Pipe Dreams Page 3

  Hell. What did a wise father say in this situation? He went with: “I’m sure sorry that Hans has to put up with that shit.”

  “Me, too. He was embarrassed.”

  “It’s more embarrassing to be those jerks who said it though, right?”

  “Ignorant assholes,” Elsa agreed.

  “Yeah.” He let the cursing go. Again. “Do you want me to mention it to Hans?”

  “No! It’s not a big deal. I told you because I feel bad for him, that’s all. There will always be somebody who picks on him. It’s like being the new kid forever.”

  “Are you getting picked on for being the new kid?”

  “Not really. It’s just . . .” She trailed off. “I don’t know all the jokes, you know?”

  “Sure,” he said, although he didn’t really.

  “Can we get pizza for dinner?”

  “Okay.”

  They drove in silence for a moment, and Elsa went back to poking at her phone. “Are you going to win tomorrow night?” she asked suddenly.

  “Maybe,” he hedged. “Does Snapchat need to know?” The phone was her means of communication with all the friends she’d left behind on the island.

  “Yup,” she chirped. “Also, I need to call my bookie.”

  “Elsa!”

  She laughed, and it sounded like music.

  • • •

  As it happened, they did win that first game in D.C.

  He hoped Elsa’s Snapchat pals appreciated it, because the game was brutal. He was practically standing on his head to block shots after his team drew back-to-back penalties. Forty-eight hours after that, the second game ended in a disappointing loss. Beacon had held the other team to a single goal all night long, but then they snuck one past his shoulder ten minutes into the second overtime period.

  “You tried, Daddy,” Elsa said comfortingly into his ear.

  “Indeed.” He was sitting in the locker room, still sweat-covered. But it was late and he needed to talk to Elsa or she wouldn’t go to sleep.

  “And it’s not over yet. Friday you’ll have home ice advantage.”

  He sighed into his phone. “True. But right now I’m so tired I can’t even feel my face. Hit the hay, okay? It must be late.”

  “Will you pick me up from school tomorrow?”

  “I think so. I’ll sure try. Let me have Hans for a minute?”

  “Hans!” his daughter yodeled. “Night, Dad.”

  “Night, sweetie.”

  The other man came on the line. “Tough break,” he said in his faintly German accent.

  “Right? Fuckers.” The manny laughed. “Sorry this week is such a shit show.” Usually Hans got a night or two with his boyfriend. But the play-offs were keeping Beacon out of the house every night.

  “It is okay. Is it all right with you if I ask Justin to pick her up from school on Thursday afternoon? An audition came through for me that I don’t want to miss.”

  “That’s totally fine,” he said quickly. Hell, he didn’t want Hans to miss an audition. “And if he can’t do it there must be someone else we could ask. She could hang out with a friend after school. How is the kid, anyway?”

  “Good. The play-offs make her popular I think.”

  “At least I’m good for something. Now tell me about this showcase concert tomorrow night.”

  “Ja, okay. It starts at seven. The dress cost you two hundred bucks on your credit card. And that was the cheaper one.”

  Of course it was. “Tell her she has to play like Yo-Yo Ma at that price.”

  “Yo-Yo plays the cello.”

  “I totally knew that. See you in the morning.”

  “Later.”

  After hanging up, a reporter nabbed him for an interview. Hopefully he managed to string a few coherent words together. Then he waited for the shower. The visitors’ dressing rooms weren’t as roomy as the ones they had at home. Luckily, games three and four of the seven-game series were in Brooklyn, so he’d be back in better quarters tomorrow.

  By the time he showered off his exhausted body and changed back into his suit, the place was quiet. The equipment manager and Jimbo, the young operations assistant, were loading gear into bags. “The bus left but there’s cars,” Jimbo said.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Good game, Beak,” the kid added. “Good series.”

  “Thanks.” He left the locker room, checking his Katt Phone on the way toward the exit. Everyone in the organization had the same sophisticated phone model, and his big, sleek screen was already choked with new texts. Apparently his teammates had made it to the hotel bar. Get your ass down here, they wrote. We want to get you drunk.

  He grinned at the stream of nearly identical messages. At least a brief stop in the bar was probably mandatory. He tried to be social when they were on the road during the season, saving every night in Brooklyn for Elsa. He was the only player on the team who wasn’t teased for staying in nights with his kid. Having a dead wife was about the only thing that bought a guy that kind of free pass. Still smiling, he looked up as he reached the exit to the rink.

  At the end of the hall stood Lauren, staring out the narrow pane of glass in the door.

  His steps slowed, if only to give himself a moment just to drink her in. The familiar tilt of her chin made him want to drop a kiss on her jaw. Her silky hair had begun to curl in tendrils around her face, and he yearned to sift his fingers through it.

  She didn’t watch him approach. And unless he was crazy, she began to fidget.

  “Hi there,” he said. “Everything okay?”

  She turned her chin sharply, her expression steely. “Fine, thanks. I have cars coming.”

  “Okay.”

  Lauren looked pointedly out the window, so he took the opportunity to study her further. She only looked more beautiful with every passing year. The girl he’d met on Long Island a dozen years ago wasn’t quite so slick as Lauren 2.0. This woman had moved so far from the Long Island Expressway that it wasn’t even funny. She wore a suit in Robin’s egg blue, the skirt cut just above her knee. An expanse of smooth skin stretched for miles down to a pair of sleek shoes, the kind found only in some chic boutique in lower Manhattan.

  She’d always liked clothes, and he’d always enjoyed the results. When they were a couple, she’d occasionally bring something home, seeking his approval. “You don’t think this is too much?” she might ask, turning around in a circle before him. “The neckline is a little ambitious.”

  “As long as you save a little something that’s just for me, I’m good. Now come over here and let me take that off of you.”

  A year and a half—that’s what they’d had together. Every hour of it was perfection. On some of those days, they never even made it out of bed. Elsewhere in their lives, things weren’t perfect. The team hadn’t been playing so well then. The manager—Lauren’s father—had screwed up the salary cap, leaving them without a deep enough bench to mount a proper season-long offense. The Long Island stadium where they played needed billions of dollars of work.

  And Lauren’s family had been horrified that she was dating a player. The fact that his divorce wasn’t even final made her father apoplectic.

  In spite of all that, it was the best year and a half of his life. He went home most nights to a woman who listened, who laughed at his jokes, and who didn’t resent him for moving her a thousand miles away from her family. In spite of all the difficulties, he and Lauren chose each other. It was the first time in his adult life when he thumbed fate in the nose and said, This is what I want. And need.

  And then fate laughed at the both of them. Hell. Fate laughed so hard she must have peed herself a little.

  Lauren 2.0 checked her phone. “It will be just another minute for your car.” She didn’t meet his gaze.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, wondering wha
t he could say to make the moment easier.

  Two years ago when he’d abruptly ended things between them, he’d hoped that she would move on. Someone so beautiful and smart—Lauren was the whole package—would have men lined up six deep.

  So where were they?

  These past two weeks he’d gotten more glimpses of Lauren than in the previous two years. And what he saw made him uneasy. She looked fantastic, and she’d clearly done well for herself. Nate Kattenberg trusted her, and obviously paid her well to run various parts of his organization. And apparently Lauren was just about to finish the college degree that her father had denied her years earlier.

  Everything ought to be going great for the most fantastic woman he’d ever known. But there was a hard look in her eye that nagged him. He hated wondering if he’d put it there.

  Lauren shoved the rink door open now. “Here’s your car,” she said without meeting his eyes.

  He hesitated. “What about you? I think I’m the last one.”

  “I’ll get the next one.”

  “Kinda silly for a seven minute trip. Shouldn’t we just share?”

  That’s when she finally looked him in the eye, and her expression was tense. “Why would we do that?”

  “Why wouldn’t we?” he returned. “Seems like a waste of resources to call another one.”

  Her perfect jaw hardened, and he felt a slap of guilt for implying that she wasn’t managing things properly. But was it really so hard to sit in a car with him for a few minutes? Jesus. “You take it, Lo. I’ll Uber.”

  Maybe it was the use of his old nickname for her, but her expression fell. Her eyes closed, and the truckload of hurt in her expression gutted him.

  “Go ahead,” he whispered. “It’s fine.”

  As he watched, she seemed to pull herself together. Her shoulders squared, she lifted her chin. “Fine, we’ll share.” She said it the way another person would say, “Let’s have a root canal.” Then she pushed the door open wide, pointing at the car the way an army general might order one of his men into the breach.

  Okay then.

  He followed her outside, then hustled past her to open the rear door of an Escalade waiting at the curb. He always used to hold the door. He enjoyed taking care of her because she was just so freaking competent—managing details for the team all day long. It was fun to turn the tables on her after hours.

  And she used to let him.

  Beacon got into the car on the other side and shut the door. “We are all set,” he told the driver.

  The big car glided away from the curb and headed into the D.C. traffic. This city managed to be stacked with cars even at midnight. Amazing. But it was silent inside the new-smelling car. Too silent. After the snarl she’d given him on the sidewalk two weeks ago after the game, he wasn’t expecting a warm welcome.

  “Did Nate hit the Scotch during the third period?” he asked to make conversation. The owner was known to drink only when he thought they’d lose the game.

  “No, he kept the faith.”

  “Bet he’s drinkin’ now.”

  “Maybe. But Nate doesn’t panic. He’s enjoying himself this week.”

  Unlike you, he thought. She sat practically pressed against the opposite door, her body language stiff. “So are you, like, doing two jobs while Becca is out?”

  She shrugged. “There haven’t been many fires to put out in Midtown. So far,” she amended.

  “Knock wood.” During their good times he would have offered his head to knock on, and she would have accepted. They wouldn’t be sitting like adversaries on this car seat, either.

  His memory got the best of him. He thought of other car rides in other cities. Whether the team had won or lost, he and Lauren would cuddle up together, laughing about the long day they’d both had. That would usually end with Beacon nibbling the smooth skin of her neck. And if the ride was long enough they’d end up steaming up the backseat as a warm-up for another hot night in his hotel bed.

  All that history sat squarely on the vast stretch of leather between them. Now he knew why Lauren hadn’t wanted to share a car. The ghosts swarmed.

  But fuck that. The ghosts shouldn’t get to win. There were enough ghosts in his life already. Even if Lauren was still as angry as she’d been the day he broke it off, that was all the more reason to push through the awkwardness.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” he blurted out. “We should catch up.”

  Her gaze remained locked on the Smithsonian out her window. She was going to tell him to go to hell, and he wouldn’t blame her. “It’s not a good idea,” she said finally. “People remember . . .” she cleared her throat. “They’ll talk.”

  Shit. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about other people’s speculation. But she wasn’t wrong. If he had a drink with Lauren at the hotel bar, a half a dozen players would ask him about it in the morning.

  Just as he had that thought, the car pulled up in front of the Marriott, and their time together was already over.

  “Bus to the airport leaves at six thirty,” she said, climbing out of the car. “Don’t be late.”

  “All right.” Even though she seemed eager to get away from him, he still made a point to hold the hotel door for her. They barely stepped onto the escalator when voices called out from a group of tables off to the side. “Heyyyy, Beak!” “Get over here!” And, “Hey, it’s Lauren! No way.”

  She gave him a look that could freeze sunshine into rink ice, and climbed the escalator, moving rapidly away from him.

  Right. He watched her go. And when the escalator arrived on the mezzanine level, he made his way over to his friends.

  “Shit, man,” O’Doul said, his fingers around a longneck. “You and she patching things up?”

  “Does it look like it?” He tossed himself into a chair. “What are we drinking?”

  FOUR

  LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK

  AUGUST 2012

  Mike waited a week to go and see Lauren after she returned from her beach vacation.

  He stayed away for seven long days, every one of them harder than the last. His conscience required it. He wanted to be the guy who’d never cheated. He was the guy who’d never cheated.

  Unless longing counted.

  For eight years they’d circled each other. They laughed too long over nothing, and at company functions their gazes always seemed to collide across even the most crowded rooms.

  A million times he’d wondered how she’d taste if he kissed her, and whether she’d be sweet and silent or wild and noisy in bed. He wanted her long, toned legs wrapped around his ass while he pounded into her.

  But the closest he’d ever come to any of it was an elbow squeeze when she’d saved him the last chocolate donut.

  He waited a week because he needed those years of restraint to matter. Yet did they? His wife must have been pretty fucking unhappy to boff the tennis instructor in her car in their three-stall garage.

  One day in late July—when training camp was just starting up again—the facilities manager had messed up the ice temperature at the practice rink. Nobody could skate. Beacon had driven home in the early afternoon, pulling carefully into his usual spot. When he snapped the keys from the ignition and got out, his wife’s startled face looked back at him from the passenger seat of her 4Runner. And she wasn’t alone on the seat. She was straddling someone.

  His first thought had been, that looks really uncomfortable.

  Stunned, he’d gone inside the house, taking a seat at their kitchen table. A few minutes later she’d appeared, face red, eyes tearing up. They’d had the most awkward conversation of his entire life, wherein Shelly admitted that she’d been screwing the tennis guy for almost a year.

  That same night he moved out, first to a teammate’s sofa, and then into a house he’d rented without asking the price. Then came the legal complications—hi
ring a lawyer and working out a temporary custody plan. He went to the Pottery Barn and bought whichever furniture could be delivered the quickest. A sofa and a king-sized bed for himself. A white twin bed with carved roses for nine-year-old Elsa, so she’d have somewhere to sleep when she visited.

  These past three weeks were entirely surreal.

  Lauren kept popping into his mind at the oddest moments. The new rental house has hydrangeas in the yard. Those were her favorite flower. She’d bust a gut if she knew I bought a sofa in ‘mushroom’ because I’m always ordering them on pizza. And, Lauren would roll her eyes at that neighbor’s lawn ornaments.

  But every little thought of her made him feel guilty. Maybe if he didn’t think of her so often his wife wouldn’t have found someone else.

  Was the whole thing his fault?

  Thank God Lauren was away at the beach with her friends from high school. She’d said she wasn’t taking her work phone, either. So texting her wasn’t a temptation. But then, when he knew her vacation was finished (and he knew to the day—what did that mean?) he found himself avoiding the manager’s office. For a week he tinkered around his new place, rearranging the meager furnishings. And he let the guys get him drunk after practice. Beacon was the team captain then. His boys had all been very loyal.

  “Crazy bitch! Didn’t know how good she had it.”

  “The tennis pro? There’s a fucking cliché.”

  His teammates were full of sympathetic grumblings, but not a single thing they said made him feel better. Each time they badmouthed Shelly, he felt uneasy.

  Sure, he was pissed off at his soon-to-be-ex for taking down their marriage in such a sleazy fashion. But he also knew she never had it easy. While he was off living the life of a pro athlete, she’d gotten married at eighteen to a teenage boy who was obviously too stupid to use a condom correctly. He was the high school jock who’d knocked up the smartest girl in the class. She’d become a stay-at-home mom instead of going to college, because that’s what all their relatives expected them to do.

  Beacon sure didn’t want to be married to her anymore. But he felt a ton of guilt at the relief it brought him not to have to be.