countryside thinking of Luc Bisquet.

An old boyfriend once bought her a sparkly-faced watch, explaining she would think of him every time she looked at her wrist. Bollocks to that. And coincidentally, the cheap trinket stopped hours after they broke up. But it made her think…was it terribly selfish to want to make some kind of mark on Luc’s life? Leave him with something to remember her by?

She didn’t think he’d be amenable to an “I heart Bean” tattoo on his forearm and branding seemed rather extreme, so she would have to come up with something better.

She listened in the dark to his breathing, steady and calm.

Despite being stricken by something akin to panic over the brief time they had left, overall she hadn’t felt this sunshiny-happy-to-be-aliveness for ages, since before her Roman mishap, probably since before her father died. Everything just felt right in her world when he was beside her, and Clara wanted to be that to Luc, wanted to be his cozy, safe corner in which to escape, even if it was only the memory of her.

She worried for him, for his anxiety attacks, for his love/hate relationship with hockey. It could not be psychologically healthy for him to be imbedded in a world he didn’t feel comfortable being part of. If she could, she would fix him. If only she had magical powers, she’d give him his knee back—the old one that could skate and propel him across the ice toward the crease. At the very least, she would take away his broken dreams, the inky well of distrust and damage that came after his attack.

She couldn’t wave a wand and fix his physical damage, but maybe she could address the psychological ones? The seed of a crazy idea took root, nurtured by the quiet darkness of night. By morning, it had grown into a full-fledged plan.

Nobody could put Luc Biquet back on the ice, but maybe she could be the one to bring him
to
the ice.

Chapter 31

“W
hat’s with the trench coat?”
Luc asked as he approached the car. He looked up into the cloudless blue sky over the city of Philadelphia. “No rain in the local forecast as far as I know.”

Clara hadn’t thought he’d notice her attire, but as calf-length trenches aren’t everyday wardrobe choices outside of soggy old London, she had to come up with a quick excuse.

“I like to be prepared for all weather.”

“Uh-huh. In other words, it’s all part of the surprise, something to do with those secret telephone conversations you didn’t think I knew about,” he said as he waited for her to get into the car.

“Something like that.” Crap. How much had he heard? Obviously not enough or he’d not be so willing to accompany her.

As the driver pulled into traffic, Clara produced a black scarf from her pocket. “Turn around so I can tie this behind your head.”

“What for?”

“I don’t want you to see where we’re going, obviously.”

“No one is going to see me like this, right? We’re not going… We’re not going where people are?”

“No, Luc,” she reassured in a low, calm manner. “No crowds.”

He complied, but not before giving her the side eye. “This better involve spanking.”

Clara’s knee nervously bounced up and down when the driver pulled up at the Broad Street entrance to the Wachovia Center.

“This way,” she said, helping Luc out of the car in front of the massive sports arena. She linked her arm with his, stopping as he cocked his head sideways as if trying to listen for something.

“Why is it so quiet?” he asked.

“Because we’re the only two people standing here. Now, come on.”

Luc took a hesitant step, but she could feel him resisting forward motion.

“Don’t you trust me?” she asked.

“Color me uncooperative, but I don’t trust anyone who blindfolds me.”

“Just a bit further,” she said, coaxing him forward.

“You’d better be wearing a leather corset under that coat,” he mumbled.

Clara ignored him. “You’re going to hear two more voices. One you know, the other I’m not sure if you know or not. But it’s perfectly safe.”

“You know, you’re off by three months.”

“Sorry?”

“My birthday. It’s not for three more months. So if you and Sutter did cook up a surprise party, you’re way off.”

“About five more steps,” she said, pretending not to hear. “Now we’re going through a doorway.”

They were waiting, Sutter and the venue manager. They were going in through the administration area so Luc wouldn’t be tipped off by the arena acoustics. “Gentlemen,” she said.

“Clara,” Luc said, stiffening. “Now would be a good time to tell me what’s going on.”

“Please, darling, just trust me,” she whispered, rubbing his back.

“Hey frogman. Getting led around blindly by your balls as usual, eh?”

“I’m only blindfolded,
mon ami
, not cuffed.”

“Your point?”

“I can still clock you.”

“Now boys,” Clara said. “You’re embarrassing us in front of our host. Luc, say hello to Peter, our representative from Comcast Spectacor.”

Luc stopped dead at the mention the company that managed the hockey arena. He reached up to yank the blindfold off, but Clara and Riley grabbed his arms. “I am officially not enjoying this, Clara,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Luc,” she whispered close to his ear so the others couldn’t hear. She intertwined her fingers with his and squeezed. “I’d never do anything to embarrass you. No crowds, no strangers. You are perfectly safe. This entire building is empty but for the four of us. And I’d die before I let anything happen to you.” She waited until he relaxed a bit and led him forward onto the elevator.

“Sure am enjoying your commentaries, Luc,” Peter said, seeing an opportunity to fill a bit of silence.

“Thanks,” Luc replied. His voice sounded dry. She wished she’d brought a bottle of water.

Holding his arm was like hanging on to a coiled spring. Clara bit her bottom lip, second-guessing her careful planning. Maybe she should call the whole thing off.

Riley said something in rapid French. The corner of Luc’s lips quirked and his shoulders dropped.

“Thank you,” she mouthed at Riley for whatever reassuring words he’d said.

“Don’t thank him,” Luc said intuitively. “He just told me you’re leading me into a surprise shotgun wedding and your irate mother is standing behind me with a piñata bat if I try to run.”

A few more twists and turns later, Peter said, “I’ll leave you here. Clara, you have my number and the other numbers I gave you just in case.”

“Yes, I’m all set,” she said, taking his hand for a grateful shake. “I owe you one.”

“No ma’am. We owe him one.”

A nerve in Luc’s jaw twitched. Clara’s heart pounded with doubt. Would he understand or would he hate her for this? She opened the door and pulled him in. Luc froze, paled beneath his blindfold. Could he smell the ice? Could he smell what she couldn’t the other night?

“You okay from here, Clara?” Riley muttered.

“You can’t leave!”

“I won’t be far. But you guys need to do this alone.”

Riley pecked Clara’s cheek and said to Luc. “Don’t be an ass or I’ll shoot your other leg.”

“Riley!” Clara said, shocked he’d say something so insensitive, but Luc laughed. Nervously, but it was still a laugh.

The door swung shut and latched.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Yes,” he said, pushing the blindfold from his eyes. He sank into a seat in the last row of the skybox. She watched him take it in, watched his Adam’s apple bob once, twice. It was dark-ish way up here in the stands, so that everything appeared gray and shadowy. With only a few overhead lights on, the gem-like ice appeared to glow an eerie bluish-white.

He leaned over, dropped his head into his hands, and drove his fingers into his hair.

“Why?”

It was only one simple word, but Clara could hear the anguish, see the tremor in his big confident body, and her stomach churned and twisted.

“Because I thought…I thought, if you could see it again, empty and benign, you wouldn’t feel so—”

“Chickenshit?” he spat. The pain in his voice cut her heart.

“Threatened,” she whispered.

She sunk into the molded seat next to him, put her hand on his back, took it away again, cleared her throat, and prepared to explain.

“I’ve—” It was her turn to swallow once, twice, but her tongue felt swollen, her saliva evaporated.

Daftest idea she’d ever had, she decided. The psychologist warned her it could backfire, but she hadn’t wanted to listen to that part. She was convinced that behaviour modification, of which she’d researched madly the past few days, could be his answer. The idea was to sit here until the panic subsided, until he took back the power. Running away would only reinforce his anxiety; waiting it out until it lost its negative energy was the goal.

She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’ve arranged it so we can sit here as long as you like. Or we can leave now, but that could ruin everything. The team has their morning skate in awhile—but it’s closed to press, I checked. And nobody from down there can see us up here—I checked about that, too. There’s a game later tonight. But of course you knew that.”

Every word that came from her mouth sounded desperate. She was babbling, trying to save herself, his pride, their relationship.

“You can stay here. Right the whole way through. No one knows you’re here, and they’ll keep this box dark. The venue management, the Comcast Spectacor people, they helped me set it up. For you. The president of the company himself said they’ll let us stay until everyone has cleared out, there’s even a security detail standing by to escort you. If you need…”

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

But she couldn’t. “Riley told me you never lost a game in this particular arena, not once, even though you were the visiting team. Did you know that this place used to be called the First Union Center and people called it the F.U. for short? I thought that was funny.” She tried to laugh, but all that came out was a forced squeak.

Luc wasn’t speaking, wasn’t moving, wasn’t responding to any of her palavering. So she sat. Quiet. Heart hammering, stomach twisting into masochistic knots.

As the minutes crawled forward, Clara’s worry grew exponentially. The practice was about to begin, and she was scared Luc wouldn’t be able to handle it, seeing guys he probably knew, doing the thing he loved best but couldn’t.

Clara chewed off every fingernail on her right hand, polish and all, while she watched him. Why did she do this? It was foolish, stupid, and incredibly irresponsible. Who did she think she was? Oh sure, she’d fixed a few things before, even had a reputation for it amongst her friends. She suggested that Lydia use her knitting skills to help deal with stress, she’d suggested to Charlie that he romance spinster Sue, and that ended in wedding bells. And when Aunt Jude’s companion passed away, Clara pretended she needed someplace to live so Aunt Jude wouldn’t feel so desolate and lonely. But those weren’t on par with Luc’s post-traumatic stress issues. He needed a proper doctor, not someone who Googled PTSDs.

What if she made him worse? He needed someone to understand, not push. She’d been so proud of herself for coming up with this imbecilic scheme, and now she just wanted to cry for having been so bloody daft. No wonder Lydia called her a silly cow. She was an entire herd of silly cows.

“D-do you want to leave?”

His head, still down as if he’d fallen asleep staring at the step between the rows, shook a negative response.

“Okay. Well, if you want to talk or anything…”

Clara chewed every nail on her left hand when the team came out to practice. She could hear the coaches calling players by name, shouting drills, swearing—a lot—but through it all, Luc remained frozen. Not even the crack of the puck as it hit the protective Plexiglas walls jarred him to attention, but it sure made Clara jump. She thought it explosively loud in a crowded venue; empty, it reverberated like a shotgun blast.