Smiling, I come up with my best white lie. “I just didn’t wanna get elbowed on both sides tonight. You guys eat like pigs.”
“But pigs with table manners,” he laughs, tucking the cloth napkin into the collar of his shirt. “Does it make me a cannibal if I order the ribs?”
I look at him with a cocked eyebrow and open my mouth to offer the first snappy retort I can think of, but Mark interrupts me and exclaims, “Stock! Come sit down here, with us!” When I turn my head to see Bryan, my mouth is still wide open and I’m sure my eyes are, too, looking stunned and unsure. The tips of his ears are red as he ducks his head and takes the seat across from me without a word. There aren’t many other available seats at this point, and chances are he would have been forced to sit here in the corner anyway. Just my luck. This man is unavoidable.
Mark, who invited Bryan to sit down here with us, ignores him and talks to me again. “So George, what have you been up to all week? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“I’ve been busy,” I mutter, grabbing my napkin and spreading it out across my lap. I’m looking down at my hands as I smooth out the white linen. “Long road trip coming up in a few days, so there’s lots to do. And plus you guys were in Detroit for a couple days there.”
“But still, it seems like normally I still see you in the hallways or something. It feels like I haven’t seen you at all. Are you coming on the road trip?”
“Yeah,” I sigh, but then I force myself to smile at him. I don’t want to sound like I’m upset or nervous about having to be with these guys nonstop for a four-game, eight-day road trip or even give them that impression. I’m trying not to disturb the equilibrium of the team, especially since they’ve been playing well and have won the past two games—two out of three since Bryan has joined the Comets. I don’t think anyone can deny that he’s made a positive impact on our team, but he’s wreaking havoc on my personal life and possibly my professional life, too. I guess only time will tell how this will affect my ability to do my job. “Of course I will be.”
“Just checking.”
The conversation lulls, and I think about trying to find something to talk about, but then I realize that I’ll probably just say something stupid. So whenever I’m tempted to make an ass out of myself, I take a sip of my beer. I’m uneasy and I keep trying to avoid looking up because every time I do, I somehow manage to catch Bryan’s gaze. That makes both of us blush a little and then quickly look away. I’m surprised Mark hasn’t noticed yet. I keep fidgeting and accidentally kicking Bryan under the table, which makes it worse. I mumble an apology every time, but I’m sure he’s getting just as annoyed as I am.
Before I know it, my glass is empty. The waitress notices and brings me a new one without even bothering to ask. The guys have commandeered the bread basket, so I’m drinking my second beer on an empty stomach. I think about Tuesday and put my glass down, refusing to drink any more until I get my food.
The alcohol is making me warm, especially since I’m sitting next to Mark who’s practically a heat factory, so just like how some of the guys are doing, I take off the jacket and tie I’m wearing. I pull my hair off my neck, twisting it and then sweeping it over my shoulder to my front to try to get some cool air against my skin. I lean away from Mark to try to get away from his heat output and, in the process, move my foot somewhere to get better leverage. It hits something, and I simultaneously see Bryan twitch.
* * * *
“I’m sorry,” George mumbles, flicking her eyes down to the tabletop as color sweeps across her cheeks.
“It’s okay,” I assure her, again, because it’s okay. I wish she didn’t feel so bad about it, like she’s mortified that I may be construing this as her trying to play footsie or something like that under the table. Also, I wish she’d just look at me so I could smile at her or something to let her know that this is all okay—not just the accidental kicks, but being around me. I can understand why she thinks I’m a horrible person. After all, I used her to cheat on my girlfriend, and what kind of person does something like that? But I didn’t purposely use her, and I certainly didn’t mean to hurt her in the process. Things have just been messed up for the past couple of days in so many ways. After everything she’s done for me since I got here, I don’t want to repay her by making her miserable. On the contrary.
She’s acting quite different from the girl I first met, the one who manhandled my bags and smiled at me from ear-to-ear. Now she’s not smiling at all and is lacking that fun presence she exuded when I first saw her at the airport. I can tell it’s my fault, and I’m sorry for that because I miss that girl, the one who made me feel so welcome and at home in strange new place, even if I didn’t appreciate it at first. I appreciate it now.
But I don’t know what to do reassure her or get her back to her old self. Maybe she thinks I’m mad at her for what happened, that she wrecked my relationship with Corinne, but I’m not mad. And it certainly wasn’t her fault. Maybe she’s embarrassed that she got drunk and slept with someone she works with, but I’m not embarrassed and I don’t think she should be either. It may not have been the smartest move or the most professional, but it’s not like I regret it.
It’s almost kinda funny and definitely a little ironic, I think, that when I start to feel comfortable as a Comet, surrounded by my new teammates here in Dallas, she’s the one who’s starting to look uncomfortable. I wouldn’t be feeling so good without her help, and now she’s the one who looks miserable. George looks absolutely relieved when our dinners start arriving so she can eat and keep herself distracted by that task.
When we’re all finished eating, the guys begin planning their evening. I can tell that George wants no part of this but feels like she doesn’t have a choice since, because Harris practically dragged her here, her car’s left at the arena. I figure I can help, so I nudge her foot under the table to get her attention and then quietly say, “I’ll take you back to the rink, if you want.”
She hesitates but looks like she’s going to accept my offer, but we get interrupted. “Yo, George. Club Onyx? This time, we’re celebrating!” Harris bellows.
George winces. “No Club Onyx, please. Seriously.”
“Aw, come on! I’ll buy you a lap dance!” That’s something I’ve heard from him before, when he tried to coax her to go there on Tuesday after our loss against the Monarchs. He laughs as he claps me on the back. “I oughtta buy one for Stock here, too, to celebrate his first goal.”
I can feel my face get hot but don’t say anything to Harris, even though I’d prefer no lap dance. George looks at me with her brown eyes and sees right through me, picking up on the fact that I’m a little uncomfortable with that situation. I never did like strip clubs and always try to avoid them. I think she even tries to cover for me, “I told you once, Adam, and I’ll tell y’all again. No. Don’t you remember what happened last time?”
“So what? Candy had a crush on you. I’d be flattered if a girl offered me a free dance in one of the back rooms.”
“I could see her herpes through her see-through G-string!” She gagged, shaking her head like an Etch A Sketch to get that memory out of her mind’s eye. While I wasn’t there to witness that, just the idea of it makes me laugh. “Don’t you get how gross that is? I did not want that anywhere near me. I do not want to see Candy again.”
“Whatever,” Harris mumbles, obviously wanting to go to Club Onyx but coming to grips with the idea that it wasn’t going to happen if he couldn’t convince George to go.
So I decide to offer a suggestion of my own. “Why don’t we go back to that one bar we were at? You know, that one on Tuesday?”
I watched as the guys look around at each other and debate that option, and they seem to be okay with it—at least enough that they agree to head there after dinner. We all just throw handfuls of cash on the table, enough from each of us to cover our individual bills and then some to tip the wait staff. Then we all make our way to the bar, which is more packed than
it was on Tuesday. But we find a couple of tables to crowd around. People are line dancing, which is what I was hoping to see. George likes dancing—it was so evident when I saw her move on the floor on Tuesday—so I hope that dancing now will make her happy.
George sits on a high stool around one of the tables, rolling the sleeves of her t-shirt up to her shoulders to combat the heat. We all get beers, no fancy drinks, and hang around. We can’t really talk much over the music, which is probably a good thing. After a little while, some of the guys branch out to talk to some girls, and some guys leave to head home to their families, wives, and girlfriends.
George’s been mostly quiet, so I decide to do something more. I first head to the bar before I approach her, the first time I really try to talk to her on a personal level all day. I set a shot glass on the table in front of her and nod at her to take it, and then I knock back my own. I choose my words very carefully. “Do you dance?”
George smiles, like she knows exactly what I’m doing. She smiles like she did the moment I saw her at the airport: wide and genuine. Then she copies exactly what I did and said when I replied to that question when she first proposed it a few days ago. She downs the shot of whiskey, grimaces from the burn, and says, “No. Definitely not.”
“It’s a good time. I promise.” I hold out my hand, and she breaks the replay and accepts my offer. Pulling her up off the stool, I lead her out onto the crowded floor, and we take a stance beside each other. George jumps right into the line dance, knowing all the steps, and I do my best to follow along and join in. I’m definitely not drunk enough for this, but at least since I’m sober this time, I really take in the way she laughs at my incompetence.
* * * *
Bryan can’t dance, but his effort more than makes up for his lack of ability. His eyes are so intense as he watches me and tries to pick up the simple, repetitive moves. It makes me laugh, and I feel grateful to him for doing this for me, making a fool out of himself just so my mood would lighten.
I make him suffer through three dances before I nod in the direction of the table and put him out of his misery by letting him off the hook. We get the attention of the waitress, and she quickly gets us two cold bottles to quench our thirst.
Taking a long swig, I relish the feeling of the cool liquid as it flows down my throat, and I can feel it hit my stomach. Then I look at Bryan, who’s playing with the label of his beer. “Thanks.”
“Hmm?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at me.
“Thanks. For dancing with me.” I wonder if he knows that dancing is one of my go-to coping mechanisms to de-stress. “It was fun.”
“I hoped you’d think so.” He scooches his stool a little closer to mine. “Thank you. For helping me after my trade. This wouldn’t have been possible if it weren’t for you.”
My stomach clenches, appreciating his kind words. I had wanted to make his transition smooth, to help him adjust to Dallas and the Comets and see his potential here, instead of being as sad about it as he had looked that day. It’s instinctual and natural to reach out for him and place my hand on his. “No, you had the potential, the skill, the talent to fit in here and contribute to the team. I didn’t do that.” But I do think about all the things I did do, none of which was any good for him, and that makes me sad. I look down and remove my hand from his.
But he grabs my hand so I can’t pull it away, which makes me look up at him. His smile is shy but sincere. “Georgiana.” The way he says my name sends shivers up and down my spine; I remember the way the way he said it in my bed, when he was inside me, and that hazy but strong memory is instantly conjured in my brain with that one word. It’s funny how he can say so much when actually saying so little.
I just look into his dark eyes for a while. His thumb rubs back and forth over my knuckles, and I wonder briefly if he knows he’s doing it. I’m getting lost, getting caught up in something I know I shouldn’t get caught up in—which is why I was trying to avoid him in the first place. I don’t want to do it, but I know I have to break this spell. “So, what happened with your girlfriend?”
Like I did with this spell, Bryan breaks my gaze, glancing to the side and his eyebrows do this crazy fast lift thing before they fall back into place low over his eyes. “Corinne and I are no longer together.”
Corinne. So that’s her name. It makes me feel worse now that I know it, because it makes her more...real or something. I want to tell him again that I’m so sorry, because even if he tries to pardon me, I had a hand in breaking up his relationship. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been dumb enough to bring him into my apartment instead of seeing him off like I should have if I were being a true professional. I don’t know why I thought I could do that, or how I thought it was possible.
Before I can say the words, though, he continues, “But it was over a long time ago, way before my trade even. We just didn’t know it yet until we had a reason to reevaluate things. We needed a reason to call to it quits.”
I roll my eyes. “So I was just the catalyst, hmm?” It sounds clichéd and stupid. I don’t buy in to it.
“A little bit, yeah. But it was everything. The whole deal with the trade. She didn’t love me enough to want to follow me here. Turns out that she hated living in Raleigh, but she just sucked it up and never told me. And I didn’t love her enough to rely on her for comfort during this hard time. I needed you for that.”
I don’t have anything to say to that. How much of this am I supposed to believe? I want to tell him that I think he’s full of shit, but I can’t find a nice way to say it so I just say his name and let my voice fade away into silence. “Bryan...”
“Georgiana.” Again, all it takes is him saying my name like that, in his deep voice, letting all four syllables roll off his tongue like a melody. He leans in close, closing the distance between us slowly yet surely. Bryan tilts his head and closes his eyes once he’s close enough to know that he’ll hit his mark, and he most certainly does. His lips are slightly chapped but still soft, too. He doesn’t move; he just keeps our mouths connected for a few seconds.
Then he backs up, in turn breaking our mouths apart, and opens his eyes to look at me. Meanwhile, my eyes have been open the entire time, nothing less than shocked by Bryan’s sudden yet confident move. He must be feeling good now, because the guy I met earlier in the week would never have done something like this; he never would have had it in him.
Bryan smiles at me encouragingly and imploringly, waiting for me to react or do something to indicate how I feel. I can tell that he hopes I’ll reciprocate, and I want to—I do—but I’ve got some trepidation about it. He just got out of a relationship with someone else. Did he have sex with her on Monday, the day he was traded, and the day before he and I had our drunken tryst? The idea of it makes me feel kind of sleazy, and I’m not sure that he’s ready to jump into something new with me, even if he’s acting like it. Did he make her feel the same way I felt when I was with him?
That last question is what launches me forward in his direction. I want to recapture that feeling, the way I felt with him, the way he made me feel. At first, I plant my hands on his cheeks, but that quickly evolves into me holding on to his big ears as my lips crash against his, our teeth clacking together as my mouth mauls his. I can feel by the way his face moves that he’s smiling. Bryan puts his warm hands on my forearms, holding me there in position so we won’t stop kissing, and I lose track of time as we make out in a public place, like horny teenagers.
The music’s loud, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t hear the eruption of noise behind us. There are only a handful of my Comets still hanging around, but I’ll be damned if they don’t all see Bryan and me going at it at the table in the corner.
* * * *
“Oooooooh!” The sound of the guys calling out behind their hands is utterly distracting, but I guess it saves us the trouble of figuring out how to let them all know that there’s something between us or something starting. But until one of them says actu
al words, there’s no way of telling what they think about the two of us kissing each other.
George’s body freezes; I can feel as her muscles tense. She’s embarrassed, leaning back and putting a few inches of space between us again. Her hands fall from my head, down onto my shoulders, and then all the way down to my knees. I’m worried that she’ll let them fall away from me completely, so I grab them in mine and give them a reassuring squeeze.
She smiles at me nervously as her face turns a pretty shade of pink, obviously grateful that I have her back. I know that she could just as easily brush this off as another alcohol-fueled mistake in order to avoid this confrontation as she could accept responsibility and own this, so I wait for her to take the lead. George licks her lips as she prepares herself for what is likely to be a verbal assault, or at least a few little jabs. I’m hoping, anyway.
They look at George then look at me before looking back at her. I think I can read their minds, and they’re all wondering if she’s going to slap me for invading her personal space or trespassing on her lips. They looked shocked that she’s letting me touch her. I watch as she pulls herself together and puts on a stern expression as she turns to Harris, Rockwell, and Klingensmith. She barks out, “What?”
Instead of looking at us, they all start to look at each other, trying to figure out what’s going on because they don’t know what they’re seeing. Rocky speaks up first. “Um, you were...uh, kissing...him?”
“Yes, that is what that’s called. Does that surprise y’all?”
Rockwell looks like he’s under a spotlight or—probably more appropriately—a police interrogator’s lamp. “Well, kind of...”
Seduced by the Game Page 30