Stay: A WAGs Novel

by Sarina Bowen

  “Julia Louis-Dreyfus,” Lemming adds.

  I cut off this recitation of stupidity by introducing each of these chuckleheads, and then the lights flash outside the theater, prompting everyone to go inside.

  “C’mon, guys!” Jess says, clapping her hands. “I don’t want to miss the beginning!”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” someone else mumbles.

  We enter the theater and I give Hottie my arm as we climb a curving staircase. Someone shows us to a private box, where another usher waits to hang our coats in a little closet right outside.

  “Fancy!” Jess says approvingly.

  But I can’t even hear her, because I’ve slipped Hailey’s coat off her shoulders. And now I almost swallow my tongue. She’s wearing a sparkling, backless dress. That’s not even why I’m speechless. Hottie has an intricate tattoo of ivy vines all across her shapely back.

  I let out a little moan of longing, and she turns her head with a questioning look. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice a rasp. But no, it ain’t okay. The opera just doubled in length if I have to sit beside her all night trying not to imagine the full picture of those tattoos across her naked body. “Where would you like to sit?” I ask, dragging my reluctant eyes off the swell of her ass.

  “Anywhere.”

  The box has six armchairs upholstered in velvet. I steer Hailey toward the ones in the front. The others are for Blake, Jess, Wes, and…

  “Made it!” Jamie says, appearing in the doorway in a tux.

  “Baby!” Wes exclaims with no small amount of surprise.

  “My second practice got cancelled. Ran home and changed.”

  “Aw. Now I know you love me.” He pulls Jamie in for a kiss.

  And then something beautiful happens. Someone on staff offers us glasses of champagne from a cart in the hallway. I hand one to Hailey.

  “Classy,” she says.

  “We definitely didn’t have drinks last year,” Blake recalls. “It must be the box seats. Sit on my lap, Jessie. It’s almost a party now.”

  She perches on his thigh and they clink their glasses together, then kiss.

  I’m the last single man on the planet, apparently.

  “This is so civilized,” Jess remarks, slipping off Blake’s lap and into her own chair.

  “That’s exactly what we don’t like about it,” Wes agrees.

  Hailey smiles, and I relax by a degree or two. “Thank you for coming with me tonight,” I tell her. “Maybe the opera wouldn’t be your first pick, but I really enjoy your company.”

  She glances down for a second, as if she finds it difficult to accept this bit of praise. “It’s nice to step outside my rut sometimes, Snipes.” She lifts her elegant chin. “Have you seen Rigoletto before?”

  “I have no idea,” I say without any shame, and she laughs.

  When the house lights fade to black a moment later, I smile into the pregnant stillness inside the theater. A couple of coughs and the rustle of clothing are all we hear for a moment.

  “Freebird!” Blake whispers from behind me, and I hear Hailey’s giggle even if I can’t see it.

  The orchestra starts up with a swell of brass and timpani. When the curtains part, it’s on a bright stage where a big party is taking place, just as Jess described. I try to settle in and watch, but it’s not easy. I’m too aware of Hottie beside me. I want to watch her instead of the opera.

  I sip my champagne and look more closely at the costumes onstage. They aren’t from the correct historical period. Someone decided to set this opera in… Las Vegas? Atlantic City? There are mobsters and women in fifties dresses.

  As usual, my mind wanders to better topics. Hailey and then hockey. Pretty soon I realize I’ve spent a big chunk of time thinking through offensive strategies for our game against Vancouver. Any hope I had for following the opera is long gone.

  Onstage, the rich guy from the opening party scene sits in a chair drinking champagne while two dozen others stand around him in a semicircle, singing.

  I lean over to Hottie and whisper, “Do you have any idea what’s happening right now?”

  Slowly, she turns her head until her lips brush my ear. My senses all stand at attention and salute her as she whispers, “No fucking clue.”

  Her warm breath brushes my face as the music swells, and I’m hit with a wave of pure longing. It’s not just for sex, either. I’d gladly take her home to bed with me. But I crave this, too—a joke in the dark. A private laugh with a partner in crime.

  I turn my head until my nose subtly brushes past her soft cheek. “Actually, it’s pretty obvious what’s going on,” I breathe into her ear.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yup. That rich guy—I think he’s a mafia don—is telling his goons to whack someone.”

  She nods earnestly. “The man who stole his cocaine.”

  “Right,” I whisper, my lips grazing the shell of her ear. She shivers. “But I think we’re getting a car chase first. They’ll find the drugs in the back of a souped-up minivan. Guarded by Sister Maria, my warty third-grade teacher.”

  Hailey turns her face into my shoulder, and I can feel her chuckle. On the stage, a woman in a blood-red dress suddenly appears. She opens her mouth and begins to sing in a sweet soprano.

  “Oh shit,” I whisper to Hailey. “You know who she is?”

  “Of course I do,” she hisses. “The estranged love child of Sister Maria and the don. She’s come to warn of a curse she’s put upon them. She never got a pony for her birthday, so she’s casting a pox upon their houses.”

  “In her defense,” I say solemnly, “the don totally promised to get her that pony.”

  “In his defense,” Hailey counters, “the recession hit the mafia pretty hard.”

  “Truth.”

  We stare at each other, lips twitching wildly. Jesus. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun with a woman.

  Her slim hand grasps my wrist. “Oh no.” Her whisper is so soft, it’s barely audible.

  “What?”

  “The curse is rumored to be expanding.”

  “Will everyone break out in weeping pustules?”

  She shakes her head, and silky hair brushes against my jaw. “They’ll all be attacked momentarily. By a giant squid.”

  That’s what does me in. A bark of laughter very nearly escapes my chest, but I gulp it down just in time.

  But my laughter sets Hailey off. She’s so determined to hold it back that she swallows with an awkward cough in the back of her throat. Yet—as in the real Sister Maria’s class—that only makes it funnier. I can feel her trembling beside me.

  And wouldn’t you know, my stomach starts shaking in sympathy. I bite down on my lip, but real laughter still threatens. I grin down at my tux pants and laugh silently.

  Beside me, Hailey is fighting for control. She takes a deep, slow breath and lets it out. But she convulses again on the exhale.

  Trying to be helpful, I sit up straight and give her the side-eye, which she returns, grinning. Her lips twitch, and my gaze is drawn to the sweet curve of her mouth.

  Her lips twitch again, her shoulders pulling together with the effort of not laughing. And of course, it’s all my fault. Luckily there’s a cure for this problem.

  Without a second thought, I close the distance between us and kiss her.

  The moment our lips touch, the silly mood evaporates. The brush of her soft lips against mine halts my laughter in its tracks. Hailey goes completely still against my body. The floral scent of her hair hits me like a warm mist. The kiss happens in slow motion, as we both push past our mutual surprise.

  Meanwhile, my libido practically stands up and cheers. Yaaaaas! it shouts. More of this!

  More indeed. One soft kiss is simply not enough. I lean in, tilting my head, perfecting our connection. Hailey exhales, her warm breath caressing my skin. She tastes of champagne and lipstick, my two favorite flavors. I touch my tongue to her lower lip, asking for more. My c
hair creaks as I lean closer to her, but I barely register the sound as she opens for me.

  I taste her, then break out in goose bumps everywhere. It’s been so long since I felt like this—eager and desired. When two soft hands land on my chest, my body lights up like a flare.

  Below us, the orchestra kicks in to a faster rhythm and the chorus raises its voice in song. I kiss her again and again. We don’t stop until the audience breaks into sudden applause, startling us apart.

  “BRAVO!” yells Blake. “And of course I mean you two. Who could watch the opera with all that nekkin’ right in front of me?”

  Hailey’s eyes are a little wide, and a flush has crept across the exposed skin of her long neck. I wink at her to let her know she can feel free to ignore my teammate. She seems to pull herself together, joining in the applause for the performance we’ve just ignored.

  My tux pants are now uncomfortably tight, and the night stretches before me like a long walk through the desert without a drink of water. I have to survive more opera after the intermission, and then a cocktail party with the team owner and his stuffy philanthropist friends.

  If I’m lucky I can get a few more of those kisses in the taxi home. I take Hottie’s hand in mine and give it a squeeze.

  Did I mention I’ve got it bad?

  Ten

  No Wonder I’m Divorced

  Hailey

  The day after the opera, Matt flies off to the West Coast with his team on a seven-day road trip. And Rufus is staying at the doggy ranch, so I won’t see either of them or set foot in Matt’s apartment for at least a week.

  Jenny almost murders me when I tell her how I feel about his departure. “I’m a little relieved,” I admit as we wait for our drinks at the coffee shop.

  “That makes no sense,” she sputters. “Why would you be relieved?” Her eyes narrow. “Unless you had sex all night long and need a break. It’s been a while for you, right? Your stamina might need work.”

  My face, neck, and lots of other parts flush when she says this. “There was no sex.” But there would have been if I were braver.

  My friend chews her lip. “Did you chicken out?”

  “Well…” It really depends on your viewpoint. “He was a gentleman. The car brought us first to my place, even though it’s pretty far out of the way. He kissed me goodnight, and then the car took him home.”

  “Oh. My. God.” Jenny swallows roughly. “You didn’t invite him in? The man rode with you all the way out to Yonge and Eglinton and you said, ‘Thanks for the opera, see you later?’”

  Even the grumpy barista is eyeing me over the milk fluffer, a disbelieving expression on his pimply face. “It was our first date,” I protest. “I wasn’t going to invite him in.”

  Jenny yanks our two cups off the counter and marches toward the door. I pause to tip the barista and then follow her out.

  She’s waiting outside with a stern expression on her pretty face. “Let me get this straight. Your lifelong crush wanted to peel you out of my sparkly dress and do the horizontal pachanga, but you sent him home?”

  Pretty much.

  I remove my coffee cup from Jenny’s hand and take a scorching sip just to avoid answering her. After the curtain fell on the opera, Matt led me downstairs for food, more wine, and small talk with Blake, Jess, and Wesmie. Then the elderly team owner approached, and Matt made a point of complimenting his choice of operas.

  The moment the man moved away from us, Matt breathed a sigh of relief. “I have fulfilled my duties this evening. Shall we go?”

  So we got in the car together, where Matt kissed the daylights out of me all the way home.

  The memory of his hot, eager mouth on my neck gives me an inappropriate flutter down below. In fact, the ride home was basically the hottest sexual experience of my life, and that’s without anyone rounding any bases at all.

  He didn’t pressure me, though. When I shakily thanked him for a lovely evening, his smile was warm and happy. “See you soon, Hottie. Plan on it.”

  The problem? Those words are as terrifying to me as they are thrilling. Matt makes me crazy, and not just in a good way. When I’m around him, I feel giddy and weak-kneed, but also nervous and uncertain. I don’t have experience with men. I have experience with man, as in, one man. Jackson. I’m not sure if the nerves I feel with Matt are normal, or a sign that maybe he’s a bit too much for me.

  “So now what happens?” Jenny demands. “Are you getting another at-bat?”

  “Maybe?” I guess. “If he’s the type to be pissed off that I didn’t put out after a long evening of opera, then I haven’t missed a thing.”

  She makes a choking sound. “Not true. You missed a trip to pound town with the hottest body on the best hockey team in the world.”

  Right. Except for that.

  When Jenny and I arrive at the office five minutes later, it’s already chaos, even at nine in the morning. The holidays are approaching, so Fetch is seeing an uptick in shopping business. I welcome the distraction, and lose myself in the work.

  The next few days are filled with petty emergencies and meetings with our principal developer. Techie Tad swings by to help with the integration of our new app. He’s wearing his Toronto cap and asks me out to coffee again, but before he can even get the sentence out, Jackson yells for me from the other room.

  “Sorry,” I say, squeezing Tad’s elbow as I run past. “We’ll grab one sooner or later.” Though I still don’t know if I’m flattered or insulted by his fake Toronto loyalties. On one hand, it’s sweet. On the other hand, I don’t want anyone forsaking their team to win my favor.

  I spend an afternoon finalizing our holiday promotions with Jackson, and then coding them into our website in my office. It’s not the most stimulating part of my week, and my mind keeps wandering back to the opera and the first time Matt kissed me. The soft huff of his breath against my lips, followed by the brush of his lips over mine...

  By my calculations, my last first kiss was over a decade ago. Maybe that’s why Matt’s kiss lit me up so much?

  And—this is terrible—I don’t actually remember my first teenage kiss from Jackson. I can’t tell you where we were or whether or not I liked it.

  No wonder I’m divorced.

  Matt’s kiss, on the other hand, keeps sneaking up on me at odd moments. As I wait for a file to load, I recall the sensation of his big hand cupping my thigh. And as Dion tries to explain to me why we can’t order the imported tea that a new customer demands, I have a sudden, urgent memory of Matt’s tongue in my ear on the taxi ride home.

  “Are you okay, Hailey?” Dion asks.

  My attention snaps back to the man in my doorway. “Fine!” I say quickly. “So, uh, there’ll be a delay?” I try to remember what we were discussing.

  “Yeah. He’s not happy, but I told him he could talk to you if he had questions.”

  “Right! Well done. Anything else?”

  Dion gives me a patient smile. “The unlabeled boxes are piling up in the hallway again. Have a look when you get a second.”

  “I’ll do that,” I promise.

  He walks away, and I sit back in my chair, trying to pull myself together. The evening I spent with Matt was a kind of emotional earthquake, and the aftershocks keep rattling me.

  Maybe I’m ready to concede that Jenny is right—I should start putting myself out there again. But Matt isn’t a great reintroduction to dating. He’s too intimidating. Too amazing. Too...everything.

  Just as I form this thought, my computer monitor dings, and his login name appears on my screen.

  Sniper87: Hi there. Today’s request is for a dinner date next Tuesday at 7pm. Oh, and reservations. Wherever my date wishes to go.

  For a moment my heart soars. A dinner date. Wherever I want to go! With the most potent man on the planet. Alone. Just the two of us.

  A wave of lust rolls through me. Unfortunately, it’s quickly followed by a wave of panic.

  A private dinner date? I’ll probably turn
into a babbling lunatic with the conversational skills of a frightened chimpanzee. The man has no idea how many hours of worry and preparation went into that night at the opera. And, thanks to the performance onstage, I didn’t even have to speak for much of it.

  If I’m honest, the conversation parts of that evening were the best parts. Somehow I’d finally relaxed and enjoyed Matt’s company. Right around the time we began inventing opera plotlines, I forgot he was Matt Eriksson, Toronto forward, and began to see him as Matt, the funny guy I enjoy talking to.

  But was my competent performance a fluke? Lightning rarely strikes twice in the same spot. And even if I manage not to babble or embarrass myself, let’s be honest. The man has more testosterone than I’m used to dealing with. He’ll expect sex—the kind of passionate, dirty sex that famous athletes are used to.

  With me—the woman who isn’t even sure she likes sex.

  Don’t get me wrong—the idea of Matt Eriksson naked and moaning is very appealing. But the deed itself has always been a big letdown. So even if I screw up my courage and go through with the whole adventure, the result will be a soul-crushing disappointment, right?

  Right. I’ll let him down easy.

  HTE: Hi Snipes.

  Sniper87: Just the girl I was looking for! Sitting here in the hotel all by my lonesome. Thinking about a date I had recently. On the way home...

  HTE: I have to stop you right there, sir. The Fetch chat is stored in your client file and can be read by anyone who assists you.

  Sniper87: Hmm. But a certain HoTtiE always assists me. That can’t be random luck.

  Oh, heck. He has me there.

  HTE: It’s not random, but it is luck. Certain accounts are always routed first to an owner, who looks after that customer personally.

  Sniper87: Ah, so that’s how it works. For your big customers?

  HTE: Big ones and troublesome ones.

  Sniper87: Well I know which kind I am. :-) Why don’t you find out.

  HTE: !!!

  Sniper87: :-)

  HTE: Not joking here. If I take an unplanned day off, or you sent in a request in the middle of the night, you’ll be hitting on the guy we call the Dark Lord, maybe.