Seduced by the Game

by editor Lisa Hollett

  “You don’t have to call me that,” she informs me, and it makes me feel a little better. I feel pretty ridiculous calling a girl like her George. “You can call me Georgiana. Or my friends call me G.”

  “Nah, she’s George,” Klingensmith laughs, and he puts her in a headlock. I expect her to squeal or say that he’s messing up her hair, but she doesn’t. She surprises me by elbowing him just hard enough for him to let go of her. He rubs the spot on his ribs. “She’s just like one of the guys.”

  * * * *

  I can only laugh at Mark when he pouts and rubs his side, complaining to me about how the trainer’s going to give him grief. We have enough injuries and certainly don’t need any more, but the second I let any of these guys get away with anything is the second that our team order spirals out of control. I gotta keep my boys in line.

  Like I said, I’m the mother hen. As the Director of Team Services, my sole responsibility is taking care of my Comets. Sure, the majority of my time is spent reserving blocks of hotel rooms for road trips, organizing flights and buses to pick the team up, scheduling team activities like dinners on the road and charity events—but in Bryan’s case, I feel like an ambassador to Dallas and a representative of this team. At the very least, I’m a concierge. I want to make sure he’s comfortable, and he clearly is not.

  “One of the guys?” he asks, eyeing me carefully. He doesn’t know how I fit in here, which is understandable considering he obviously doesn’t feel like he fits in here either.

  “Just about. You’ll be seeing an awful lot of me around here.” I could offer him my back story, like how I went to the job fair because I really wanted to work for the football league, but I got a position with the Comets instead. I was a lowly assistant until there was some kind of mistake or mix-up about rooms in Colorado, and I took the initiative to sweet talk a desk clerk and got the boys into rooms with barely enough time to nap before their game against the Colorado Storm. Sometimes, it’s not enough to have good ideas; you’ve got to take initiative. That’s the only reason someone as young as me got this top position. A little southern charm goes a long way.

  Mark asks me, “Where are we staying when we go to Detroit? Please tell me it’s not the Embassy Suites again.”

  “The Embassy Suites,” I reply with a smile, watching him pull a face and groan. I put my hands on my hips. “Maybe you should have said something sooner, Marky Mark. How else am I supposed to know?”

  “You take special requests?” Bryan questions, still trying to figure out my dynamic with the players.

  “No,” I joke, “but I do take bribes.”

  “She puts together the team’s road schedule,” Mark says, putting his arm around my shoulders. “You ever want a little free time when we travel, she’ll work it out for ya.”

  “I accept cash only, no checks or credit cards,” I giggle as I slide out from underneath the weight of his arm. That earns the teeniest, tiniest hint of a smile from him, and I accept that as a victory. I figure I should quit while I’m ahead. “All right, boys, go get ready for the game. I’ll see y’all tonight.”

  I spend the rest of the early evening in my cool, air-conditioned office, attached to the phone like usual. We’ve got two long road trips in March, one at the beginning and one at the end. I have to confirm a shit ton of reservations and then try to book practice times at various arenas. Only then can I figure out travel times. The only reason I’m any good at this job is because I’m organized, and also I’ve got a good phone personality. That’s what it takes to get things done in this business.

  Right before the game, I change back into my jeans and then a Comets shirt for the game. I’m no diva; I don’t usually make so many wardrobe changes during a typical day, but I was dressed down to do the physical work of cleaning up the townhouse to prepare for Bryan’s arrival, and then I had to make sure I was wearing something more appropriate to be in the office. Now, I want to be comfortable to watch the game. I never wear a number when I support the team because I don’t want to appear to play favorites. Sure, some of the guys are a little more fun to be around, like Adam, but I’d never let the players know that.

  I watch Bryan carefully when he’s out on the ice. Just like in Carolina, he’s wearing number 22. He’s paired with Justin “Rocky” Rockwell, our number one defenseman. While the Comets are in their offensive zone, the defense makes a change, and Justin and Bryan pour over the boards and take up residence on the blue line. The centerman and the wings buzz around the net, shooting the puck and trying to bury a rebound to score against the Monarchs. After a solid minute of controlling the play, one of the Monarchs’ defensemen gets his stick on the puck and immediately shoots it toward center ice, with the hopes of allowing his team to change lines and get fresh legs on the ice.

  Bryan pinches down along the boards, trying to keep the puck in the zone to further the onslaught against the Monarchs. He’s almost there, but the Monarchs’ defenseman beats him to the puck and chips it over his stick, over the blue line, and to the red line. Bryan gets caught down low, and the Monarchs use that to their full advantage. A new line of Monarchs spills over from the bench, and the Monarchs’ left winger pursues the puck to the opposite end of the ice, hoping to score.

  Knowing he’s out of position, Bryan does everything he can to get back. He turns on the jets and skates full throttle; he’s trying to gain the zone so his partner Justin isn’t stuck in a one-on-one situation. He’s getting closer, but it’s not enough. The Monarchs’ left wing takes the shot, and Justin goes down on one knee to try to block the shot. The puck glances off Justin’s shin pad but doesn’t change trajectory enough and still heads for the goal. Our goalie Lars “The Wall” Wallander is caught off guard by the direction change and can’t adjust in time. The puck flies past him and hits the twine.

  Justin slams his stick against the ice, frustrated that his block may have been the reason Lars didn’t make the save. Bryan slumps into a defeated posture, his shoulders low and his head down. I can see that some of the Comets tap him with the blades of their sticks to show their solidarity. It’s his first game as a Comet, and he tried to help the team out. Unfortunately, the outcome isn’t what he had hoped for.

  That’s the only goal of the game. The Comets never respond with a tally of their own and lose to the Monarchs 1–0. It’s not a bad game, and Bryan shows some glimpses of just why we wanted him. By the time I make it down to the locker room to offer my sincere condolences, I find that they’ve made plans to go out to deal with the loss. As usual, Adam’s the one to make the plans. It doesn’t matter that he’s injured; he’s always in the middle of these plans—especially since he’s so close to returning and is bubbling over with pent-up, unexpended energy. He looks at me and immediately invites me along, too. “Tonight, George! Club Onyx!”

  “No thanks, Harris. I’m not going to a strip club with you.” I pause. “Not again, anyway. Twice was enough for me to learn my lesson.”

  “Aw, come on! You’ve gotta come. I’ll pay for your lap dance. It’s the only thing that will make us feel better after this.”

  “I can’t,” I tell him with a laugh. “I’ve already got plans. I’m going line dancing.” I sling my bag over my shoulder, ready to leave after a long day of hard work. “Y’all are more than welcome to come with, though. It’s no Club Onyx, but it’s still fun and will get your mind off everything.”

  He looks like he’s thinking about it. Adam glances around at his teammates, who shrug and leave it up to him. When he turns back to me, he’s wearing his patented mischievous grin. “Are you bringing your friends?”

  “Yeah, they’re going to be there,” I laugh. Adam swears up and down that he loves my friend Allison, who pretty much wants nothing to do with him. I’ve warned all my friends to never date a hockey player—after all, I hear all kinds of things in the locker room—but that doesn’t mean that they don’t enjoy the company of hot, buff men who can afford to keep the liquor flowing.

  “All
right then. Boys, we’re going line dancing.”

  As I head for the door, I see Bryan sitting in his brand new stall. He doesn’t even have a permanent nameplate above him. He looks fucking miserable, and I know what he’s thinking: that he should have had some effect on the team in his first game here. I pause there and ask, “You’ll be coming out, too, right?”

  * * * *

  I don’t know the first thing about line dancing. I get roped into this like a calf in a rodeo. But the team’s going out and I’m a Comet now, so I don’t feel like I should say no. George is some kind of ringleader. After all, I don’t know how this team works yet, but I feel like it would have to take more convincing for Harris to not want to go to a strip club.

  But I decide that I can go and not participate. Just because I’m in Texas, it doesn’t mean I have to wear boots and a hat and drawl my words. I don’t have to line dance. When we get to the place, it’s just like a bar with a huge wooden floor. The place is in full swing with country music blaring, and I immediately start to wish that I hadn’t bothered to tag along. Not only do I feel like I don’t belong here, but I feel like it doesn’t matter if I’m here at all.

  It wasn’t that bad of a game, I guess. I mean, in Carolina, we played games like that against some of the teams in that conference: tight, low scoring games, which are so frustrating because of the way they play the trap. But the Comets can’t afford any more losses if they want to secure a good spot in the play-offs.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, considering I didn’t get to practice with the Comets. On a couple of occasions, I had been caught out of position—which was only because I didn’t know the system to know where I was expected to be. The power play wasn’t as good as it could have been because we had such a hard time gaining entry, but a lot of that was because of how the Monarchs play their game. But I was brought in to be a PP specialist, and I look like a mistake because I failed in that regard tonight.

  Corinne hasn’t called yet, even though she had told me that she was going to watch the game. I text her but never get a response. Not even a stupid little message. I know she’s busy, too, because she’s taking care of all this stuff back in Raleigh for me, but I wish she’d call. I really feel, I don’t know, unwanted?

  The guys all show up at the same time, so we gather around some tables and ask for some pitchers of beer so we can drown our sorrows. I look around and try to take in the ambiance of the place, and I get sucked into watching the synchronized movements of several girls on the floor. Their feet are moving, and they’re laughing and swinging their hips. It’s kind of mesmerizing, and I get caught staring as the girls in the line turn and all face in our direction. My eyes meet George’s, and she smiles at me as she never misses a step.

  She’s dressed similarly to what I first saw at the airport. She’s got on short little jean cut-off shorts and a red tank top, and she’s back in her cowboy boots and hat. Her skin has the sheen of subtle perspiration. This is what they mean when they say girls don’t sweat—they glow. George definitely has a glow to her. In fact, there are quite a few guys who ogle her as she dances, not because she’s the prettiest girl here but because of the way her personality shines through. She’s laughing and moving confidently, obviously having a great time. None of the leering guys approaches her, though, because they see the way she’s interacting with all the big, burly Comets as she waves to greet our arrival. It’s like she’s protected, automatically off-limits unless they want to risk life or limb. I wonder if it bothers her.

  Meanwhile, my teammates treat her pretty asexually. None of them looks at her like the way these other guys do, which I can’t quite figure out. George is beautiful and vibrant. I can’t take my eyes off her whenever she’s in the room. Maybe it’s because they’re like a family, and digging on her would feel incestuous—but as much as we all know that you’re not supposed to dip your pen in company ink, it happens way more often than anyone wants to believe.

  When the song ends, she leads her friends over to us, and the guys all welcome the female presence. George introduces me to five new girls, but I’m having a hard enough time remembering all the new people I’ve met here in Dallas so I instantly forget their names. It’s not like I need to remember them anyway.

  The guys are all laughing and drinking, generally having a great time and forgetting about the game. I’m drinking my beer but sipping it slowly, and I pretty much stare at my phone the whole time. I’m quiet, but I usually am. It’s much worse, though, because I don’t feel comfortable around these guys yet. I start to try to think of a way I can leave early without seeming rude or antisocial when George appears in front of me with a shot in each hand.

  “Do you dance, Bryan?” she asks me, downing one shot and sliding the other across the table at me.

  I accept it and drink it quickly, feeling the burn. “No. Definitely not.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s a good time, I promise. Probably just what you need.”

  Peering out at the floor, I see a bunch of her friends with some of my new teammates, and they’re all laughing as the guys misstep and stomp on some toes. It looks painful. “Uh, no... I don’t think so...”

  “Bartender! We need more shots over here!” Then George turns back to me. “There’s a point when someone’s had just enough alcohol to get out on the dance floor but is just coordinated enough still to learn the moves. I guess we’re going to find out what your number is.”

  “It’s going to be high,” I warn her seriously, but it doesn’t faze her.

  Instead, she quips, “Do you think it will be 22?” George makes a pun off my jersey number and cracks up over her own joke, but true to her word, she keeps the shots coming—and matches me gulp for gulp—until dancing suddenly sounds like a really, really good idea.

  * * * *

  Bryan’s eyes are just a little red and glassy when he finally accepts my hand and I’m able to pull him behind me on the floor. I’m surprised it took as many shots of Jack as it did, but I couldn’t stand to see him look like that anymore. It’s like his eyebrows sag a little too close to his eyes, like a sad puppy. Between that and his perpetual lack of smile, all I want to do is remedy that. Drinking and dancing always work for me, so I bring him out on the floor with me. I just wanna make sure my Comets are happy.

  He moves like he’s never danced before. The guys cheer as Bryan stands beside me, watches my feet, and tries to mimic my movements. The alcohol’s making my vision blurry and my mobility hazy, and Bryan and I end up bumping into each other over and over again like we can’t maintain our balance long enough to stay on one foot when we need to. He’s smiling but not laughing, but it’s an improvement nonetheless, and I think he’s in a good mood—if not at least better—now. He deserves to be, after all. Bryan had a great debut with us even if the team didn’t win.

  I don’t know how long we dance for, but by the time we make it back to our seats, we find that a lot of the team and several of my friends are gone. Adam’s lingering around with Allison, practically hanging on her, and somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder if she does plan on giving in to him.

  When I look away from them and glance back at Bryan, the smile’s gone again. He checks his phone and even frowns. So I stand right next to him and place my elbow on his shoulder so I don’t have to talk too loudly. “Bryan, are you happy that you’re here? I really think you should be happy to be here.”

  “Yeah, I think in the long run it’s a good move for me,” he says, but it’s not in a way that I exactly believe him. “It just takes time to get adjusted.”

  “I’m telling you that this is definitely good for you.” If my speech is slurred, I don’t notice it, because my brain is moving just as slowly. And Bryan seems to be following along just fine, but that also may be what my brain is thinking that that’s what my eyes are seeing. “You shouldn’t need to adjust too much.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll see when I get a practice under my belt.”

  I shake my hea
d. “You were so good tonight, one of our best players. You passed so well, nice breakout plays. Bryan, you’re going to be great here. Just go with it. You belong here.”

  He nods tentatively and chuckles a little bit. “It’s okay, George. Don’t worry, I can handle it.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, I just, I want my Comets to be happy and successful, and you’re my Comet now, too. You played so great with Justin. Just please, Bryan, be happy to be here. You can do so much more here than you ever could in Carolina. See that. Know that.” Without thinking, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hug him as I try to offer comfort and encouragement. This is definitely something I don’t usually do, but I feel like Bryan needs the special treatment. All he does in return is pat me on the back awkwardly.

  Adam comes up behind us and interrupts us with a laugh. He teases, “Jesus Christ, Comstock, what did you put in her drink?”

  Allison giggles and adds, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen G this drunk. Not even on her twenty-first birthday.”

  That makes Bryan smile—a real smile. “That’s because she tried to keep up with me. She’s a lightweight.”

  “Shut up,” I order, pushing against his arm. All the boundary lines are blurring. “You’re drunk, too.”

  He raises one shoulder in a lazy shrug and then slurs out, “Maybe.”

  Adam waves his phone in the air. “Well, don’t worry, kiddos. I got it covered and called us some cabs. They should be here by now.” He was optimistic and ordered three—one for me, one for Bryan, and one for himself and Allison. However, Allison won’t buy into that, and she takes one for herself to head home alone. Adam looks at Bryan and me. “Okay, so who’s gonna split a cab?”

  “Bryan and I will,” I say, figuring in my head that the team townhouse is at least in the direction of my apartment, whereas Adam lives on the opposite side of town. “Go home and cry into your pillow that Ally ditched you. Again.”