“Thanks, that was nice.” I twist off the cap and take a few gulps. It’s a peace offering, and I accept it to show him that we’re okay and we’re going to get past this. Because I can tell he’s feeling remorseful about what happened, I decide to make this as easy on him as possible. “I’m sorry about last night, Bryan. It shouldn’t have happened. That was so unprofessional of me, to think I could let you stay at my apartment. I should have made the cabbie drop you off first, to make sure you got back to your own place all right—”
“No, I’m sorry,” he interrupts me. “I took advantage of you. You were drunk.”
“You were, too.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “But I should have known better.” Lord knows I don’t understand what he means when he says that; we both should have known better than to mix pleasure with business. His eyebrows furrow together and his posture slumps. His voice changes, and I can barely hear him. I know before he speaks that he’s utterly ashamed of himself, but I don’t know why that is until he tells me. “This morning, I had to tell my girlfriend what happened.”
Oh my God. He has a girlfriend. Bryan had an affair, and I was the other woman. My stomach twitches and rolls in my torso. It’s everything I can do to not throw up that yellow Gatorade. My eyes close, and my hands clutch my desk for support. I might as well be on a roller coaster. “Oh no, I’m sorry—”
“Please, don’t apologize. This wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know. And even if you did, it’s not your responsibility, it’s mine.” His tone is more forceful when he says that. He shakes his head instead of rattling off excuses. The fact that he doesn’t try to justify his behavior makes me more sympathetic toward him. He looks down at his feet, and he speaks quietly again. “We’re going to think about things and decide what to do in a few days.”
I nod. I do feel a little sorry for him; he looks so sad and dejected, and my first instinct is to soothe and support him. It’s the “mother hen” instinct in me. But I’m also a southern belle with loads of self-respect, and I don’t think I want to cut him any more slack. I’m finished with our conversation, so I say, “Well, I hope that everything works out for you.”
He shrugs. “Thanks. See ya later.” And then he leaves my office.
* * * *
Thursday’s game against Detroit is a good game for the Comets. We come out strong, and I’m playing well. By the end of the first, we’re up by two goals—both of which I’m on the ice for. The spirits of the team are up, which means a lot considering we thought we played well against the Monarchs and still lost. Even though we’re up, we try not to get ahead of ourselves. It helps to have a lead, but that doesn’t mean that we’re safe. Not against a team like Detroit.
We win. It feels fucking great to win. The Comets collectively snap a five-game losing streak, so I’m doing my job here by helping them win. Individually, I play a fucking great game. I’m a plus-three, the only one on the team to get such a ranking, and I’m also the second-highest one on the team in ice time, only following behind Rockwell. I even get an assist, my first point as a Comet. It’s a step in the right direction. I feel like a part of the team, but most of all I don’t feel quite like a bargaining chip. The Tornadoes’ general manager had told me that on Monday that he had told several inquiring teams that I wasn’t up for sale—and the only reason I got traded was because it was for a guy they had had their eye on, and the Comets had asked for me by name. Back then, I hadn’t believed him. But now, I believe it. I feel it. I feel valuable, like my new GM knew what he was doing and knew that I’d fit in here and make the difference they were hoping for.
I enjoy the trip to Detroit for more than just the W we earn. It also gets me a reprieve from Dallas and all that that implies, as well as time to do all the thinking that Corinne wants me to do. Our schedule on the road is regimented, and I try not to think that that’s all George’s doing. But I think about her when we get on the plane to Michigan, when a bus picks us up from the airport, when we get to the hotel, when I walk into my room, and every other time my life is influenced by a decision that George has made for me. I think it’s crazy when I realize how much she’s involved in my new life now—between the team stuff as well as the way she tried to help me out mentally and emotionally with the trade—and I didn’t even know she existed a week ago.
On Friday, we have practice at the arena. I expect to see George there at some point, but I don’t. And I don’t make a concerted effort to go to her office. I figure that she’s either busy or avoiding me, and in either case I can’t blame her for staying away. But still, I want to thank her, because I feel like I wouldn’t have been a force on this team without her initial help. Even though we’ve done things we weren’t supposed to and it spilled into many facets of my life, she has also been a positive influence on me when I really truly needed it. I can’t forget about that.
While we were on the road, it was easy to not worry about the guys finding out. Even though George and I hadn’t discussed it, we knew that we should keep our little tryst a secret. It would complicate things unnecessarily. And I have no idea how my teammates would react to hearing about it. Would they be mad that the new guy came in out of nowhere and scored with George? Or would they be happy for her that she got some action, regardless of who gave it to her? I still haven’t figured out how she fits into the equation in relation to the team, because they treat her like one of the guys—seen in their interactions with her around the rink and with guys like Harris and Klingensmith—but they also kind of act like protective older brothers—like how they kept other guys at bay at the bar.
I go all day without seeing her on Friday because we don’t go out as a team, since we have an afternoon game on Saturday, and I don’t like the way it makes me feel to not see her. Even though I’ve only been in Dallas for a few days, I’ve associated her with the rink and with the city. I really don’t like not seeing her because I miss out on her calming, light, fun presence. I miss her smile and hair and the way her eyes light up and the way she looks at me and the way she makes me feel.
So I call Corinne on Saturday morning; I don’t need any more time to figure out that our relationship is over. She agrees.
“If you didn’t want to be with me, Bryan, then you just should have said so instead of cheating on me. I still can’t believe you did that. I know that we were having some problems and things weren’t the same as they used to be, but that’s no excuse to cheat on me. How many times has it happened?”
“None! That was the only time, Cory, I swear. How many times do I have to tell you that I’m so sorry about that?” I ask her, feeling exasperated. On Tuesday night, I had not been at my finest. I’ve decided, though, that I feel worse about not entirely regretting my decision. “I didn’t realize that we weren’t...working. I wasn’t looking to be with anyone else, but it happened. Cheating wasn’t the only problem we had though, you know? This just opened the door to let us talk about it all. I feel like you weren’t honest with me by not telling me that you hated Raleigh. What was going to happen when everything was packed up and it was time for you to come down to Dallas? Were you going to come down and just be miserable here and not talk to me about it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what was going to happen.” Corinne sighs. “But I guess we don’t have to wonder about that anymore, because it doesn’t matter.”
“I guess it doesn’t,” I reply, and that is the end of that conversation—and the end of my five-year relationship.
* * * *
It’s tough to not go to the locker room after the practice. I want to go and congratulate the guys on their win in Detroit, and I want to watch the practice on Friday, too. I usually do, and it’s one of the high points of my work days to take a break from the phone and the planning and watch the guys skate around and practice for forty-five minutes to an hour.
I’m avoiding all of them just because I’m trying to avoid Bryan. Some of the guys stop by my office to say “hey” and see what’s up with me
because I didn’t go to practice. I greet them and ask how they are, and they talk to me for a little while. As soon as they press me to find out why I didn’t show up to watch them, I simply tell them I’m very busy and that I have to get back to making calls for the upcoming road trip. I think that they can tell that something’s up, but they don’t push me, seeing as though they don’t know how to handle this kind of situation. As they like to say, I’m one of the boys, meaning I don’t partake in passive-aggressive behaviors or beat around the bush. I’m typically an open book, but right now they can’t read me, so it confuses them.
The truth of the matter is I don’t know how my guys would respond if they ever found out about the one-night stand I had with Bryan. None of them has ever tried anything with me, but I like to think that that’s because I made it very clear from the get-go that I was a professional, and I never planned on engaging in that kind of behavior with them. The day I walked into that locker room and was introduced as the new Director of Team Services, I firmly shook their hands, looked them squarely in the eye, and made myself appear to be dominant. Between that and busting their balls, I think it helped to cement the dynamic of my relationship to that group of hockey players.
And I don’t talk about my romantic relationships around them, but that’s mostly because I don’t have romantic relationships anymore. I’ve been on some dates here and there, but they don’t stick because, so I’ve been told, I’m too dedicated to my job, and also because of my job and my involvement with a group of twenty-some men. It’s totally sexist and I hate it, but I love my job too much to sacrifice it for a relationship with some guy and a chance at romance.
So my Comets have absolutely no way of knowing what’s suddenly wrong with me or why I’m holing up in my office instead of being social with them. Thank goodness that the team has an afternoon game on Saturday so I don’t have to make up an excuse of why I can’t hang out with them that night. Before they head out for warm-ups, I pop my head into the dressing room and give them my usual “Good luck, y’all” before the game against Nashville. Two points would mean a lot to the guys at this point in the season.
And they get those two points in a great game. They battle hard for the victory, coming back from behind and winning the game 3-2. The best part is that Bryan gets an assist on the game-winner as well as his first goal as a Comet. It’s a dirty goal, but it counts, and that’s all that really matters. I know that he has to be proud of himself. Lord knows I’m proud of him, just like I am proud of each of my boys, but I really feel so happy for him because I could see how worried and miserable he was. This has got to make him happy—not only because he’s fitting in so well so soon after the trade, but also because the fans are so evidently appreciating his efforts and glad to have him here. They think that the general manager is a fucking genius and that we got the better end of the deal.
I’m so swept up with emotion that I can’t help myself when I see the guys after the game. I congratulate them all on the win and their tireless effort on the ice, but I give extra attention to Bryan. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until after I touch his arm and squeeze it softly. “Great game. And congrats on the goal. Surely the first of many to come.”
He smiles at me warmly, and I forget that I’m not supposed to stand this close to him. Yesterday, I had purposely tried to keep my distance from him, but it’s like I’m drawn to his side as soon as we’re in the same room, like I’m the iron to his magnet. I had planned on saying that little spiel and then ducking out to head home, but Adam approaches us. I can see that he looks down at my hand, which is still on Bryan’s arm, so I clear my throat and let go of our newest defenseman.
“Great game, Harris. Well, I’ll see you guys on the flight on Monday to Phoenix,” I say, trying to extricate myself from the situation.
“Aren’t you coming out? We’re all going for a big, nice dinner,” Adam explains. He’s looking at me carefully and inquisitively.
I know that if I say no, then he’s really going to think something’s up, and I can tell that he’s already suspicious. I have to relent. “Oh, okay.” But I try to make up for it. “I didn’t realize you guys had plans. I’ll probably have to go change first. Where are we going?”
“Don’t worry, that’s fine,” Adam responds, gesturing to my jeans and Comets shirt. Meanwhile, the guys are all in their suits. I start to shake my head, wanting to insist that I go home before I can join them, but he refuses to accept that answer from me. It’s like he knows that if I leave, I won’t meet them for dinner. “I’m telling you, it’s fine. Come on, you’re riding with me.”
I sigh, not at all pleased with this new change of events, but I don’t feel like I have a choice, so I follow Adam out to his car.
* * * *
I try to concentrate on all the endorphins and feel-good chemicals coursing through my veins after that game against the Predators. In order to do that, I try to focus on the great game that I played. That goal probably shouldn’t have been a goal, but what the hell—a goal counts, so I’ll take it. I’ve got ten on the season now, which ties the high that I had set a few years back at UND. Who knows, maybe I’ll even surpass that total and set a new personal best. Maybe I’ll even hit the forty-point mark and have the best season ever.
I’ve gotta focus on that because hockey’s the only thing I’ve got going for me now. I should focus all my energy on the team and how I could help them make the play-offs. At the rate we’re going, we should be able to clinch a spot before the end of the season. That’s a lot of work to look forward to. I think about all that as I drive to the steakhouse where we’re all supposed to meet for dinner and some team bonding, I guess.
In the lobby of the restaurant, I watch as Harris slides out of his suit jacket and holds it out for George. Harris laughs and says, “Here. You know, if you wanna be dressed up. If you’re worried that they won’t let you in.”
“Uh,” she says skeptically, hesitating enough that Harris puts it on her. She looks kind of like a wire hanger with hair because the jacket hangs off her. Except she’s much, much prettier than a wire hanger.
Harris laughs as he rolls up his shirtsleeves. “See? Makes a world of difference.”
Klingensmith chirps, “Almost. Here, you need this, too.” He loosens his tie, pulls it over his head and then tosses it around her neck. We all chuckle as she looks down at herself, dressed in mismatched, oversized men’s clothing over her jeans and Comets shirt after the game.
Harris laughs at George in her new outfit. “You need at least fifty more pounds and six inches before you’ll look like a real hockey player. Then maybe you’d be the same size as Comstock here.”
George looks up at me sheepishly, and I can just tell, somehow, that she’s thinking about my body. She purses her lips together and looks away from me, and the guys notice her facial expression. “Thanks a lot, guys. I look totally presentable now.” She sighs as she holds up her hands, which are completely covered by the length of the sleeves. The hostess gives George a strange look as she waves us back to the banquet room—the only place in the restaurant big enough to accommodate our large group of people—but she doesn’t say anything about the dress code to George, not while she’s surrounded by so many well-dressed, obviously important guys.
“See? Not a problem,” Harris laughs again as we all gather around the table. It’s a game of musical chairs as we figure out who sits where and next to whom.
I’m looking out of the corner of my eye because I don’t want anyone to see that I’m really trying to figure out where George is sitting and where I should sit in relation to her. I want to sit nearby but not too close to her. Even though she was merely being nice by congratulating me after the game, I can tell she’s still trying to keep some distance from me. Not that I blame her for that, and I certainly want to respect that. Not only were we unprofessional by sleeping together the very same day we met, but then I had to tell her that when we had sex, I was part of a couple. I can’t imagine
that that’s news anyone ever wants to hear, so I can’t blame her for not wanting to be around me. I wish that it didn’t have to be this way though, because I really like being around her.
* * * *
A lot of the time, I liked sitting in the middle of the table, completely surrounded by my loud, boisterous men. I can get just as rowdy as them. Usually I like the way everyone talks over each other in order to be heard and the way that, after a few beers each, the ties and suit coats come off, the top buttons of their shirts come undone, and they relax and let loose after a game. It’s a fun atmosphere to be a part of, and it’s even more fun to be right smack dab in the middle of it all—the one who gets reached across for the pepper or the one over top a high five gets slapped.
But I really don’t think I can be amidst that tonight at this table with all these guys. Sure, I had a blast at the game, but it’s easy to get into the games—especially when it’s a close game and a big one on top of that. Hockey’s such a fast-paced, emotional game, and I don’t think it’s possible to not get swept up in it. I’ve since come down from that high, and now I’m back in the funk that I’ve been in since I woke up on Wednesday morning.
I strategically pick a chair at one of the corners of the table because that will minimize the amount of people who can sit around me, and I’ll only be forced to interact with whoever sits next to me and across the table from me. The guys argue—like usual—over where they want to sit, who they want to sit by, and which seat will give them the best vantage point to check out the hot bartender or the television, whichever their preference is. Mark takes the seat next to me and asks, “How did you get relegated out here at the end?”
Seduced by the Game Page 29