Brooklynaire Read online

  “You have to let me win.”

  “Pffft!” the trainer says, while the doctor grins. “That’s not included in the price. Come on now. Let’s get it over with in the chair.”

  “Stop by my office when you’re done,” Dr. Armitage says.

  “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later I take a seat in front of the doctor. I’m still sweaty from my workout, including another Ping-Pong loss to Ramón.

  Dr. Armitage puts on his reading glasses and scan’s Ramón’s notes. “You’re making great progress. This is terrific.”

  “It’s really encouraging,” I agree. “I feel better. I think I could go back to work, don’t you?” Please, please say yes.

  He frowns. “Soon. This early progress is terrific, but vestibular therapy never goes in a straight line. Most patients experience plateaus before they can make further progress. And we’re asking a lot of your body right now. You need to give the physical work a little more time before you’re ready to tax your eyesight in an office environment.”

  Shit.

  “Okay…” I clear my throat. “How much time, though? I need to work. I’ve used up every sick day I ever had, and then some. It would be great if I could tell my boss when to expect me.”

  The doctor frowns. Apparently he isn’t expecting me to worry about this. After all, Nate casually dropped fifty grand to get my first appointment.

  And just like that my face heats. Just the thought of Nate does that to me now. I also recall that first morning when the doctor assumed I was Nate’s significant other.

  How trippy that Nate and I went and did exactly what he assumed we’d been doing.

  Gah. My face is on fire now. But I can always blame the workout.

  “Let’s talk again in a week,” the doctor says gently. “Get a lot of sleep, and stay active. Then maybe we can discuss a part-time return to work. Would your employer consider an arrangement like that?”

  “Sure.” It’s better than nothing, and I’ll feel less like I’ve been exiled and forgotten. “Honestly, it would be good for me to go back part-time. It’s really stressful not to show my face in the office.”

  His expression softens. “I’m sure I’d feel the same way. Give it at least one more week at home, okay? I’m happy to write a letter to whomever you need, if your continued absence requires a letter in your file.”

  Hugh Major doesn’t care about the letter. I know this in my heart. But it doesn’t make me any less eager to get back there. “Thanks, I’ll let you know if that’s necessary.”

  When I leave the building, I find a misty spring day waiting for me. It smells like rain, and I don’t want to go down in the subway tunnel right now. So I walk uptown. It’s not a particularly interesting stretch of lower Manhattan, but I dawdle up Broadway, peering into shop windows. I stop to admire all the Chinese imports at Pearl River. There is a set of green chopsticks with pandas on them, and I remember the pair of nice chopsticks Nate used to keep in his desk drawer, because he didn’t like the disposable wooden ones that always arrived with our take-out food.

  Hello, subconscious. I think of Nate often, and every time it gives me a pang. Since our awkward talk in his office, he’s always there, blowing up my subconscious in a way he never did before. I can hear his laugh inside my head and picture his knowing smirk.

  I stood there and told him I wanted to forget that night. And I suppose I do. It’s just that forgetting is a lost cause. When I get into bed at night I can practically feel his hands on my thighs, nudging them apart. When I close my eyes, my imagination is shameless.

  My latest fantasy is so potent, and absolutely out of character for me: I’m lying on my stomach in bed. Nate comes into the room uninvited. He lifts the covers and gets into bed with me. You shouldn’t be here, I say. He doesn’t answer me. Instead he removes my panties. This is a bad idea, I say. In answer, he takes my legs in hand and spreads them. I lift my hips off the bed, because I can’t help myself. And I’m rewarded as he pushes inside me, then fucks me without a word.

  My inner feminist is absolutely appalled.

  And, wowzers. The spring weather is really warm all of a sudden.

  I can’t shut off my brain. And yet I shut Nate right down during our awkward little chat in his office. I realize now that I never got a chance to hear what Nate thought of our Florida encounter. I didn’t let him tell me. And now I’m practically eaten up with curiosity.

  There’s a part of me that wonders what would have happened if I didn’t play the fear card. If I’d confessed to being staggered by our chemistry together, what exactly would have happened? The most likely outcome would have been another hot night together. Maybe two.

  But that’s it, right? Nate and I couldn’t ever be a serious couple. When Nate thinks about his future, I know it’s not me he sees. I’m nothing like his ex Juliet, who was one of the super-accomplished graduates of his Ivy League school. I’m not a captain of industry like his friend Alex. I’m not even much like Lauren, who’s on the brink of earning a degree in business so she can climb the ladder at KTech.

  I’m the office manager—great at my job, but not trophy wife material. I’m the quirky fun girl at the office who knows what time the cars are coming and can always find you a dinner reservation.

  I’m never the one the reservation is for.

  When my little squirrel brain isn’t busy imagining weirdly submissive sex with Nate, it’s making this very circuit: What might have happened between us? Oh, right. Not much.

  Rinse and repeat.

  Even if I’m making myself feel crazy, I still know that shutting things down was the right move. Any dalliance with Nate is just playing with fire. It would be way too easy to fall for him. Not only is he the smartest man I will ever meet, but he has a great smile, a fun sense of humor, and—I happened to notice—a great body. The whole package.

  I feel a little quivery just thinking about an alternate universe where I’m allowed to kiss him whenever the urge strikes.

  But here in this reality, I have a job to hold onto. Getting involved with Nate means jeopardizing the esteem of everyone in the Bruisers organization. It’s not an exaggeration to say that the team is my second home.

  I head for the F train to Brooklyn. My boys are playing tonight. Game three. I haven’t seen a game in weeks, since right after my accident. I wish I could go to the rink tonight. But I can’t exactly tell Nate I need space and then show up in his private box at the arena. And it’s not like I’ve got a spare $400 sitting around for a ticket.

  Maybe I should have thought of this before I unbuttoned his shirt and stripped him naked.

  Live and learn.

  * * *

  A few hours later I’m lying on The Beast—our hideous sofa—while Missy paces the floor with a cranky Matthew. He’s teething.

  We don’t have TV, and our internet connection is spotty tonight, so the live stream keeps glitching out. Of course it does. So Missy is monitoring a Twitter feed on my phone for scoring updates, because I’ve demanded it. The stadium is two miles from my apartment. And tonight those two miles feel long.

  “What are people saying now?” I ask for the tenth time.

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s Twitter. There must be something.”

  “Someone tweeted that the line for the women’s bathroom is too long.”

  “Waaaaaaah!” Matthew wails on her shoulder, and my head gives a sympathetic throb.

  “Give me the phone,” I say. Then I get up and snatch it from her. I run into my room and shut the door. I tap Georgia’s name off my contacts list and wait while it rings in my ear.

  “Hello!” she yells. “Becca?”

  “What’s the score?” I demand.

  “I’m so tense!” she yells over the background noise. I don’t know if she even heard the question.

  “Gigi—which radio station is covering the game? I need to hear the play-by-play.”

  “Hockey on the radio? Is
that a thing?”

  “Isn’t it? Old men listen to baseball. You’re the publicist! Don’t you know?”

  “Rebecca, are you okay? Why aren’t you here watching, anyway?”

  Hmm. Keeping a secret from my best friend hasn’t been fun. But this isn’t a great time to get into it. She might be standing beside Nate right now. “I’m all right. It’s complicated. Just tell me what’s happening on the ice.”

  “The first line is on shift. Leo, Bayer, Castro.”

  “Wow! Young lineup tonight. Who’s on D?”

  “Douley and… O’Doul passes to Leo! And it’s…OMIGOD. OH! COME ON! Yes! Not quite. Fuck! Arrrgh!”

  “What happened? We didn’t score? Please tell me the other guy didn’t score.”

  I hear clunk, and then the call is cut off.

  “Georgia?” I say into the silence.

  Nothing.

  This is torture. I need answers.

  I tap on the Bingley app. It opens, and a familiar voice says, “Hello, my dear Rebecca. How may I be of assistance?”

  “Hi!” I feel like I’m reconnecting with a long-lost friend, although that’s patently ridiculous. “I need to know what’s happening with the hockey game.”

  “The hockey game is currently in session.”

  “The score, Bingley. What’s the score?”

  “Tie game at 0-0.”

  “Okay. What else? Who has the puck?”

  “The puck is a six ounce black rubber disc.”

  “I know that, Bingley. But which player is controlling the puck right now?”

  “One moment, miss,” Bingley says primly. “I’m seeking assistance.”

  Well, crap. I’ve obviously overestimated Bingley’s ability to process the hockey game. Some poor programmer at KTech’s phone is probably ringing right now with this programming bug.

  But Bingley comes back about ninety seconds later. “Nate reminds you that you need your rest to heal. But he adds that you should come to the stadium if you want to see who’s playing.”

  “Wait, what? You asked Nate?”

  “Naturally. He’s my admin. Standby for another communication. Ah. Nate has asked me to send you a car. ETA three minutes. Black Mercedes C class. The driver’s name is Parker.”

  I let out a little groan of discomfort.

  “Dear Rebecca, are you quite all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I snap. But I’m annoyed. I hadn’t planned to ask Nate for anything. Ever. And I don’t know if I should go to the stadium when I’m so freaking confused.

  “Oh dear,” Bingley says. “The score is now 1-0 in favor of Tampa.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Oh yes. Also, your car is two minutes away.”

  That’s it. I can’t sit here any longer while my team battles Tampa. I get up off the bed, throw the phone down, and start changing my clothes. Even a confused, mortified girl needs to look her best. I grab my coat and bag, wave to poor Missy, and then run down my stairs. The car is already waiting. So I slide inside and close the door.

  Six minutes later we’re inching along in traffic toward the brightly lit stadium two blocks away. So close, yet so far.

  “I’ll jump out here!” I tell the startled driver.

  “It’s just ahead, miss.”

  “I know! Gotta run,” I say as our progress halts again. “Toodles!” I jump out of the car and set off down the sidewalk at a fast pace.

  I’m wearing Chuck Ts, which are better for my balance issues than girly shoes. This is the first time in my life I have ever had to think about practical footwear, and it’s sort of a drag. On the other hand, once I reach the stadium, my jog isn’t finished. I flash my corporate ID at checkpoint after checkpoint and then trot along the final corridor toward Nate’s box, where Nate and whichever top brass at KTech he’s invited tonight are watching. It’s where I watch, too, when I’m on duty in an official capacity.

  I can hear the crowd and the suspense is killing me.

  Panting, I smack my ID against the scanner, which opens the door to the box. As the little light turns green, the crowd makes a noise of joy. I yank the door open. “What’s the score?” I demand of Georgia, the first person I see.

  “One-one. We scored to tie it up. End of the second period now. Tampa just rushed the net, but Beacon made a glove save.”

  I exhale. We can still do this. Twenty more minutes to put one or two more in the net.

  At the sound of my voice, Nate turns slowly in his seat. I feel a jolt when our eyes meet, and I’m probably not very good at hiding it. But Nate only gives me a curious eyebrow lift.

  My belly tightens in a way that is absolutely not from desire. Nope. Not going there.

  “Don’t you start,” I say to Nate and to myself, too. “It’s not that late and I can’t sleep if the game’s on.” I’m babbling, and it’s hard to stop, because I’m completely unprepared for my own reaction to Nate. I have the weirdest urge to vault over the half dozen people between us and kiss that little frown off his face.

  What’s happened to me?

  Nate isn’t struggling, though. His face impassive, he turns around again, his focus back on the ice.

  Okay, ouch.

  I swivel to find my best friend staring at me, an appraising look on her sweet face. So naturally I grab the wine glass out of her hand and sip from it.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to…”

  “Shh!” I silence her. “It’s one sip. Don’t alert my jailer.” Boss. Lover. Whatever. I am the most confused person in Brooklyn.

  And now the most sexually frustrated.

  Georgia fetches me a soda and then fixes me with another stare. “How’s it going, anyway? I haven’t heard much from you since the party in Bal Harbour. Are you still staying at Nate’s?”

  “Nope.” I take a deep drink of the soda, avoiding her eyes. “Back in my own apartment.”

  “Okay…” Georgia waits for more information, but good luck with that. We cannot discuss my twisted sex life in this of all rooms, with Nate’s parents sitting a dozen feet away.

  Not to mention Nate.

  I am spared further grilling because Tampa chooses that moment to strip the puck away from Trevi and turn it toward Brooklyn’s defensive zone.

  “Baby, no!” Georgia yells.

  Everyone in the box leans forward as Tampa rushes the net.

  They fire on Beacon, who deflects the shot off his stick. But the rebound is tight, and he has to dive for a second one.

  We all hold our collective breath while Brooklyn tries to clear it. Tampa takes aim again and two players charge the net. When the winger shoots, Beacon slaps another puck away.

  But then the other opponent plows right into our goalie.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Nate says, in a show of emotion that’s rare for him. “Don’t you dare start a…”

  He doesn’t even get the words out before Beacon throws off his gloves and lunges for the other dude. Lauren yelps and everyone in the box stands up, anxious about the outcome.

  If our goalie got injured in a fight, that would be a disaster.

  It’s a scrum down there. Their guy has Beacon’s jersey in one hand and is punching him with the other. Beacon retaliates, and one punch launches his opponent’s face mask across the ice. They are a blur of flying fists, until the other guy goes down, pulling Beacon down, too.

  I feel a sick little twinge, because it’s all too easy to picture Beacon’s head hitting the ice, and the months of recovery time that will ensue. From now on I won’t be able to see a player go down without anticipating disaster.

  The ref and the linesman rush in to separate them. But Beacon is okay. He gets up quickly. There’s blood on his face, but fire in his eyes. And when the trainer runs out on the ice to evaluate him, Beacon waves him off.

  We all heave a collective sigh of relief. There are less than four minutes left in the period, and play resumes a moment later. The next three minutes feel very long, while we all watch Beacon for signs of trouble.r />
  There aren’t any, though. Instead, play moves to the other side of the rink and with only thirty seconds on the clock, Leo Trevi gets his stick on the loose puck and somehow slips it behind the goalie.

  Georgia lets out a shriek of joy as the lamp lights up behind Tampa’s keeper.

  The score is 2-1 in our favor, and a wave of optimism rolls through the box as the period comes to its end.

  “Whew,” I say, sipping my soda. I turn my back on Nate and his parents so I won’t be tempted to stare at him.

  “So what’s your deal?” Georgia asks me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why were you late to the game?” Georgia grabs my wrist. “Come with me to the ladies’ room. I have a few questions for you.”

  That sounds ominous. And then it gets worse. While Georgia fetches her handbag, Mrs. Kattenberger runs over to give me a hug. “Rebecca! It’s good to see you on your feet!”

  Nate’s mom is so nice, and I feel an immediate flare of Catholic schoolgirl guilt just standing in front of her. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  It shouldn’t surprise me that Nate told his mother about my head injury. Nate and his mom are close. But still, I’m fascinated. He probably doesn’t tell his mom every detail of his two thousand employees’ lives.

  It’s something to think about later.

  “I’ve had better months,” I add with a nervous smile. “But I’m doing better every day.”

  “You poor thing! What have you been doing to keep yourself busy?”

  Your son. The words just pop right into my head. And I can’t help wondering what she’d say if she knew. “This and that,” I say carefully. And then I look up to see that Nate has appeared over his mother’s shoulder.

  But his eyes reveal nothing. If he heard my comment, or saw my face flush, there’s no sign of it. And that’s good, right? I asked Nate to tamp it down. And he has.

  All the way down.

  “This game is so stressful!” I say, and my voice is shrill.

  Mrs. Kattenberger reaches out and squeezes my hand. “It is!” she agrees.

  Nate ducks his chin and turns away, greeting a young woman I’ve never seen before. There is a constant stream of business people in Nate’s box during games. An invitation to the owner’s box is a coveted thing, and I’m sure they’re doled out to whomever KTech most needs to impress at the time.