by Luis, Maria
Carmen ignores my plea for all of the wine and only pours me another glass of red. “You don’t have the luxury of getting sloppy tonight. You told me that we had to take notes on the show—see what we can improve on for next week.”
She’s right, I know she’s right.
While we spent the latter part of last week editing footage and corresponding with Getting Pucked’s TV producers about the highlight reels they wanted for their clips, we’ve yet to see the entire episode from start to finish. Tonight is the night, for better or for worse, and our gathering is as much of a team-bonding exercise as it is analyzing every aspect of our contribution to the episode to see what we can work on.
Which is sort of the issue with me signing with the Blades and not Sports 24/7.
I no longer have the upper hand, and whatever their producers decide is the end of the road. For a control freak like myself, my new situation isn’t ideal, but I meant what I said to the team: my loyalty will always be with the Blades and not some sports network.
Still, nerves balloon in my belly as I try to keep my focus locked on my employees and not scoping out the clock on the wall every two minutes, waiting for 8 p.m. to strike on the dot.
“The thing is,” Shelby is saying now, “you want to open your mouth a little more for the moan. Like, make your cheeks all hollow and don’t forget to flare your nostrils maybe a half-centimeter or something, just for show.” When she demonstrates, I don’t even bother to pay her any attention. She’s a boss when it comes to administrative work, but I’ll be dead before I start taking advice about how to look in the throes of orgasm from an actress.
Who also just so happens to be a virgin.
I may be in a years’ long dry spell, but at least I’ve done the deed before, thank you very much.
Carmen snorts into her drink beside me, just as Adam shouts, “Guys, guys, opening credits are on!”
My gaze leaps to the TV as the male narrator announces, “You think you know us, but you haven’t seen us like this before. For the next two hours, I’ll be taking you behind the scenes with the Boston Blades. We’re the NHL’s biggest threat . . . but only if we can work together to take the Cup home at the end of the season.”
Hold on . . .
I don’t even have the chance to say a word before one of my photographers, Maisey, shouts, “Wait, hold the goddamn phone. Was that Jackson doing the voiceover?”
I open my mouth and . . . and . . .
For the first time in my life, I have no words.
None. Zilch. Nada.
Someone’s cell phone pings! with an incoming message, but I can’t tear my focus away from the TV. Jackson—my Jackson—is the one narrating the entire season?
He’s not yours anymore.
Whatever. Semantics.
Regardless, how in the world did he go from not wanting to do Getting Pucked at all to signing up for the show’s narration?
“Phone,” Carmen says at my side, dropping my cell into my lap. “You might want to look at it.”
I glance down, heart rate spiking at the name on the glass screen.
Jackson: I’m sorry in advance.
He’s sorry? What the hell does that mean? I mean, logistically, there are a lot of things he could be sorry for, starting with the two of us and ending with apologizing for who the hell knows what.
Swiping my thumb across the screen to unlock the phone, I tap on my ex-husband’s text message and am promptly bombarded with text after text.
Beaumont: Carter, man, did you add her?
Harrison: Seconding that. You added Holly to Safe Space, right?
Jackson: She’s in.
Jackson: Bless her heart.
Hunt: Holly!!!! Welcome!
Harrison: Hunt, dude, we agreed to let Carter roll out the proverbial red carpet. Wait your turn.
Unknown Number: She hasn’t said anything yet…you think we scared her off?
Unknown Number: If we did, I blame Kammer.
Unknown Number: What the fuck, Cain?? I didn’t do shit. Calm your tits.
Unknown Number: My tits are calm, asshole. Stop looking at them.
Unknown Number: I’m not even in the same building as you!!
Unknown Number: Stop thinking about them, then.
Beaumont: Children, behave—before I take my stick and shove it where the sun don’t shine.
Hunt: This conversation went downhill so fast.
Tearing my gaze from what is clearly some sort of group chat for the Blades players, I hop off the couch with a mutter that I’ll be back. Shelby protests that I’m leaving in the middle of a segment of us interviewing Henri Bordeaux, but I have bigger fish to fry right now.
Like figuring out why I’ve been added to the so-called “Safe Space.”
The same elusive group chat Jackson spent all of his time in while we were married.
At least, I’ve got a feeling it’s the same one.
Shutting the door behind me, I step into the hall and head for my office. The floor is devoid of all light, but I’ve spent so many late hours here that it’s no problem at all to feel my way to my office and let myself in.
City lights dance through my window, giving the room an almost ethereal glow.
All the while, my phone continues to vibrate in my hand like it’s a ticking time bomb. I scan the group text once more, the phone’s luminous screen making it easy to read the messages:
Jackson: Cain, calm your tits. Kammer, stop being a bitch. Beaumont, for fuck’s sake, man, leave the stick talk to your wife or on the ice.
Harrison: Guys, show just started.
Beaumont: Holy shit, Carter, you sound like a frog. Scratch that, you sound like you swallowed a dick.
Unknown Number: What size dick?
Hunt: Medium. Not girthy. Big, fat head though. Wicked veiny.
Jackson: Y’all are a bunch of idiots. Also, can we PLEASE watch the language now that y’all begged me to add Holly?
Unknown Number: Oh, shit, I forgot already. Sorry Holly!
Unknown Number: Sorry Holly
Bordeaux: I miss everything, yes?
No doubt about it, their group thread is a disaster zone and a PR catastrophe in the waiting.
And, somehow, I’ve found myself in the thick of it all.
With sweaty palms, I scroll through my contacts for the one person I haven’t called directly in a year. I wait, heart in my throat, for Jackson to answer, torn between hoping that he picks up and praying that he doesn’t.
My emotions, just like the Safe Space thread, are as chaotic as an Irish pub here in Boston on St. Patty’s Day.
By the fourth ring, disappointment thickens the lump in my throat. Convinced that he has no plans to answer, I pull the phone from my ear and hover my thumb over the red telephone button.
“Idiot,” I mutter to myself. I stare at the time stamp rolling at the top of the screen, mocking me with how many seconds I’ve waited.
Thirty-one seconds, that’s how long.
Thirty seconds too—
“Holly?”
His voice is tinny, small.
My thumb switches angles from the red button to tapping the speakerphone option.
“Holls, you there?”
Over the phone, his voice is pitched lower. Rougher. During the early days when we first dated, I used to live for him calling me just so I could hear him as he sounds now. I’m only a little ashamed to admit that the timbre of his voice still twists my insides and curls my toes.
One day, I tell myself, one day that’ll all just stop.
Because if I’m forced to spend the rest of my life lusting after my ex-husband’s voice, I’m calling it right now: in a previous life, I must have screwed someone over real bad. Worse than a burger in a recycling bin. What other reason would I have to pay this sort of penance now?
“Hey.” I clear my throat, laying waste to the lump that just won’t go away. “I’m here.”
The line dips into short, uncomfortable silence. T
hen, “Is everything okay?”
In the darkness of my office, with only the scant cityscape to create shadows, it’s so damn easy to support the illusion that this phone call is like any other we used to have. I can picture me sitting on the white, plush sofa that I’ve got pressed against the far wall, my skirt lifted to my hips and my fingers playing between my legs as Jackson whispers dirty, feverish words over the phone.
On the few occurrences when I couldn’t make his games, he never let the distance stop him from making me cry out his name. Or from him ducking into the hotel bathroom to keep his teammates clueless as to what he was up to.
“Holly, are you there?”
His voice is sharp now, not the seductive growl that tips me over the edge. It’s sharp enough to send me tumbling from the memories and back into reality.
With shaky fingers, I slip my hair behind my ears and drop my chin with a heavy breath. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m here.” Be normal. Don’t be awkward! “Why did—”
“Look,” he says, and I can almost picture him leaning his head back against the cushions while he reclines on his couch, “I should have told you the guys wanted you in the group chat, so I’m sorry if that caught you off guard. They’re persistent assholes.”
“Trust me, I’m aware.” If I wasn’t already, that group text definitely solidified it for me. Persistent might actually be an understatement. “Why add me at all?”
His breath crackles over the phone, and I remove him from speakerphone to press the cell to my ear. “They said that you’re a part of the team now that you’re filming us for the next few months.” He pauses, and then adds, “You can mute them.”
“Mute them?” I ponder out loud, my thumb caressing the smooth edge of my phone case, “or you, too?”
Laughter greets me, deep and gritty. “Is that a dig at my voiceover skills?”
Even though he can’t see me, my shoulders lift in a shrug. “I’d say don’t quit your day job any time soon for acting, but it seems you’re heading in that direction anyway.”
This time, there’s no pause on his end. I hear rustling like he’s getting comfortable—on the couch? In his bed?—and then he’s speaking again: “It was cheesy, huh?”
I smile, just a little. “Now don’t go putting words in my mouth, Captain.”
He laughs again, and the sound heats me like basking under the sun after months of winter. “Don’t give me openings like that, Holls. You know I can’t resist the pull to make you blush.”
Only then do I realize the exact opening he’s talking about.
Oh, God. Talk about embarrassing innuendos.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t,” he says, cutting me off. “You’re safe from my teasing—don’t stress about it. Boundaries, right?”
Pushing off from the desk, I move toward the window. I press my fingertips to the cool glass, then glance down at the bustle of a Friday night in Boston. Car lights zoom down Arlington Street, and I think of all the evenings I spent here at the office instead of at home with the man on the other end of the line.
Curiosity pushes the words up and out of my mouth: “Why aren’t y’all watching the episode together? There’s no game tonight.”
A pause. Then, “Most of them opted to watch it with their families.”
My heart twists at everything he isn’t saying. The guys are with their wives, their girlfriends, their families, and he’s . . . “Are you at home?”
His home, girl, not yours.
I shove the thought away, refusing to give it any weight. I sold our home almost a year ago when the memories proved to be too heartbreaking. I’m not someone who loves self-torture, and living in the same house that we bought together when we moved to Boston? It was torture at the ultimate level.
Not that being on the phone with him now is any better. Not for my peace of mind, at least.
“Jackson?”
“Yeah,” he finally says, “I’m home. Me, my takeout from Sam’s, and a bottle of water.”
At the mention of Sam’s Italian Cuisine, I can’t stop the moan from slipping out. Thinly woven dough with butter slathered over the toasted crust, and prosciutto tucked inside like a treasure of meat heaven. My mouth waters as though I’m starved, even though I scarfed down two slices of pizza less than an hour ago. “Oh my God, I haven’t had Sam’s in so long. I miss it.”
Like a lot of my other favorite things in life, I’ve avoided Sam’s since our divorce. It was the first restaurant we tried together here in Boston, and the same restaurant where we sat when Jackson first brought up that we might not be able to work out for the long haul. That night, I’d wanted to talk to him about the tension I felt growing between us. The words were barely out of my mouth before he was giving voice to the word no married person ever wants to hear.
Divorce.
I hadn’t wanted to hear it.
But deep down, behind the tears, I’d also known that we’d reached an irreversible place. We were strangers who no longer had any common ground between us beyond our wedding bands and our memories.
Good memories. Bad memories.
My forehead tips forward and kisses the window. I clutch the phone in my hand like a lifeline as I watch the activity beyond the glass—watching life pass me by as I’m forever hooked on the past.
On my ex-husband.
There’s more rustling, and then Jackson’s gravel-pitched voice drawls, “I got those little dough things you like so much.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Rub it in my face, why don’t you.” The bastard. He knows how much I love them.
I hear what sounds like foam containers being pried open. Hushed chewing as though he’s pulled the phone away from his mouth. A sex-on-a-stick groan that sends a spark of lust and need straight to my core.
“Damn,” he growls, “only one more left. I was going to save it for tomorrow, but I think . . .”
My mouth goes dry. “You think what?”
“I think I’ll eat it just for you, Holls. No need to thank me.” My stomach lets out a growl of its own when he tacks on, “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, you know, especially when I’m already stuffed.”
Listening to my ex-husband eat my favorite food shouldn’t be sexy, but here I am. Rock meet bottom: feeling hot and bothered as he tempts me with groans and happy sighs over the phone.
Figures that the sounds he’s making are as close to sex as I’ve gotten since the last time we were in bed together.
“You’re a real gentleman, Captain.”
I hear him swallow, probably polishing off the last of the doughy treats at my expense. “I’m a lot of things, but—”
“Don’t say it.”
He doesn’t heed my warning. “—I prefer to think of myself as a king.”
I shake my head, hating the way I can’t help but smile at his dry tone. “Your ego, Jackson.”
“It’s big, I know.”
“I was going to say that it’s impenetrable, actually.”
“And big.” Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I swear he’s grinning. “Big like my—”
“Don’t you dare go there.”
“What?” He’s all boyish innocence now. “Big heart, Holls, that’s where I was going. Damn, would you get your mind out of the gutter?”
My heart beats a quick tattoo, and I pull back from the window a scant few inches. Focus on my hazy reflection staring back at me in the glass instead of the cityscape beyond it. I’m grateful for the shadows—without them, I’m sure it’d be hard to ignore the blush that’s warming my cheeks, thanks to his playful teasing.
Since I’ve always given as good as I’ve gotten, I don’t stop now. “My mind is being airlifted out as we speak, thank you so much for your concern.” I lower my voice. “I’m glad to be rescued. It was scary down there—downright terrifying.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.” I meet my gaze in my reflection, the blue of my eyes muted to a dull gray in the shad
ows. “There was chanting and incense and hockey players galore, and in the very center of it all . . . their king.”
He pauses. Then, “How did I look?”
“A lot like Andre Beaumont.”
Surprised laughter erupts on the other end of the line. “Touché. My ego deserved that.”
I push away from the window. “It probably deserves a lot more if we’re going for full transparency. It’s out of control.”
“Comes with the territory of being captain.”
“Comes with the territory of you being you.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, then pause at my office door, reluctant to get off the phone when I’ve . . . Be honest with yourself at least. And the honest truth is—I’ve missed this. The quick back-and-forth, the laughter, the feeling that someone out there gets me and my humor. I miss him.
There, I said it.
I miss him, Jackson, my ex-husband.
“I should probably go,” he says softly. “We’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”
Right. Of course. Two days ago, the Blades went skate to skate against Toronto at home, but starting tomorrow, it’s two straight away games to wrap up preseason. First up, the Philadelphia Flyers and then the Chicago Blackhawks. Carmen, Adam, and I will no doubt be quarantined to our hotel rooms in order to get all footage edited ahead of our deadline or face the wrath of Mark Fillmore.
I scrub my hand over my jaw, swiping it down over my mouth as dread filters in. “I hate early mornings.”
“I remember.”
My chest inflates with a deep inhale. “Some things never change.”
“No, some things don’t.” The line goes silent, and I’m pulling open the door when he adds, “In case I haven’t mentioned it yet, I’m proud of you, Holls. What you’re doing with the team? The show? I’m just . . . yeah, I just wanted you to know. You’re doin’ great.”
Maybe I shouldn’t let his praise swell my lungs with air and push my shoulders back with confidence, but I do. “Thank you,” I whisper, my fingers tightening their hold on my phone, “that means a lot to me.”
“Good.” More silence. “Okay, right. I’ll see you in the morning. Night, Holly.”
“Night, Jackson.”
Pulling my phone away from where it’s been cradled against my ear, I finally click the red telephone—but not until I note the time we spent talking on the phone together.