Beside her, Nate rubbed his hands together. He didn't yell or even smile because the game wasn't officially over yet.
It was, though. Lauren knew in her gut that Brooklyn would advance. And she was stunned to realize she was a little thrilled by the idea. Nate and this team had worked so hard for two years to rebuild the franchise.
Not that I care, Lauren reminded herself as the puck dropped on the next faceoff.
Both teams skated with electric, sweaty energy as the clock wound down. With forty five seconds left, D.C. pulled its goalie. They needed a goal to push the game into overtime.
They didn't get it.
Leo Trevi scored on the empty net, and then it was all over but the cryin'. When the buzzer sounded with its deafening glee, fans began streaming for the exits and pundits everywhere began speculating over who the Bruisers would meet in the second round.
Lauren chugged her bottle of water and wondered how all this would end.
• • •
As the evening progressed, Lauren found it much easier to rustle up the proper amount of loathing for hockey. She stood for hours on weary feet at Nate's side as he took questions from journalists and conferred with Hugh Major, the general manager, over stats and predictions. During the play-offs, these sound bites and analysis-always Lauren's least favorite aspect of the game-were dialed up to eleven. Reporters were everywhere, nabbing players for a few words of commentary wherever they could find them.
She found herself inspecting her manicure as Mike Beacon was interviewed a few feet away from her in the corridor.
"Michael-that was quite the athletic save you made during the first period," a sports reporter said into his own microphone, while a cameraman filmed them. "Great work getting your glove into that corner! What was going through your head while you dove for that puck?"
Lauren knew him too well to miss the irritation in his answering chuckle. "Honestly? A few different four-letter words. I know the highlight-reel saves make for good video, but that kind of save only happens if I've read the scene wrong in the first place, and have to make a quick and desperate correction."
"Got it," said the announcer with an uncomfortable laugh. "Nicely done, then. Good save, as they say! Heh-heh."
Lauren rolled her eyes. Hard. But then she caught Mike watching her. And when their gazes met, his lips twitched with amusement. Do you believe this guy? his expression seemed to ask.
She smiled before she remembered that they didn't do this anymore. They weren't each other's port in the shit storm of life.
The moment was over anyway because her boss stepped up to ask her, "Did you reach Rebecca? I need to make sure she knows about her doctor's appointment tomorrow."
"I tried," Lauren told him. "But she didn't answer her phone. I didn't think you'd want me to keep trying. It's almost eleven."
Nate frowned. "Call my landline."
"Your . . ." Lauren was confused. "At home?"
He gave a curt nod. "She's staying with . . . at my place for a little while. It's more peaceful there."
More peaceful my ass. "I'll try your landline," she said, pulling out her Katt Phone. "But, Nate? Why didn't you just call her yourself?" If her life was up for discussion, he could take a poke or two. Fair was fair.
Nate's eyes flared. "Are you too busy right now to make the call?"
"Not at all," she admitted. But why am I the only one who gets called out for ducking people?
"If you reach her," he began, as if her moment of disobedience had never happened, "tell her that the car will be there at nine fifteen instead of nine thirty tomorrow morning, because traffic in the Battery Tunnel can be nasty."
"Yes, sir," Lauren said a little too flippantly. She tapped the number for his mansion on her phone and listened to it ring while he walked away.
"Hello?" Rebecca answered just as Lauren contemplated giving up. "Lauren?"
"Hi. I'm sorry to call so late."
"It's okay. I just didn't know if I should answer Nate's phone. But the caller ID said your name so I figured I was supposed to answer. Did you know there are computer screens in every room of Nate's house? They blink on when you walk past them. I'm all creeped out."
"Why, um . . ." Lauren didn't make a point to start conversations with Becca. But she was dying of curiosity. "Why are you there?"
Becca groaned. "It's weird, right? But I wasn't doing so well, and I mentioned to Nate that my sister and her idiot boyfriend were back together and making a lot of noise in my apartment. I couldn't sleep and I was all stressed out. Nate showed up the next day with empty suitcases and told me to pack for an extended stay. I have to wonder-is his Manhattan empire crumbling without you at the helm? Because the man really doesn't want me to take any more sick leave."
He's in love with you, idiot.
She couldn't say it, though. So she made a noncommittal noise instead. This was exactly why she never got chatty with Becca. It put her in an uncomfortable position every time Nate's behavior came up. "I should run," she said. "But Nate needed you to know that a car will pick you up for your doctor's appointment at nine fifteen tomorrow, not nine thirty. He's worried about traffic."
Becca sighed. "He's worried I'll miss this appointment that he pried out of some neurology genius. The guy was already booked for months. Although I don't know what one more doctor will really add to this equation."
"Well, good luck," Lauren said, sounding abrupt to her own ears. All the women in the Bruisers organization already thought she was a harpy. It was just that she became so freaking uncomfortable whenever she had to spend time anywhere near Mike Beacon.
"Night!" Becca said, cheery even with a head injury. Figures. "Tell Nate I said congrats!"
"I will. Good night!"
She hung up. Mercifully, the journalists seemed to have gotten their fill. So Lauren went to make sure that the travel team had already handled everyone's ground transportation.
NINE
Even though it was late, by the time the bus left the rink, the players wanted to celebrate. Instead of taking them back to the hotel, the team bus took them to a big, old-school tavern, with a gleaming copper bar and wood paneling.
Lauren had been wearing heels and a suit for far too long, and socializing with the team wasn't her style. But it was raining, and there were no cabs in view on the street.
She was starving, too. A little something to eat in a quiet corner of the bar would be a good idea. And she could regroup, and call herself a car. One of the players held the door open for Lauren, so she stepped inside.
With typical macho bravado, the players trooped toward the back of the place, laughing and trading jokes about whose turn it was to buy the first round.
"I'll stand for the bill tonight," Nate said.
"Well then." O'Doul rubbed his hands together. "Order the good stuff, boys."
Heads swiveled everywhere as bar patrons did the math on who this group of large, handsome besuited men might be. More than a few women slipped off their bar stools, drinks in hand, and followed the players toward the rear, like flies to honey.
Lauren wondered whether any of them were on their way to chat up the blazing hot goalie whose dark, wavy hair was just visible in the scrum. Mike Beacon was a single man again, and at the top of his career. The women probably hurled themselves at him like moths at a porch light.
Let's not think about that. She turned around, locating an empty booth in the very front of the restaurant. Perfect.
She took a seat facing the street. Maybe she should even get her order to go-she wouldn't want to be sitting here when the single players who'd hooked up with a female fan made their way drunkenly into the night.
A young waiter approached the table. "Good evening! Can I start you off with a drink?" He set down a menu.
"Sure," Lauren said. "But do you have a Caesar salad I can order to go? And I'll have a Diet Coke while I wait."
"Indeed we do. But the Greek salad is even better."
"Good tip. I'll take one of those."
He gave her a friendly wink, slid the menu off the table and disappeared.
Lauren pulled out society's universal disappearing device-her phone. She opened up the app she used for scheduling car service orders and noted that the average wait time was only four minutes.
Perfect.
"Lauren." She looked up to see Mike Beacon hesitating at the edge of her table. "May I sit down?"