Out of the Game3 (23 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Claire put her brave face on and didn’t take it off. She basically had to live with her brave face on, because if she let it slip, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get it back into place.

She was going to be a single, unwed mother.

The thought didn’t make her ashamed, but it did make her feel stupid. First she’d married Vic when she didn’t truly love him and spent ten unfulfilling years with him. Right after that, she fell in love with a man who didn’t seem to give a shit about his own child. When would she become wise enough that she didn’t make ridiculously huge life mistakes?

For the next couple of weeks, she went through the motions, preparing a nursery. It helped distract her from thinking about Alex and his inaction and radio silence. She picked up her phone several times a day, checking for texts and voice mails that weren’t there. She told herself he needed more time. He was suffering what had to be one of the most debilitating things to happen to a man—the involuntary loss of a career he loved. And yet, every day that passed with no word from him, a little more of her heart closed off.

But the nursery turned out beautiful, with shades of pink and brown and dark mahogany furniture. Jeremy painted a whimsical mural of a cherry tree in full blossom. He wanted to spell the baby’s name with darker pink blossoms, but Claire still hadn’t chosen one.

“We’ll just add it later, when you decide,” Jeremy said.

“It’s beautiful. I adore it. I adore you too.” She hugged him.

“The feeling’s mutual. And Hart and I wanted to remind you, if you need anything at all—with the exception of actually delivering the baby—we’re just upstairs. I want you to think of us as her honorary uncles. If that’s okay.”

She smiled and hugged him again. “It’s more than okay. It’s perfect.”

It was times like this when she felt ridiculously rich in friends. So what if Alex hadn’t contacted her since their argument? She had so many people in her life, such a solid support system, it made her feel secure and prepared. She could do this single-parent thing. She really could.

Other times, she felt like an orphaned child, surrounded by people who loved her, but still desperately hollow. At the childbirth classes, even though the other parents treated her kindly, she felt lonely. Their kindness was tinged with sympathy and pity and she wanted to explain that her baby daddy would come around. He just needed time. And did they know he was—
used to be
—a famous hockey player?

But she didn’t. She didn’t explain anything to them. It wasn’t necessary.

* * *

She felt the first pains after breakfast. Initially, she thought maybe she’d eaten something that was off. The eggs weren’t the freshest. Or maybe she’d had too much cranberry juice. But then an hour later, she got another pain, like a cramp, but short-lived. That’s when she marked the time. 10:05 a.m. If this was really labor, she was fifteen days from her due date. She went online to check if there were any dangers attached to delivering that early and found nothing alarming. She continued with her chores—laundry, emails, thank you notes from her baby shower. She brainstormed some ideas for the second Barracuda art auction. When the contractions got to be regular, and about eight minutes apart, she called her sister.

Erin, of course, was calm. “Okay, it’s a little after one, right?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I agree. I think this is it. Let me tell Tim and then I’ll be right over.”

“Remind him he’s not supposed to tell Alex.”

“Claire, come on.”

As she pictured Alex glowering in the delivery room, clearly reluctant, her resolve strengthened.

“No. I don’t want him to know. If you or Tim tell him I’m having the baby, I’ll never forgive you. I’m serious.”

Forty-five minutes later, Erin arrived. Claire was having a cup of tea. Her bag was packed and sitting by the door.

“Sorry, I had to feed Anders before I left. How far apart are they?” Erin asked.

“About seven minutes now.”

“We’ve got some time then. We’ll go when you’re at about five minutes. Are you okay?”

Claire nodded. “I’m fine. The pain’s not that bad. I’m mostly scared and excited.”

Erin smiled. “You’re going to do fine.” She knelt at Claire’s feet and laid a hand on her stomach. “Happy Birthday, little one. It’s your Auntie Erin. I can’t wait to meet you.”

Chapter Forty

Alex looked at his phone to see who was calling.

Phlegmy.

He let it go to voice mail.

He’d hoped it was Claire. Not that she had any reason to call him. She’d made it clear
he
was the one who had to make the choice. Tim had too, as a matter of fact. And he’d been wrestling with that choice for twenty-two straight days. It was all he thought about.

When she walked out on him, he’d literally lost his mind. He’d never been that angry before, not even close. The angriest he could remember being was when his father had tried to wrangle an invitation to the Dad’s Trip. He’d heard that the Rangers were to host a four-day father-son event and he wanted to go. Although “wanted” was too mild a word. “Demanded” was more like it. His father started out acting as if they had a normal relationship, but Alex had been curt.

“I don’t want you there.”

That had gone over like a pile of shit on a dessert plate. His dad then went on for quite a while about how much he’d done for Alex, how much money he’d spent, how he’d taught him the fundamentals and groomed him and if it hadn’t been for him, Alex would be nothing but a pretty face.

Had he apologized for the broken arm?

No.

Had he shown the slightest remorse for that unforgivable act? Ever?

No.

Not even when Alex flat out said, “You broke my arm.”

He had denied it. “I did not, son. You slipped in the shower, remember?”

Alex had been stunned. His father either wasn’t willing to admit what he’d done to the one person who knew for a fact what had really happened, or he’d maintained the shower-slipping story for so long that he’d come to believe it himself.

The more his dad talked, the angrier Alex had gotten. But it had been a cold anger, an icy, intense, righteous anger. And when he’d eventually told his dad to fuck off and hung up, the anger got sucked back inside. It had been like the scene in
Raiders of the Lost Ark
when God’s mighty wrath, after decimating all those Nazis in a dazzling pyrotechnic display, returned to the ark with a whoosh and a rattling lid.

With the Claire thing, the explosion had been so big and so violent, he couldn’t find the fucking lid.

Alex had destroyed a room in his own house. Over a woman. That was crazy. He’d had plenty women tell him off to his face and leave. Plenty.

You’re such an asshole.

I
wish I’d never met you.

You think you’re God’s gift
,
but you’re not.

But Claire wasn’t just any woman. She was the mother of his child. She was the woman he loved.

His phone made a noise. He glanced at the display.

Phlegmy again.

Needing a break from all this self-analysis, this time he picked up.

“Alex, my boy.”

“Phlegmy. Good to hear from you,” he lied. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

They shot the shit for a couple of minutes, but Alex’s heart wasn’t in it. Then Fleming dropped a bomb on him, a job offer, a legitimate job offer.

“You want me to be color commentator? Me?” Alex asked, flabbergasted.

“Yes. Hank Hodgkins is retiring. We found out he has lung cancer.”

“Oh, shit. That’s horrible.” Alex suddenly felt lucky he’d only lost his peripheral vision.

“Yes, it is. But the show must go on, as they say, and we need someone to take over for him. I’d like it to be you. You don’t have to decide now, but think about it. Promise me you’ll think about it. You have everything it takes to really make a name for yourself and I told network people I couldn’t think of anyone more perfect for the position.”

“Look, Elliot, I appreciate that, but—”

“No buts. Think about it. Get back to me in a couple of days.”

Alex hung up.

Great. Like he needed one more thing to think about.

He looked out the window. It had started to rain. Dark clouds filled the sky and the day was like a black and white movie. San Diego didn’t see a hell of a lot of rain, but Alex was glad to see it. Dreary weather seemed to fit his mood. He decided to go out and run.

After putting on a ball cap and his running shoes, he left the house for the first time in weeks. The moment he stepped into his backyard, the fresh air invaded his nostrils. It went all the way up to his brain and cleared the fog. He breathed it in deeply. It felt really good.

To his right were two folding chairs. The last person to sit in the striped one was Claire.

Tim had asked him if he wanted to stay with her. Of course he wanted to stay with her. He wanted that more than anything. That wasn’t the question. What he needed to know was whether he
should
stay with her.

He looked around the beach, at the surf, the flat stretch of sand, the dog and his owner about a half mile in the distance then headed south on the beach on legs that felt rubbery and weak. He didn’t like that feeling. His feet didn’t hurt at all. Since he hadn’t walked on them much, they’d healed quickly.

Outside of hockey, Claire was the best thing that had ever happened to him, but the thought of disappointing her and the baby terrified him. Not because he was afraid he’d ever hurt his little girl. His violent room smash notwithstanding, Alex knew in his bones he would never strike a woman or a child.

No, he was afraid to fail. That’s what it boiled down to. He didn’t want to fail at life.

His blood was pumping. His legs were waking up as he passed the guy and his dog. A light rain began to fall.

Mental pictures of Claire began appearing in his mind’s eye. Claire, her eyes flashing, telling him “Nothing happened!” at the wedding rehearsal. Claire, joyfully stuffing her face with a hamburger in the passenger seat of his car. He saw her looking up at him surrounded by the walls of the canyon, anticipating his kiss, and he remembered her making him breakfast not too long ago, her stomach rounded, her tits enormous from being pregnant.

Did he really want to live the rest of his life knowing he could have had her but didn’t lift a finger to try?

Fuck no.

Was his fear of failure stronger than his desire to be with her for even five more minutes?

Fuck
no. The very thought of being shut out from her life forever felt like knives stabbing his guts.

But he wanted to be someone she could be proud of, and now that he wasn’t a hockey player anymore, what was he? Just a rich dude with a fucked-up eyeball. A guy who used to be one of the best in the world at something.

He was too young to be washed up, damn it, but did he have it in him to take Phlegmy’s job? It would require him to be a perpetual bystander. He’d have to watch the guys, night after night, competing in a way he was no longer able to. Could he handle that?

He didn’t know. Maybe.

He did feel a faint tingle of interest. The Barracudas had made it to the Stanley Cup Final this year and Alex felt it was only a matter of time before they won. He could feel their momentum building and if he could get past his feelings of envy, it might be great to be part of it when it happened. Really great.

But only if Claire could share it with him. He couldn’t imagine anything in his life being great without her. Not even the fucking Stanley Cup.

Gaining on the dog walker again, he started running faster. Sand flew out from behind him as he ate up the distance back to his house.

He had to get her back. He had to. He had to convince her—today—that he could be the man she wanted. He wasn’t such a great guy now. That was obvious. But he could be better. He
would
be better. All he needed was practice, a little coaching, and a second chance.

Chapter Forty-One

Claire was nervous and scared, but not nearly as much as she would have been without Erin’s calm, controlled presence and the knowledge and experience behind it.

For instance, when her water broke just as she was getting out of the car, Erin told her it was not a big deal. “Get into the wheelchair.”

“But it’s still coming,” she said, her face burning with embarrassment. “The chair will get all gross.”

“That’s normal and don’t worry about the chair. Things get gross at the hospital every minute of the day.”

When Claire sat, the flow seemed to slow to a trickle, but she couldn’t make it stop no matter how hard she tried. They’d quickly gotten towels under her, but her pants were soaked anyway.

They checked her in efficiently and then brought her to a cozy room that looked like someone had converted a hotel suite into a hospital room—beautiful wood floors and crown molding, comfy looking furniture for the expectant fathers, or in Claire’s case, sister. She even liked the choice of art on the walls—gorgeous photos of the faces of newborns.

Once Claire had gotten into a hospital gown, her nurse, Penny, helped her into bed and hooked her up to the monitor that tracked the baby’s heart rate. She checked Claire’s progress, which was only three centimeters, then said, “All right, buzz if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Penny,” Erin said. “You’re the best.”

Penny winked and left.

“So, pretty nice, huh?” Erin said, with a game-show hostess type gesture.

“Erin, I was here before, remember? When Anders was born?”

“I remember that very well. It’s just, I’m so proud of how our unit looks now.”

“It’s very nice. I was just thinking it seems more like a suite at a hotel than a hospital room.”

“We remodeled the labor-and-delivery ward to make it the go-to destination for expectant parents.” She glanced toward the door then leaned in close. “To tell the truth, I made an offhand comment to Tim that the rooms needed some serious help in the decorating department. I had visited a friend and the rooms at Newton Presbyterian looked much nicer. Our rooms were painted this vile green that looked like watered-down pistachio pudding.”

“Ew.” Claire scratched alongside the tape holding the IV thing in.

“So, Tim being Tim, he took it upon himself to meet with the hospital administrators to see about remodeling. He donated a bunch of money—he still won’t tell me how much—to get it done in time for me to enjoy it when I had Anders. I...” She shook her head. “I don’t even like to think about how much that was. I’m sure it would have been cheaper to set up a delivery room in our house and then take it down, but that man has a mind of his own. ‘It’s for the community,’ he said. ‘And you’ll have a nicer place to work now.’”

“That’s the sweetest—” Claire grimaced as a contraction started, “—thing I’ve ever heard.”

Erin dragged a chair closer to the bed and sat down. “Are you sure you don’t want to call Alex?”

Claire gave her a sideways glance. “I thought you hated him.”

“I don’t hate him,” Erin said with a sigh. “I’m angry with him. Tim says I should give him a lot of slack because of what happened with his eye.
A
lot
. Losing the chance to play hockey like that would devastate any player, and Tim told me a little bit about Alex’s upbringing, which shed a whole new light on him and his issues with fatherhood. There’s a limit to how much slack I’ll allow him, though, and he’s just about used it up. But I still think you should call him. The man has a right to know that his child is about to enter the world.”

Claire scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Erin had the grace to blush.

“No, I’m not calling him. I want him to come to me of his own volition, not because he feels obligated to.”

“But then he’s getting away scot-free. He has to learn that actions have consequences. He should have to come back and be a father to your baby, regardless.”

“I agree, on principle, but I’ve thought about this a lot and I don’t want to live like that. Would you want to live like that? Would you want to be with Tim if he resented you and Anders?”

Erin frowned. “Tim is not Alex.”

“Answer the question.”

Erin’s frown smoothed out. “I guess not. You’re not even going to make him pay any money?”

“I have money.”

“On principle. He should have to contribute more than sperm.”

“If I can’t have all of him—his whole heart—then I don’t want him at all. It’s selfish of me, I know. But this baby will have plenty of role models. Tim, Hart, Jeremy, Dan and Jake. And maybe someday I’ll find someone else.” She shook her head with a sigh. “But not for a while. I’m tired of the roller coaster.”