Pipe Dreams(2)

The fact that their fearless leader was actually wearing a suit spoke of  tonight's significance. Nate was a jeans-hoodie-and-800-dollar-sneakers  kind of guy, even on game night.

Lauren followed her boss, the publicist, and Rebecca into the private  elevator, wondering why she couldn't at least be happy for Nate. He'd  wanted this so badly. But all Lauren felt was dread for the next few  weeks. And a healthy dose of anger, too.                       
       
           



       

Bitter much? Why yes, I still am.

This was an unpleasant realization. Most of the time, Lauren was able to  stay away from both hockey and Brooklyn. In Manhattan, she was able to  focus on her excellent job, her tidy little Murray Hill neighborhood  apartment and the college degree she was just finishing up. She was too  damn busy to feel bitter. But as the elevator slid lower toward the  locker rooms, so did her stomach.

The doors parted momentarily on the main level for Becca's exit. "Good night!" Miss Perky called, stepping off the elevator.

"Night, babe!" Georgia called after her. "Rest up! We need you back!"

Do we ever.

Becca gave them a cheeky salute and then walked away, while Nate  watched, a worried look on his face. When the doors closed again, he  finally gave his attention to Georgia. "Okay, what's the scoop? I'm not  used to giving victory speeches."

"Just don't sound smug," Georgia begged. "Try for grateful."

He smirked. "As in, Brooklyn should be grateful to me for bringing the  team here?" She rolled her eyes and he laughed. "Joking! Okay, how about  this-I'm proud of my team's success at landing a play-offs spot."

"I'm humbled by my team's inspiring efforts," Georgia suggested.

"Sure. I can be humble."

"No, you can't," Lauren interjected. "But you can fake it when necessary."

Nate grinned. "You don't do humble either."

"That's why you have me working in the office and not in front of the  camera," Lauren pointed out. "I'm going to start booking hotel rooms in  D.C. in the morning. It's not jinxing us if I do it now, right?" Nate  had refused to even consider travel plans before they were officially  headed to the first round of the play-offs.

"Bombs away," he said. "But we need the whole organization in one  hotel," he cautioned. "Coach will burst a vessel if the guys aren't all  together. Team unity and all that. If you have any trouble call the  league and ask for help."

"Got it," Lauren said. She'd done this all before, and not that many years ago. Although it felt like another lifetime.

The doors parted once again, and Georgia put a hand on the boss's arm. "Slap on that humble face, Nate. Here we go."

An entire corridor full of reporters swung their lenses in Nate's  direction. They began to shout questions as he made his way past their  cameras. "Press conference starts in five!" Georgia called. "This way,  please!"

Nate led the way into their press room, which would be packed tonight.  At the other end of the hall she spotted Coach Worthington and  defenseman Patrick O'Doul. The team's captain was already showered and  wearing his suit. The new publicist-Tommy-must have bribed the guy to  get him camera-ready so fast. And he was smiling.

O'Doul was not a smiler. The whole world was turned on its ear tonight.

She followed her boss into the press conference where she spent the next  half hour trying to appear joyful while avoiding eye contact with any  of the players. Just another day at the office.


• • •

It was after eleven o'clock before the room emptied again after speeches  and Q & A. Lauren had reported to work fifteen hours ago already.  That was life in professional sports. Now she faced a car ride home to  midtown. At least there would be no traffic on the FDR.

She'd given away all the hired cars already, so Lauren found herself on  the Flatbush Avenue sidewalk, tapping her Katt Phone to summon an Uber  driver. The app gave her a four minute wait. She used the time to  compose a monstrous to-do list for tomorrow. Not only did she need to  plan for the play-offs, but she needed to check in on the Manhattan  office, making sure that the place wasn't going to seed in her absence.

And at some point during this fiasco she'd have to do a final revision  of the senior thesis she was about to turn in. She'd only taken one last  course this semester. That was all she needed to graduate, and her work  was almost complete, thank God. If the Brooklyn Bruisers wrecked her  odds for receiving her diploma this June, she would not be responsible  for her actions.

Nate wouldn't let that happen, Lauren's conscience whispered. Her boss  had made every possible accommodation these past two years as Lauren  struggled to get her degree. Nate, for all his quirks, liked to see his  people succeed. She was still mad at him, though, for asking this of  her. The man knew exactly why she avoided the team, and he'd put her in  this position anyway.

"Hi," said a voice beside her.                       
       
           



       

Startled, Lauren whirled to find the very reason for her misery standing  there on the sidewalk, his rugged face regarding her curiously.

Her stomach flipped over and then dove straight down to her knees. Mike  Beacon in a suit had always been her undoing. His tie was loosened  already, showing her a glimpse of the contrast between the olive skin at  his throat and the crisp white dress shirt he wore. A five o'clock  shadow dusted the planes of his strong jaw, gathering in the sexy cleft  of his chin.

She used to put her thumb right there beneath his full lower lip as she tugged his face closer for a kiss.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Fine, thanks!" she insisted, snapping out of it. She tore her gaze off  of the only man she'd ever loved and looked up Flatbush for the RAV4  Uber had promised her. Every muscle in her body was tense as she waited  for the goalie to just walk away.

Which he did not do.

She turned and pinned him with what the assistants in the Manhattan  office termed the Lauren Glare. The laserlike effect of her stare made  interns put away their phones and get back to work. It seared  incompetent messengers into delivering packages in a timely fashion. It  was a "powerful and terrifying weapon," according to her coworkers.

Beacon just smiled.

What an asshole.

"Why are you still here?" she asked.

"Because you're standing on a dark sidewalk at midnight?"

Seriously? This from a man so obviously unconcerned with her well-being?  If he gave a damn, he wouldn't have walked out on her two years ago  without an explanation. He wouldn't have tossed her heart on the street,  stomped on it, and then vanished from her life. Forty-eight hours  before she realized he was gone, they'd been circling real-estate  listings in the newspaper together, discussing whether they needed a  three-bedroom apartment, or whether two would be plenty. While naked. In  bed.

Lauren didn't remind him now, though, because she'd said it all before.  For weeks she'd sobbed into his voice mail because he didn't pick up the  phone. She'd begged for an explanation, wondering what she'd done  wrong.

There was really no point in going there again. "Just don't, okay?" she demanded instead.

"Don't what?" his husky voice asked.

Oh, for Christ's sake. She turned to face him, her blood pressure  doubling. "Don't be nice. Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Just stay  between the pipes and guard the damn net. And leave me the hell alone."

He swallowed, and she saw a flicker of a shadow cross his face, but it  was gone before she could name the emotion. Note to self-never square  off against a champion goalie. They were the masters of playing it cool  when they needed to. Lauren found herself staring again, trying not to  remember how easy it had been to get him to toss off the mask and really  live. "Nobody gets me like you do," he used to whisper into her ear.

It had been a lie, though. Obviously.

A quick tap on a car horn broke the weird spell that had come over her.  She turned to see a RAV4 against the curb, a man's face peering up at  her that matched the profile picture of the Uber driver she'd summoned.

Thank you, baby Jesus.

Without another word Lauren got into the back seat and shut the door. She couldn't resist a parting glance up at Beacon, though.

He stood there, hands jammed in his pockets, watching her car pull away.





TWO


AUGUST 2012


Lauren surveyed the messy Syosset office as she walked in for the first  time in four weeks. She spotted a couple of forgotten Starbucks cups on  the windowsill, and the copy machine's jam light was on. Could be worse.  An hour of work would put everything back to rights.