“We’ll see.” Janna sat down in Lou’s chair as the door slammed.
Well. That was painless. And—shockingly—not nausea inducing! Was it possible that she was finally breaking free of impostor syndrome? Happiness poured through her and she spun around and around in the chair, giggling like a little girl. She’d stood up for herself! She felt proud. Strong. Is this how truly confident people felt all the time? People like Ty? Because if it was, it was wonderful, she never wanted the feeling to end.
“You did it,” she whispered aloud. She finally believed in herself. Lou believed in her, too. And Corporate. And Ty. Especially Ty. She would have to thank him for this, thank him for helping her to see just how capable she was.
God, she felt invincible!
She took a deep breath, forcing her lofty thoughts back down to earth. Ty. She was going to have to warn him of what was about to come down, media-wise. Cowley would do his worst, and paint their liaison as sordid, of that she had no doubt. Her intention was to “No comment” her way through it until the noise died down, but she needed to know how Ty intended to handle it. Perhaps, she thought, they could discuss it over a very private, romantic dinner later that evening.
“I can’t see you anymore. I’m sorry.”
Ty held his breath, watching as Janna’s mouth, which had been gabbing a mile a minute about how they should deal with that weasel Jack Cowley, began to tremble. Then she caught herself and forced her expression back to neutral. The minute he’d set foot in her apartment, he knew that it was going to be harder than he had imagined to say what needed to be said. The lights were down low, and she’d put a mellow, jazzy CD on the stereo. A beautiful table for two was set, complete with two long, glowing, white tapers and a small vase of fresh cut flowers. The aromatic odor of some spicy chicken dish filled the air, and Janna—well, Janna was a sight to behold, her bright, blue eyes luminous, her blonde hair shining like honeyed wheat, every curve of her small, lithe body outlined in the black linen sheath she wore. Seeing her, he wondered if he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life.
He’d toyed with the idea of waiting until they had finished dinner, but that seemed especially cruel: eating the wonderful meal she’d prepared for him, then turning around and dumping her. Better to do it up front, and get it over with. Then he could leave, take a walk outside to clear his head, and she could do whatever it was women did after a break up.
He said his simple, two sentence piece then waited for a response, but his statement just hung in the air, a storm cloud threatening the room. Janna was mannequin-still, her back ramrod straight while her small, delicate hands sat folded primly in her lap. Was she angry? Devastated? He couldn’t tell.
“Janna?”
“I heard you.” Her voice was curt. “Is this because Cowley leaked the relationship to the press and you don’t want to deal with it?”
“No, it’s because seeing you distracts me and I need to put every ounce of attention I have into winning the Cup.”
Oh, I understand, he wanted her to say, nodding her head sympathetically. But she didn’t. Instead she just kept staring at him. Uncomfortable, he tried to backpedal. “It’s not you, it’s me.”
“And other assorted clichés.”
What could he say to that? She was right, it was a cliché. But it was also the truth. They sat in grim silence, and Ty found himself almost wishing she would weep, demand he go, anything. He was feeling like a total creep sitting there, his own words sounding like complete and utter bullshit to him, which was no doubt how they sounded to her.
“So let me ask you something,” she said suddenly, breaking the spell.
Ty braced himself for the breakdown that seemed inevitable.
“You say you have to concentrate on the Playoffs. Does that mean you planned on dumping me all along when the Playoffs rolled around?”
“Janna, we both went into this agreeing it was just a casual thing—”
“Answer me.” Her voice was sharp. “Were you planning to dump me before the Playoffs all along?”
“Quit saying ‘dump,’ it sounds so—”
“Honest?”
“Cruel,” Ty provided softly. “And the last thing I ever wanted to be to you was cruel.”
Janna leaned forward. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Ty hesitated. “I didn’t plan on us continuing into the Playoffs,” he reluctantly admitted. “I didn’t plan on us lasting beyond a few months, to be honest.”
“I see.”
Tiny, so tiny, her voice had become. Worse than the silence, her tiny voice. God, what a bastard he was. If only she knew it was an act of self-preservation. That the last thing on earth he wanted was this, what was happening now. But he couldn’t tell her. That would be like asking a hurricane to hit your house. The steel wall separating his emotion from reason was up, it couldn’t be scaled, and he was not going to even try.
He stole a glance at her. Her pain was so real it felt as if it had taken form, as if another person sat there on the couch between them. A person he desperately wished he wasn’t responsible for.
“I can’t be distracted,” he said again, feeling a profound need to explain further, even though he knew words might make it worse. “I enjoy being with you, you know I do, but my first mistress has been and always will be hockey. You knew that when we got together, Janna.”
“I didn’t know there was a predetermined expiration date when you planned to discard me.”
“Then that’s my fault,” Ty said apologetically. “I guess I should have made that clearer.”
“I guess so,” she said, turning away.
Now, he thought. Now she’ll ask me to go. Please ask me to go, Janna. This is excruciating.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Janna said nothing.
He rose. “I guess I’d better get going.”
“One thing.” She turned back, zeroing in on his face. The anguish and desperation in her eyes were enough to force his guilty eyes to the floor.
“What?”
“Do I mean anything to you? Anything?”
Ty cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Of course you do. You’re a good friend.”
“Friends don’t sleep together, Ty. Lovers do. Partners do.”
She had him there. He paused, waiting for her to ask the question he didn’t want to answer.
“That day in the lobby, when I told you how I felt? How come you’ve never mentioned it?”
“Janna,” he said quickly, “this type of discussion doesn’t do either of us any good. Let’s just end things here, okay?”
“Why, are you afraid to talk about it?” There was anger in her voice.
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem? I want an answer, Ty. How come you never acknowledged what I said to you?”
“Just let it go.”
He moved to leave, but the mounting fury in her gaze pinned him to the spot.
“Hold on a minute. You got to say your piece, now I want to say mine.”
“Okay,” Ty said carefully.
“Sit down.”
He sat down.
“You’re a hypocrite,” Janna began. “You tell your players, like you told me, not to be afraid, to reach for the brass ring, to take risks, rise to the challenge, but do you? No. You stick to what you know you’re good at. When there’s a chance to take a risk by having a real, loving, adult relationship, are you willing to try it? Of course not. And you know why? Because you’re scared.”
He couldn’t help but laugh when he heard that. “No offense, Janna, but I’ve never been scared of anything in my goddamn life.”
“Except intimacy and vulnerability. You’re scared you’ll be terrible at it, aren’t you? Scared you’ll be rejected, or find out that there’s more to life than chasing a goddamn sports trophy. So you avoid the risk to avoid the pain. You lead a shallow, pathetic, one-dimensional life.”
“If I’m
so pathetic and one-dimensional, ” Ty countered angrily, “why the hell did you want anything to do with me? Why did you say you loved me?”
“Because I saw there was more to you than your effing obsession to win, and I hoped—God how I hoped!—that I might be able to make you see that! But obviously I couldn’t!”
Furious himself now, he stood, struggling into the jacket he’d slung over the back of the couch. “I think I’ve had enough of being psychoanalyzed for one evening, thank you very much. I’ll take your advice in dealing with the media vultures and do the “No comment” dance. In the meantime, it would mean a lot to me if we could keep it civil at work.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“Good.”
“One more thing,” Janna said lightly.
“What?” Ty snapped.
“For your sake, I hope you learn one day to practice what you preach, at least where your personal life is concerned. Because if you don’t? You are going to wind up a sad, lonely, old man. And I for one would hate to see it happen.”
With that, she rose and went into the kitchen. Ty heard her turn the faucet on and begin to rinse dishes. The urge to run in there and yell a few choice words at her was strong.
Instead, he left the apartment, quietly closing the door behind him.
Riding the elevator back down to the lobby, he found himself continuing the fight in his head. Janna doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about! The Cup is emotional fulfillment, it’s the ultimate risk! She has mistaken dedication and drive for lack of emotional depth. What the hell does she know?
The elevator doors opened, and he sighed. Well, it was done. Now he could concentrate on the Playoffs. Raising his hand in a farewell gesture to her doorman, he escaped back out into the New York night.
CHAPTER 19
The Blades won the Eastern Conference Quarter Final against Boston in a four-game sweep and then triumphed in a brutal seven-game battle against Philly in the Eastern Conference Semifinal. Now they were poised to take on Pittsburgh for the final round of the series. Whoever won would go on to battle LA for the Stanley Cup.
Not that Janna cared.
It was six weeks since Ty’s KO punch had left her reeling. Oh, she put a brave face on it, and continued working her butt off, despite the stress of having to work with Jerk Cowley, who had succeeded—but only temporarily—in turning her life into a media hell. And she still attended practice and games as usual, shepherding the press through the process of covering a team that had little time for chatting to a clamoring media, especially Ty, though to his credit, he did speak with the regular New York beat reporters he knew and trusted.
But inside, she was crumbling. Having to see Ty daily, to be reduced to perfunctory greetings and clipped conversation, was pure emotional torture. Each time their eyes met and he averted his, a small piece of her withered inside. With each day that passed, it seemed harder and harder to get up in the morning, harder and harder to feel that it was worth the effort. All she wanted to do was sleep, cry, and eat.
The day after the Blades had clinched the series against Philly, a Wednesday, the stress of all the balls she was juggling finally caught up with her and she called in sick to work. She simply couldn’t handle going in. When Thursday rolled around and she awoke with the same feeling of depression and dread, she called in sick again. By the end of the day, she knew she’d do the same on Friday; after all, what was the point of going in for just one day?
She spent Friday as she’d spent the two previous days, lounging around the apartment in sweats, eating the cookies and brownies she’d baked for herself. She must have put on seven pounds in the past month and a half. When Theresa came home early from work, and found her curled up watching Oprah with tears cascading down her face and a half empty tray of blondies in front of her, she knew she was in trouble.
“Guess what?” Theresa announced brightly, picking up a blondie and taking a bite as she turned off the TV. “You’re going to cut this out or else I’m dragging you to a shrink.”
“I’m fine,” Janna said listlessly.
“Right. That’s why you’ve blown off work for three days and are lying here sobbing.”
“I’m premenstrual.”
“If that’s the case, you’ve been pre-menstrual for six weeks. Should I call the Guinness Book of World Records?”
“Very funny.” She sat up, wiping her eyes.
“He’s not worth it, Janna,” Theresa said gently. “Can’t you see that?”
“I know he’s not.” She reached for a Kleenex from the box on the table and honked loudly. “But I just can’t shake the feeling . . .” She shook her head, eyes watering, unable to continue.
“What?”
“That we had something real. Something beyond sex.” She pounded the arm of the sofa. “And it pisses me off that he couldn’t see that!”
“It doesn’t matter. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s true. It doesn’t matter if you were the world’s next Romeo and Juliet. He ended it. It’s over.”
“But why?” Janna asked plaintively. “Why didn’t he want me? Am I so awful?”
“You said it yourself: he’s a shallow, one-dimensional moron who’s terrified of intimacy.” She handed Janna another tissue to tend to her dripping nose. “You have to pretend he’s like all those arrogant, boneheaded jocks in high school you hated so much.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“I know it’s not,” Theresa agreed, opening the shades, “but I think it would help.” Brilliant May sunshine sliced through the windows.
“The problem is seeing him every day.” The sudden brightness of the room made her blink. “If I didn’t have to face him at work, I think I’d be coping much better. But between that and having to watch my back with Cowley, I’m ready to throw in the towel.”
“Isn’t Lou coming back in two weeks?”
“Supposedly,” Janna groused.
“Well, that should help, right?” Theresa plopped down on the end of the couch, slid out of her heels, and began massaging her toes. “As for Mr. Gallagher, all you have to do is get through the next two rounds of Playoffs and the season is done. You won’t have to deal with him all summer.”
“That’s true,” Janna allowed. She snaked a hand out from beneath the comforter to reach for a blondie, but Theresa shot her such a look of stern disapproval she snatched it back. “But I’ll still have to deal with him when the season starts up again in the fall.”
“You’ll be fine by then,” Theresa pronounced.
Janna’s eyes began watering anew. “What if I’m not?”
“If you’re not, they’ll find your body floating in the East River because I’ll have killed you. Look, things could be worse.”
“How?”
“You could still be with Robert.”
Janna laughed in spite of herself. “Maybe I’ll give him a call.” Theresa froze in horror.
“That was a joke, Ter. I think.” She sighed. “I just . . . I don’t know if I want to do this anymore. It’s not just seeing Ty. It’s knowing now that if I really put my mind to things, workwise that is, I can achieve what I want. Maybe it’s time to take the plunge and start my own business. I don’t know.” She noticed Theresa beginning to look pensive. “What? What is it?”
Theresa dropped her right foot to the floor and began working the toes of the left. “I wasn’t going to say anything to you until I was one hundred percent sure, but since you’re in such bad shape, maybe now is the time to bring it up.”
“Bring what up?” Janna asked, trying to ignore the blondies crying out to her.
“My settlement money from the Lubov nightmare came in last week.”
“And—?”
“I’m thinking of using it to start my own PR firm.” She paused dramatically. “And I want you to run it with me.”
Janna’s stomach dropped. “Are you serious?”
“You know what it’s like working for the network. I c
an’t deal with it anymore. Half the actors are dying for personal representation anyway, and you and I both have great contacts. In fact, I bet there are a few Blades who wouldn’t mind hiring a personal publicist if it was presented to them right. Not that I would represent them, but maybe you . . .”
Janna began gnawing on the cuticle of her index finger. “Well . . .” she replied tentatively.
“You don’t have to think about it now,” Theresa assured her. “Wait until the Playoffs are through and you have a bit of distance.” She smiled at Janna slyly. “But it would be great to work together again, wouldn’t it?”
“It would be a blast,” Janna agreed. Only problem was, it would force her to take complete and total responsibility for her own happiness. To fulfill a dream. Could she?
“So.” Theresa stood up. “Where would you like to eat dinner?”
Janna groaned. “Theresa . . .”
“I’m not taking no for an answer. I want you to get up, get dressed, put on some makeup, and decide where we’re going to eat. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you continue this pity party.”
Janna smiled in spite of herself. “You’re a good friend, you know that?”
“I try. I just wish there was something more I could do to make you feel better. My great-aunt Josephina knows some old Sicilian curses. Want her to put the evil eye on Gallagher?”
“I think she already has. You’ve read about how he’s playing.”
Ty was playing well, but not great. Every sports writer felt compelled to mention it in articles about the team, without exception. Needless to say, Kidco wasn’t pleased with the coverage, which amazed Janna. The Blades had just made it into the Eastern Conference Final, for God’s sake. What did they want? Perfection? Still, it did give her a perverse thrill of delight that Ty’s game wasn’t as awesome as it could be. Loser, she thought. That’s what you get for throwing what we could have had away.
“Actually,” Theresa reflected, picking up the blondie tray so they were out of Janna’s reach, “I think the curses are more for people’s livestock—like, ‘A hex on your chicken’ or ‘May your cow drop dead with pox,’ that type of thing. Not very effective against professional hockey players.”
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