by Snow, Wylie
“Trust you,” she echoed in a hollow tone. She gave her hair a toss and asked, “Are you sure you’re okay being here?”
“I think so,” he said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head before she could pull away. “I’m not sure yet, but it feels…okay. Up until last week, I never thought I’d be able to set foot in a place like this again—and for the big, crowded games, definitely not—but it’s nice to know I can get some face-to-face interviews, catch pre-game practices, that kind of thing.” Before the shadow monsters hurled more taunts, he slipped his arm around her waist. “And someday, when I have sons of my own, maybe I’ll actually get to take them to their games. You gave me an incredible gift, mon amour. Thank you.”
He expected her to squeeze him back, maybe lean in for a kiss, so when she looked away, it stung.
Dieu, he was so stupid, showing her his vulnerability like this, clinging to her like some kind of drowning man to a rope. No wonder she looked away. She was probably embarrassed for him. He released his hold and stepped ahead of her, using the sharp end of the humility blade to stave of the panics.
“We’ll just watch from here until they’re done,” Luc said, leading her up a few stairs into the first row of seats.
Whatever bothered her seemed to ease after a few minutes of watching the players run drills. Her shoulders didn’t appear as hunched, and her face softened.
“It’s not as much fun without the rock music blaring,” she said, referring to the music they played during games.
“Or the pumped up organ music.”
“That too,” she said. “Hey, do you guys fight in practice as much as you do in games?”
“No. No reason to.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “I mean, come on, grown men, grabbing each other’s shirts like bullies, punching on each other’s faces. Why? What’s it all about? I asked Riley, and he says it’s testosterone, but I think you all just want to rest for two minutes in that VIP box over on the other side.”
Luc laughed. Only Clara could come up with that. “No, it’s not like that. And there really is a reason. Reasons, in fact.”
“I’m waiting, and it better be damn convincing or I’m going to annihilate you on the blog tomorrow.”
“Sometimes it’s strategic—you just need to change the tempo of the game, like if your team is scored on, you pick a fight to get them to lose their momentum—”
“That’s a rather juvenile approach,” she interjected. “Why not just try harder?”
“Hold on, I got more,” Luc said, giving her hair a playful tug. Anything to touch her, to make some kind of physical contact with her. He wanted to clear the strained air around them but wasn’t sure how.
He was hoping for reaction, a smirk, hair toss, but nothing came. So he cleared his throat and continued, “Touching my goalie is a big no-no. Gotta protect your goalie at all times. Someone gets in his face, he needs a lesson.”
“That actually makes sense,” she conceded. “What else?”
“If you get a guy who’s usually not a fighter picking a fight, you can bet it’s something personal, like you got hacked on or trash talked.”
“Trash talked?”
“Yeah. I’m sure I don’t have to give you an example of the shit guys will say to each other to distract them. Things about your wife, you sister…just use your imagination. And sometimes it’s just because the other team is playing dirty. If you can’t do it with the puck, do it with your fists.”
“And we’re back to juvenile again.”
“Not really. The original reason for fighting is to give payback where the refs couldn’t or wouldn’t. That goes back to the moral fibre thing. There are certain codes in hockey, any sport really. Big guys don’t go after little guys and spearing and butt-ending are bad form, so if a player does these things and the refs don’t see it, the other guys will get back at the offender.”
Luc flexed his knee a couple of times to alleviate the burning sensation in his muscles. “Look, they’re about to wrap up. Any other questions before we go down?”
“Puck bunnies.”
“What?”
“Something you mentioned once, and I didn’t ask for clarification. But it made me picture dust bunnies hiding in the corners of the rink.”
“Ha! No. Puck bunnies are girls that like to hang around hockey players. Like groupies.”
“Oh!” Clara said, her cheeks reddening as the corners of her mouth turned down. “Like the C/Kaitlyns.”
“Exactly.”
“And you guys,” she said, cocking her chin toward the players. “You like that kind of thing? Hoards of girls all around you?”
“Before the game, they’re annoying as hell.”
“And after? Easy sex?”
“I can’t speak for us all, but most guys just want to relax and have some beers. Or maybe that’s a Canadian thing.” Luc chuckled. “I guess for the young guys it’s handy, but really, Clara, once you realize that everyone else has done her, the shine wears off.”
“And you…with the C/Kaitlyns?”
“Never!”
Her eyebrows shot up in disbelief, her mouth in a tight, grim line.
“Bean! I’d never had invited them for lunch if I had. I can’t believe you’d even think that. Dieu!”
Luc led her onto ground level, into the area reserved for players. He loved the arena from this perspective: bigger, brighter, and like being at the bottom of a very big bowl. The scrape and swoosh of blades cutting across the ice, the rack and clack of wooden sticks, pucks hitting the boards with such speed and power, he felt it in his bones, and amidst the sharp retorts of the coach’s whistle, there were shouts of “Biscuit!” and “Luc!” as they noticed him standing in the players’ box.
They were big, broadened by pads, heightened by their skates, imposing and intimidating. Most skated out of their way to where Luc stood, to salute, to nod, to fist bump, most of their hard-bristled jaws breaking into wide, genuine grins. And he grinned back with fondness, with pleasure. Maybe a little envy.
He spoke with a string of people, some suits, some players, some he introduced Clara to, some he didn’t because it didn’t matter, but she never let go of his hand, as if she knew his sanity was somehow entwined with their fingers. He assured all who dared ask that he was fine, busy, too busy, that yes, he missed playing but hey, it was no big deal and, with a laugh, that now he got to tell them all what they did wrong.
“Bored yet?” he asked Clara after a few minutes.
“No, no, I’m good,” she said and released his hand so she could turn her back and gaze up at the darkened stands. Her eyes were full of wonder, maybe a little bit of awe, and he remembered what it felt like the first time he stepped onto the ice n Montreal when he was a kid. He was just about to ask her if she wanted to lace up when it happened, when he heard the slap against the boards, when he saw a black streak of lightning coming toward them at a speed greater than his reactive instincts could match, and the Fates took another cruel swipe at Luc Bisquet.
Chapter 35
She heard voices, soft, unintelligible sounds before the pain registered. Her head was consumed by a dull ache punctuated by sharp throbs that seemed to keep tempo with her pulse. Confusion, disorientation, unfamiliar accents, everything black, then blurred, then black again. A sharp prick, a feeling of warmth and blissful sleep, more pain, more voices, more sleep.
Franco dropped his camera, shouted to her. The gelato cart came out of nowhere. She swerved, the wheels of her Vespa bumped, slid over cobbled stones.
Italy, Rome, Lydia. Where was Lydia? She couldn’t hear Lydia. The accents were different. Speaking English, but different.
She sucked air in through her nose, looking for a scent, an odor, anything to make her feel connected to her surroundings.
Franco?
No. Franco didn’t come.
Where am I? What’s happening?
Everything was fuzzy, every thought ungraspable, appearing and disappearing like wisps of smoke. She struggled to open her eyes but the light pierced, like shards of glass against her eyeballs. She struggled to speak, but her mouth was thick, cotton filled. Panic rose in her chest.
“Clara?”
Her heart squeezed at the sound of the low, masculine timbre. In that moment, it was just a feeling, but she wanted more of it. It made her feel warm and…safe.
“Clara, love, I’m here.”
Luc. Yes. Her Luc.
She needed to see him, to touch him. She concentrated on prying her heavy lids open.
“Too bri...” It was her voice, but forced, croaky, unintelligible. She swallowed, tried again. “Bright.”
“Of course,” he said. She heard the clatter of a blind being shut, the swish of a curtain.
Better. Not as harsh. A blurred silhouette, then, as she blinked, Luc’s features slowly came into focus. Painfully dry, she tried to clear her throat, felt a straw slip between her lips, sucked the cool liquid into her parched mouth.
He was there. Luc. Her Luc. Brow furrowed, mouth drawn in a tight line, hair sticking up like he’d slept against a pole and his lovely golden complexion had paled to dull yellow.
“Are you okay?” she rasped. “You look like hell.”
“Me?” he shook his head. “Me? Jesus, Mary, Mother of God.” He came close, kissed her forehead, shook his head again, touched her face, her cheeks, her hair. She reached up to take his hands in hers. Strong hands to warm her icy fingers. Only then did she notice the I.V. needle taped to her forearm, connecting her via tube to a dripping bag.
“What’s happening? Is this Rome? Where’s Lydia? Did I trash the scooter?”
He tried to mask his worry with a reassuring smile, but the lines remained around his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “You’re in Washington, love,” he said and kissed her forehead again. “You took a nasty blow to the head yesterday.”
Her head did feel heavy, tight, achy. But also woozy, like whatever she was feeling was distant, dulled by drugs. Good, powerful painkillers.
His thumb made circles across the top of her hand, caressing away her fears, erasing the confusion. “We went to see my old team, remember?”
Yes. Yes! They were in the arena and the players weren’t in their team colors but in boring shades of gray. She remembered that. They were big—titans on skates.
She tried to nod, but it felt as if she had lead weights knocking around in her brain.
“Try not to move around.”
“Why—what—”
“You were hit by a…a…” He stopped, swallowed. Tried again to give her a reassuring smile, but failed miserably. “One of the guys took a shot and the puck rebounded off the boards. It caught you here,” he said, touching the back of his own head. “Knocked you unconscious.”
“Ouch,” she said. “Will I live?”
He laughed, a big relieved sound that made her smile. “Yes, yes, mon amour, you will.”
At three a.m., the hall outside of Clara’s private room was alive with sound, from the squeaking of rubber-soled shoes on freshly washed floors to the muted intercom system, though none of it seemed to bother Luc, who was fast asleep in the chair next to her bed, his large frame slouched sideways. He hadn’t slept at all the night before, keeping vigil over her and driving the nurses crazy, so she’d heard, so he was sleeping hard. He was going to be stiff and achy come morning, but the stubborn ox wouldn’t go back to the hotel no matter how she’d insisted.
She and Luc had awkwardly tried to ignore the large pachyderm in the room. His attempt to keep the conversation light, carefully avoiding any mention of hockey, pucks, accidents, or disasters in general, failed miserably. That Luc felt to blame for her accident was clear, and no argument from her would dissuade him.
But what really upset her, made her feel sickish and twisty in her guts, was the fact that he’d probably never enter another arena. Ever. She was the reason he’d gone back. How was that for mind-blowing irony? He’d seemed so excited to be there, so animated while talking to his mates. It hurt her very bones to think about him missing out on all that because her stupid thick noggin had a penchant for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d ruined everything, all the progress they had made.
Now he’d go back to Valentina and Clara’s memory would only bring horror and mockery.
So she marinated in her own regret-filled stew of misery while Luc prattled on about his summers in Vermont and how attached his sister used get to the young turkeys his grandmother raised, only to find them all gone when they returned for Thanksgiving. His grandparents made an elaborate story of the turkeys flying to the Caribbean for the winter but he, being the tormenting older brother, told her the truth. Right after dinner.
She listened, nodded, smiled, attempted a chuckle, but she desperately wanted to be alone to regroup, to think, maybe cry a little…and suspected he wanted to escape just as badly, though he wouldn’t leave her side.
Pretending to drift off, she closed her eyes and waited for the sound of magazine pages to stop turning, until his breathing evened out. In the low light, she could stare at him and succumb to her worries and fears, let her pathetic luck smother her until she choked as her insides churned and hate of Valentina soured her mouth.
Karma. It was the only explanation. She was paying the price for being a selfish little girl. All this time, she thought she was a fixer but really, what problem did she solve that didn’t have a purely selfish angle? If she examined all the incidents she gladly took credit for, she found, without exception, a self-serving outcome.
Would she have moved in with lonely Aunt Jude if the woman had lived in Guernsey or Liverpool instead of on the outskirts of Greater London, where Clara just so happened to want to live? Probably not.
And prompting Charlie to pursue a romantic relationship with Sue was more of an elaborate scheme to get Sue into the boss’s bed and away from driving the rest of them nuts on staff pub nights.
Sure, she did buy Lydia a ball of wool and needles to get her mind off her stress, but her friend actually learned the skill from some Canadian woman who’d sheltered her in the aftermath of Lydia’s sex tape scandal. And as the beneficiary of most of Lydia’s beautiful handiwork, could Clara claim that as true altruism? Not a drop.
Confessing her story to Luc…now that was complicated, but if she had to reduce it to bones, it was due to the fact that she didn’t want to leave with nothing. She wanted to open the door for some kind of relationship, even if it meant staying in touch long distance. Ka-boom! That one exploded in her face. Or the back of her head, as it were.
Even getting Luc back to the arena was more about how great she’d feel if she were to fix him, how he’d always remember it was she who put him back into an arena, that no matter who he chose to be with in the future, the memory of Clara Bean would be synonymous with his return to the arena..
Shame cut through her with steel-like precision. Bloody hell. She had the audacity to accuse Valentina of using people? Could she not do one thing, one deed that benefitted another without reaping some sort of reward herself? Was there nothing she could do to prove to the universe that she was not a selfish little girl? A sacrifice for the greater good?
The greater good. She wasn’t sure what that even meant. The greater good. To the benefit of others and not yourself. Why bother?
Sacrifice. The very word mocked her as it rumbled through her head, over and over, not leaving her to move on to other thoughts or to succumb to the painkillers dripping into her arm.
Sacrifice… it taunte
d her, challenged her.
By the time the sky began to lighten, she knew what she would do…and it began with soliciting the help of the night nurse. It may have taken two hard knocks to the head, but Clara was finally prepared to deal with her life instead of run from it. Or maybe running was the only way to deal?
Luc yawned and tried to rub the ache out of his neck. He’d probably have to visit a chiropractor to get rid of all the kinks in his spine.
“I told you to go back to the hotel,” Clara said, her skin tone its normal shade of rose-cream. The pretty smirk on her face had more effect on his emotional state than a thousand sunrises. “You’re far too big a man to fall asleep in a chair.”
He shrugged. “Feeling better?”
“Yes, I think I am. Except for…” She wrinkled her nose and shrugged.
“What? Should I get a doctor?”
“No, no. It’s nothing like that. I just feel… I feel like something is off, different, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“I’d better get the doctor,” Luc said, pushing his aching bones out of the chair.
“No, Luc, please don’t bother. I’m fine. Please believe me.”
Luc got up anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to let a nurse know. But as he opened her door, an orderly was coming in with a covered tray.
“I’ll take that,” Luc offered and relieved the man of his load. “Breakfast is served, madam,” he said and set her meal on the wheeled table at the foot of her bed. “Are you hungry? I’m starved. Hope you don’t mind if I pick—”