by Sarina Bowen
“And what if he did?” Becca asked. “That dress says: You had your chance, buddy. This is what you could have had.”
“No kidding,” Lauren agreed. “But maybe it’s obnoxious. Like waving a red flag in front of a bull. You should only do that if you want the bull to charge.”
“I don’t think the bull usually comes out ahead in those scenarios,” Georgia pointed out. “The worst thing that could happen is that you shoot him down.”
“Here’s a plan—you could pick up another guy tonight!” Becca suggested. “Find yourself a nice basketball player. In that dress you’ll be fighting them off.” She grinned. “That’s my plan for the evening. But I’ll look ridiculous with a basketball player. Maybe I should reconsider this barefoot idea. I need a couple of inches tonight. Hmm.”
“Put your dress on,” Lauren ordered, happy to have the topic of conversation shift away from her own troubles. “Let’s see it with and without the shoes.”
They zipped Becca into the vintage dress. The effect was completely different than Lauren’s. They stood side-by-side in the mirror, a study in contrasts. Where Lauren was sleek and long, Becca was short and curvy. The sweetheart neckline was a good choice for her, as was the perky color.
“Wow, you guys,” Georgia said. “The basketball team doesn’t stand a chance.”
Lauren studied her reflection and considered the idea of a hook-up tonight. It wasn’t really her style. But in her suitcase were the first doses of the fertility drug the doctor had prescribed. She was supposed to begin taking it in about a week. After that it would be game time—the clinic would inseminate her and she could be pregnant before the play-offs ended.
If she wanted a final fling, the time was now. Although picking up a guy in a room full of her coworkers didn’t sound all that relaxing. She’d have to see where the evening took her.
And she still wasn’t sure about the blue dress. The red one she’d brought would look good, too.
But Georgia needed the mirror, and they all admired her new pink sheath. They were in various states of makeup and hair-doing when someone knocked on the door. “Lauren?” came Nate’s voice.
“Hang on!” she called, setting down her round brush.
“We need a minute!” Becca hollered. “We’re not decent!”
It wasn’t remotely true, though, and so everyone laughed as Lauren walked over to the door and yanked it open. Nate stood there, bow tie in his hand. “Come in,” she said.
Looking a little shell-shocked, he took in the scene. Lauren watched his gaze travel around the suite, over their spread of food and wine and smiles. His eyes snagged on Rebecca, particularly her cleavage. Then he scowled. “I’ve been on the phone with Silicon Valley all day. Didn’t know there was a party next door.”
“You poor, poor, thing,” Becca crooned. She skipped over to take the tie out of his hand. “Did you really just knock on Lauren’s door because you can’t tie a bow tie?”
His cheekbones colored. “I hate tuxes.” His gaze dropped to the glass in her hand. “I thought you weren’t supposed to drink?”
Georgia stepped forward to take the glass from her hand. “She’s holding that for me so I could try on these shoes.”
“That’s the truth, officer,” Becca said. “Now come closer so I can do this right.” She held up the tie.
Nate hesitated for just a second, and Lauren was probably the only one who noticed. She watched Nate do the math on how weird it would appear if he declined the help of one of his assistants only to request it from the other. So he took a step toward Rebecca, lifting his chin, and tried to appear disinterested.
He looked about as disinterested as a Doberman in front of a rib eye.
As Becca strung the tie around his collar, Ari and Georgia exchanged a loaded glance, proving that Lauren wasn’t the only one who’d noticed Nate’s reaction.
“So, about this thing tonight,” Becca said, fussing with the tie. She was so much shorter than Nate that he had to stoop down a little to help her out. “Am I your buffer for the whole evening? Or just the beginning part?”
“Just for drinks,” he said in a rough voice. “Alex can’t buttonhole me all evening. She’ll have to work the room for her charitable cause.”
“Awesome!” Becca said, tugging the two sides of the bow into place. “I want to dance with basketball players. They’re probably quick on their feet.”
Nate’s scowl deepened to epic proportions. “It’s almost time to meet Alex downstairs.”
“I know, slave driver. Let me grab my clutch.” She danced over to her manicure toolbox and snapped it shut. “Can I leave my things here for now?” She tucked her case under a luggage rack.
“Of course,” Lauren said quickly. “Have fun.”
Becca grabbed a tiny sparkly purse, slipped into a cute pair of red pumps, gave them all a wave and disappeared out the door with Nate.
After it clicked shut, nobody said anything for a minute. “Do you think she knows how Nate feels?” Ari asked. “Should we tell her?”
“I’m still not sure I believe it myself,” Georgia said softly. “He showers a lot of attention on Becca, especially since her injury. But Nate’s a great boss. He takes care of all of us in different ways. I wouldn’t want to put any ideas into Becca’s head if they’re false.”
They weren’t false. But Lauren had been watching it all play out a lot longer than the other two, so she was both better informed and more annoyed at Nate’s inaction. “The person who needs to talk to Rebecca is the guy who can’t tie a bow tie.”
“Some people need a push,” Ari said. “It’s not easy being Nate.”
“Then who is it easy to be?” Lauren countered. “I’ll give Nate a push myself, though. I can sense him meddling in my life lately, and I’m kind of tired of it.”
“Really? What’s he done?” Georgia asked.
Lauren fidgeted with her pocketbook and wondered if she was about to sound paranoid. “I have a difficult time believing that I’m the only one who could step in to run the Bruisers’ office while Rebecca is on sick leave.”
“He just trusts you the most,” Ari pointed out.
“Maybe. It’s possible I’m crazy. But it’s also possible that Nate’s supercomputer spit out a statistic suggesting that veteran goalies who are trying to impress their ex-girlfriends have an 8.2% improvement of their save percentages.”
Georgia and Ari burst out laughing. “That does sound like Nate,” Georgia sputtered.
“Or maybe it’s the other way around,” Ari suggested. “Maybe his computer thinks happy office managers save the company 8.2% annually.”
“Then he’s doing it all wrong. Because this party does not make me happy.”
“There is no rule that says you have to stay all night,” Georgia pointed out. “Order your favorite drink, talk to a couple of cute basketball players, then spend the rest of the night watching Netflix.”
“I really should find a cute basketball player,” Lauren said, giving her hair a last look in the mirror. “I wouldn’t have to make a big spectacle of it. Slipping a key into somebody’s pocket can be done on the sly.”
“You go, girl.”
Lauren found her wine on the coffee table and took a gulp for courage. Wine was another thing she might be giving up this year. Tonight she should live a little before the next chapter of her life began.
“Help me decide between these earrings,” Georgia prompted.
“Sure.” Lauren helped the publicist choose accessories, and made small talk about Florida. It was nice having a couple of women to chat with. So much so that she forgot to reconsider the blue dress.
TWELVE
The first hour of the party was fun for Mike. His teammates enjoyed shaking hands with the basketball team, trading barbs and talking smack about which athletes were the toughest.
Hockey pla
yers, of course. But everyone kept the ribbing friendly.
It was a good party, but it would have been better if he was wearing shorts and a polo shirt. Standing around on the sand in a tuxedo was a little ridiculous. The women looked more comfortable in their summery dresses. Some of them held a drink in one hand and their shoes in the other. The ocean made for a pleasing soundtrack in the background. And the lights strung up on the palm trees made the place feel festive.
Rich philanthropists circled the athletes, asking for autographs. He and O’Doul and Leo Trevi stood in a loose group with a couple of friendly basketball players and a handful of fans.
“Four words,” Trevi teased. “One time-out per game.”
“That’s more than four words,” pointed out Ty, the basketball captain. He was a towering man with a shaved head and laughing eyes.
“Not if ‘time-out’ is a compound word,” Leo insisted.
“Oh, college boy,” Patrick O’Toole chuckled. “Just ignore our rookie,” he said to the b-ball player. “He can’t help it.”
“No—seriously,” Leo said with a grin. “How many time-outs are there in an average basketball game? A million?”
Ty took a sip of beer. “But you guys have that little bench for when you’re naughty, just like in kindergarten. Don’t you get some rest over there?”
Mike Beacon laughed, accidentally making eye contact with a cute redhead that was lingering near his elbow.
“I’m Connie,” she said, holding out a hand.
“Hi, Connie,” he said lightly. “I’m Mike.” They shook.
“I know who you are,” she said. “Meeting you was one of my reasons for coming here tonight. I love to watch the goalie.”
“Yeah?” His bow tie felt a little too constricting all of a sudden. “It’s always nice to meet a fan.” It wasn’t an eloquent line, but he didn’t ever know what to say when women hit on him. He wasn’t on the market for a hookup, and hadn’t been since high school.
“Tampa’s offensive line is going to make you work,” she said, shifting closer to him. “Especially that punk Martell.”
“Yeah?” He chuckled, because it was fun to talk hockey with a fan who actually watched the game. Maybe he’d underestimated Carrie. Connie. Whatever her name was. “What tricks do you think he has in his bag?”
“His trick is that he’s unpredictable. He’ll spend a whole game trying to get you with a toe drag, and then the following game he’ll try something else.”
Mike touched his beer bottle to Connie’s wineglass. “You should see if our defensive coordinator is hiring any assistant coaches. I think you’d be a shoo-in.”
She threw her head back and laughed, giving him a different view of her elegant throat. She had pink, kissable lips and clear blue eyes.
And he didn’t give a damn. His eyes wandered off Connie and scanned the crowd. He thought he’d spied Lauren earlier. She must be here somewhere.
He really shouldn’t torture himself, but the sight of Lauren in an evening gown was not to be missed. And then he spotted the shine of her hair, and the graceful line of her neck. He drank in these little details one at a time, because glimpses were all he could have.
There had once been a time when he could look across the room at her and think she’s really mine. There was no better feeling than knowing they’d go home together at the end of the night, climbing into bed for sex or conversation. Or both. He missed the whole package.
“Then there’s Skews,” Connie went on to say. “He’s going to give your man O’Doul some trouble.”
“Is that so?” O’Doul asked, entering the conversation.
Mike let his gaze wander again. Across the crowded area, a basketball player shifted to the side, giving him a better view. And—holy hell—he couldn’t believe what he saw—Lauren wearing a blue dress. The blue dress. The one he’d bought for her when they were dating.
The conversation around him seemed to fade away while he watched her silk-clad body maneuver between two men in tuxes. His eyes weren’t fooling him, either. She was wearing the dress he’d bought her on the weekend he’d spent all day trying not to remember. But there it was—a column of silk the color of flower blossoms, clinging gently to the feminine shape of her body. It draped teasingly across the line of her bosom.
She’d worn it. Here, of all places. His throat constricted, and his chest got tight.
“Beak, your tongue is hanging out. Hey.” Patrick O’Doul snapped his fingers in front of Mike’s face. “You okay?”
He looked up to see that Connie had wandered off, and O’Doul was staring at him. “Not really.”
“What’s the matter?”
He shook his head like a waterlogged dog. “Seeing Lauren every day. It’s killing me. I feel like I’m watching a highlight reel of my own life.”
O’Doul put a big hand on his shoulder. “Dude, I’m sorry you miss her.”
He spent a moment being surprised that the captain wasn’t giving him shit for that kind of sentimental talk. But Doulie was a lucky man these days—in love with Ariana, and still in the honeymoon stage of the relationship where nothing is ever wrong. Lucky bastard.
Once you’d tasted the sweetness of it, you were never the same.
“You never hook up,” O’Doul pointed out. “Maybe there’s someone else here who will catch your eye?” He looked pointedly toward Connie who was now chatting up Silas. Maybe she really did have a thing for goalies.
Slowly, he shook his head. This roped-off section of the beach was crammed full of attractive, moneyed people who could pay five hundred bucks to chat with athletes and their billionaire team owners. The women were all tanned and dressed to kill.
“You’re right. I don’t hook up,” he told O’Doul. “I have a thirteen-year-old daughter who’s gotten very good at noticing everything I do. God forbid I spend the night with some chick who snaps a photo of me, or brags about it on Twitter. Try explaining that to my nosy teenager. If I take somebody to bed it has to be somebody I trust. It has to be worth it.” Unbidden, his eyes cycled back through the scene to find Lauren again.
“Well.” O’Doul chuckled. “I hear you. And I never really had much interest in the hookup scene, either. But then you need another hobby to burn off some of your energy. Shuffleboard, maybe. Or wakeboarding.”
“Let me ask you something.” He tore his gaze off his ex. “Let’s say you bought Ari a beautiful dress. The first time she wore it, the two of you had frantic sex in a hammock on a Florida beach.”
“There are hammocks on the beach?”
Mike cuffed Doulie’s shoulder. “There are. But focus, okay? So, three years later, Ari wears the dress again, at a party on a Florida beach. What do you think that means?”
O’Doul stroked his chin. “I think it means—let’s have sex again in a hammock on the beach.”
“Who’s having sex in a hammock?” Leo Trevi asked, stepping between them. “You and Beak? Does Ari know? And how big is this hammock?”
“You are such a comedian,” O’Doul grumbled while Leo laughed at his own joke.
“Are there really hammocks nearby?”
Mike sighed. “Yes, and you’re welcome.” He scanned the crowd again for Lauren. “It’s not over between us,” he said suddenly. If it was over, he wouldn’t still feel like this—as if just standing in the same zip code with Lauren had his body humming with newfound possibility.
“What’s not over?” Leo Trevi asked, sipping a fresh beer.
“Beak wants his girl back,” O’Doul explained. “But he’s facing some pretty steep odds.”
“I waited six years to get mine back,” Leo said.
Shit. “I don’t have six years. I don’t even have six weeks. Once the play-offs are over, she’ll be gone. You assholes better put some goals on the scoreboard in Tampa. I need to take this thing all the way to the Cup.�
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“That’s the weirdest motivation I’ve heard for wanting to reach the finals,” Leo said. “But whatever works for you, man.”
Laughing, O’Doul high-fived him. “Some people play for glory. Some want the money.”
“But Beak plays for the puss . . . Hi, sweetheart!” Leo changed his tone in a hurry as Georgia sidled up to him.
“What inglorious conversation have I stumbled into?” Georgia asked, relieving Leo of his beer and taking a gulp. “With twice as many athletes present as usual, I’m sure the smack talk is flying. It better not be about me.”
“Never,” he said, kissing her jaw. “Dance with me?”
“Only if you share your drink. The line at the bar got long all of a sudden.” She took another sip.
“Of course.” Leo cupped her elbow in his hand, guiding her toward the dance floor. “Want to take a walk on the beach, later? I heard there were hammocks . . .”
Mike watched the two of them slip away through the crowd. The rookie’s eyes were locked on his fiancée’s. Leo put up with a fair amount of friendly ribbing over how smitten he was with Georgia, and the kid took it like a champ. He knew he was lucky, and he didn’t care what people said.
Mike and Lauren used to have what they had—that effortless connection.
He wanted it back.
Before he even knew what he was doing, Mike began weaving through the crowd toward Lauren. She was sipping a drink which could have been either a gin and tonic or a club soda with lime. And she was standing a discreet few feet from her boss, probably ready to step in and rescue him from anyone who tried to dominate his time.
Whenever Mike was tempted to think that being a sports star was a drag, one look at Nathan and he knew he had it easy. People liked meeting hockey players, but they wanted things from Nate.
He zeroed in on Lauren, where she leaned against the end of the bar. He must have worn his intensity right on his face because when she saw him approaching her eyes got big.
“You summoned me?” he said, stopping a foot away and folding his arms across his chest.