The Game of Love (23 page)

Jared got up and pulled her to sit in his seat.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” Brett let his forehead thump on the table. “Why…”

“She values her privacy?” This from Jared.

Katie rubbed Brett’s forearm. “She doesn’t tell anyone. It’s a hard time for her to relive. In fact, she’s probably going to kill me for telling you now. But in the end, I think you need to know. Brett, look at me.”

He raised his head, and for some reason his vision was blurry, his eyes stung with every blink.

“She loves you. She didn’t tell you, I’m sure. There are other things, other…people in her life that would make that difficult, almost impossible for her. The rest of this story is for her to tell. But she does. Love you, I mean. For whatever reason, she didn’t want to get into it at that moment.”

He thought back to the time and place that he’d confronted her. In her classroom. Where a student could walk in at any moment.

He was an ass. Accuse first, ask questions never.
Good idea, idiot.

“I have to fix it.”

“That’s a good plan. Care to elaborate?”

He gave Jared a look out of the corner of his eye to let him know his special brand of smart-assery wasn’t helpful.

“Apologize. Bring flowers,” his friend added.

Flowers seemed so…not Chris.

“He’s got the apologize part right. But as for the flowers…think of something else she would like, something more personal,” Katie urged.

“Like what?”

“Well, you’re the one who loves her.” When he blinked at her, she waved a hand to dismiss his look. “Oh, don’t give me that crap, Brett Wallace. I know better. If she were just some easy lay you’d have moved on. You’d be ticked, but you’d have moved on by now. You love her.”

She was a smart woman, Jared’s Katie. “All right, so what are you saying?”

“The Grand Gesture,” she said in an ominous voice.

“The grand gesture…”

“No, no, no.
The Grand Gesture,
” she said again, her voice taking on the tone that sounded like Morgan Freeman narrating some Discovery special about wildlife in the African savannas. “The one big thing that you know will melt her heart and make it absolutely impossible for her to refuse you or your apology. Flowers are wonderful, but, sweetheart, you screwed up well beyond flowers. And jewelry is nice, but is that really Chris?”

Other than the toe ring, and sometimes a stopwatch, he didn’t think she ever wore jewelry. “No, it’s not.”

Katie smiled at him like he was a dimwitted child who’d figured out that two plus two did not equal chocolate pudding. “Very good. Now. What is it going to be?”

He thought back through all of their conversations, struggling to remember any small hint of something. Then it hit him like a juiced-up linebacker. “A stringer.”

Jared’s face screwed up in confusion. “She wants a journalist? Buddy, I don’t think another man is gonna solve your problem.”

“No, you jackass. A stringing machine. For her tennis rackets. The machine thingie that they use. She mentioned once that she wanted one to do her own rackets and maybe for the team too, but she couldn’t justify the cost yet.”

He looked at Katie for confirmation.

She smiled and nodded. “Jared, our little Brett’s all grown up. Get me a plum from the fridge to celebrate.”

“Sweetie, this late I don’t think—”

“Incubating. Get me a plum.”

God, he loved his friends.

It took nearly a week for the stringing machine to be delivered, and he did his best to avoid her during that time. He needed them both cooled down when he went for the gold.

The good news was, even though things weren’t technically fixed between them, the fact that he had a plan in place for their reconciliation made it easier to concentrate. He skipped through the week easily, thanks in part to the fact that his players were so jazzed about moving on in the running for the state title that they stayed extra focused for practices. Drills ran smoothly, plays were executed flawlessly, game play was discussed without interruption.

Somewhere there were cartoon birds and rainbows hiding, just waiting to pop out.

He saw Chris once, walking to her car after school as he was headed into his office for something he forgot. Forgetting the cool-down plan, he’d walked toward her, but she’d turned on her heel and changed directions, even though that meant walking around another row of cars before getting to her Prius.

Well. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him. He smiled as he unlocked his office door. Her resistance was going to make redemption all the more sweet.

The stringing machine came on Thursday. Saturday, after recovering from their away game Friday night, he would go over there with it. Odd, really. Whenever he was in the doghouse with Lilith, she required payment. Usually something small and shiny. He was handing Chris a hundred pounds of dull metal. And he knew without a single doubt that she would love it just as much as any other woman would love a three-carat diamond.

Women. Couldn’t they all be crazy in the same way? Why did their specific brands of crazy have to branch out so much?

The game Friday was almost two hours away, but most of the school made the drive to support the team. Brett searched the stands, but there was no sign of Chris. None of Katie, either, but he couldn’t blame her for not wanting to sit in a car for that long. After accepting that his woman wasn’t there, he refocused his mind and concentrated on kicking some Wolverine ass.

The game, much like practice all week, was faultless. Passes connected, drives extended, blocks were made. The team’s energy and excitement built up during the week mingled with the adrenaline of a gridiron match-up and it carried them the extra mile to massacre the Wolverines twenty-four to seven.

Brett drove home after unloading the equipment and players off the bus in the school parking lot. He had to fight the impulse to drive over that night and present her with The Grand Gesture, as Katie called it. Tomorrow afternoon would be soon enough. He thought. He hoped.

The grin crept up on him as he imagined what she would say, how she would react, first to his apology and then to the stringing machine. He could just picture her eyes widening, her sweet mouth dropping open. She’d try to say no at first, of course. She was too proud to just accept something like that.

She’d shake her head, say she couldn’t possibly accept. When he pointed out the inscription, her eyes would get misty and she’d sniff back a tear. Then launch herself at him, wrap those long legs around his waist and squeeze until he could barely breathe. He would feel her whispered breath on his ear as she told him she loved him, too.

Yeah, he could wait until tomorrow. Somehow.

“Were you asleep?”

“Chris. It’s almost midnight.”

She blew out a breath. “I know, but—”

“Are you dying?”

“No.”

“Bleeding profusely?”

She sighed. “No, Katie.”

“Need a ride to the hospital?”

“Are you asking for one or asking me if I need one?” At this point it could be either.

She heard bedsprings squeak as her basketball-smuggling best friend sat up in bed and heaved a breath with the effort. “If you’re physically fine, you better have a damn good reason for calling me at—” she paused, “—11:42 in the evening.”

“Hey, Katie, remember when we used to close bars down in college?”

“We were young and stupid and not carrying around thirty extra pounds on our bladders. What’s the point of the call?”

“Did they win?”

There was silence, and Chris sat in bed, picking at a fold in her bedspread, wondering how long her friend would make her wait. Though she’d attempted to get to bed early, she’d woken up with a start. The only way to get some sleep was to find out if the football team had won or not.

Since she’d rather swallow razor blades than call Brett, she called Katie, whose husband undoubtedly had gone to the game.

Because no matter how much Brett’s accusations hurt, she knew she had a piece of the blame. And digging deeper, past the pride, she knew she loved him. So she needed to know. Needed to know whether he would be elated or crushed while driving home.

If they hadn’t had their blowout fight, if she hadn’t screwed up, and he hadn’t screwed up, he could be knocking on the door to her townhouse right now, yelling at the top of his lungs that they were moving on to the next round. She could have been sprinting down the stairs to open the door and jump in his arms, feel the solid wall of his chest and smile and laugh. Or he could slip in, his face telling the story of their hard loss, and she could bring him up to bed and comfort him.

She was a masochist.

“Did you hear me?”

“Huh?” Wow, she’d really spaced out.

“I said, they won. Killed it, actually. Great game, according to Jared. The team was nearly perfect.”

They won. They won and Brett had gone home to celebrate by himself.

Or maybe not…Not for the first time, Chris’s mind went to that dark place where she realized that he didn’t need to suffer alone. He didn’t need to suffer at all. There was no shortage of women who would trip over their cheap plastic heels to soothe his maybe-broken heart. Just the thought of that Carla Jamison with her over-bleached hair and her icky too-long dragon nails wrapping herself around Brett like a python made her want to throw up.

Back to being a masochist, aren’t you, Chris?

“Thanks, Katie. For everything.”

“That’s what best friends are for. Someone has to put up with your crap.”

“You’re a peach. Oh, wait. I was thinking of making a trip tomorrow. Just in case you called the townhouse and I’m not here.”

“Where are you headed?” Like a bloodhound, Katie scented a puzzle and was suddenly perky.

“To see Megan.”

“Your old coach?”

“Yup.” Megan had coached her through her time in the pros, and was the one person who hadn’t laid in to her about leaving tennis behind to do something different with her life. She was like a mentor and a big sister rolled into one. “Haven’t seen her for a while, so I thought I’d go and say hi. I’ll be back early Sunday morning. How about we meet for some breakfast like we did in college after a night of cramming? I’ll treat.” Megan’s open-door policy would ensure the visit would be a welcome one.

“Call me when you’re on your way to the house. I get cranky if I haven’t eaten by 8:30. You have your new cell phone right? Same number?”

“Yup, new phone, same number. I’ll call you by eight. Love you, Katie.”

“Love you too, you neurotic weirdo.”

Walking through the doors of the North County Sports Complex early Saturday morning brought back a tidal wave of memories and emotions. The smell of sweat, disinfectant and laundry detergent from the towels assailed her nose. The smell of her youth. The muffled squeak of sneakers, thump of balls hitting back tarps and the ping of tight strings smacking vulcanized rubber felt as familiar and soothing to her as a lullaby to a baby.

Megan Clutch, her coach all those years ago, stood on the first court with her back to Chris. Nothing had changed. She stood just over five feet, still wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts with tennis shoes, her pale blond hair pulled back in a French braid. Her voice carried over all five courts. No megaphone necessary.

Chris knocked on the thick glass that separated the viewing deck from the courts. When Megan turned around, Chris waved at the woman who had been more family to her than her own parents. Watching her old coach’s face split into a welcoming smile was a balm to her soul. Then she choked on laughter as the distraction caused Megan to have to duck at the last second to avoid a ball.

Two hours later she sat in Megan’s home, reviewing her teaching job, the townhouse she bought and her first season as a coach herself. But, as usual, Megan heard not only what she was saying, but what she didn’t say.

“So, is there a man in that picture-perfect life you’re painting for me?”

Chris cupped the thick ceramic mug of coffee between her hands, stared into the dark liquid like it would answer the question for her. “There was, or is. Was, I guess.”

“Don’t know which?” She raised one eyebrow.

“We were…involved. And now we’re not.”

“Was that your choice, or his? Because you don’t look pleased about it.”

“He said stupid stuff, I said stupid stuff…or didn’t say enough stuff.” She put her coffee down and sat back. “Wires were crossed, things were said that shouldn’t have been, things weren’t said that should have been. It was a mess, and it’s over.”

“Do you love him?”

“Geez, Megan, enough with the small talk already.” She rolled her head to one side, then the other. “Yes. I love him. I never told him, but I do.”

Megan leaned forward, waiting for her to finish. When she didn’t say anything else, her coach waved her hand and prompted, “And he…”

“He said he loves me. Or, he said he loved me while we were still involved.”

“So fix it.” Megan sat back on the couch, shrugged her shoulder like it was the most obvious—and easy—thing in the world. Like snapping her fingers to solve world hunger.

“He played in the NFL,” Chris blurted out.

Megan studied her, took a sip of coffee, rearranged her legs underneath her on the couch. “And that makes him a Dax clone. Right?”

Leave it to Megan to cut to the heart of it. “It was a thought at first. But he seemed more stable. Didn’t have to prove his masculinity every other second. Not running after every thing in a skirt. In short…the polar opposite of Dax.” She took a sip of coffee to steady herself. “He told me he loved me.” She said it more to remind herself than to tell Megan.

“How did you respond, since you didn’t say it back?”

She winced. “I think I reminded him that this was a physical affair only. I already knew I loved him, I just couldn’t stop…”

“Comparing him to Dax.”

When Megan said it like that, it sounded so stupid Chris couldn’t believe she’d let it go on for that long. “Yeah. I—” She cleared her throat. “I never mentioned having dated Dax. Brett’s ex-wife turned out to be a money grubber. And when he found out about Dax—from all those news clips they’ve been showing about his little breakdown, I guess—Brett freaked out. I can’t blame him. But he didn’t give me a chance to explain. Then again, I didn’t really fight for the chance.”

“So you both screwed up.”

“Yup.” Wow, they were both morons. They could have been happily cuddled in bed right now, spending the day relaxing after the big football win the night before.

“So, apologize. Grovel a little. Put your pride on the back burner. Then enjoy the moment when he apologizes. Because really, he has to if he wants you back. And yeah, he’ll want you back. If he’s a good enough guy to win your heart, he’ll suck it up and say he’s sorry.”

Chris sat still.

“You didn’t give your heart to Dax, Chris.”

“How do you do that?”

Megan just smiled. “The man was an ass. And maybe you tried to ignore that, focus on his good points, few and far between though they were. But you never really loved him. Did you?”

Chris thought back to her feelings for Dax, even those first few months of the relationship where everything was pretty rainbows and fuzzy puppies. She shook her head. “No, no I didn’t. What I felt for him, even in the best parts—few though they were—was nothing like what I feel for Brett.”

“Sounds like it’s settled, then.”

She was going to get Brett back. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

“Good.” Megan took another sip of coffee. “We’ll get some dinner, then head back to the complex. There’s a kid I want you to check out, maybe give her a few pointers on her approach shot.” She winked at Chris over the rim of her mug. “You always had a kick-ass approach shot.”

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” She grinned as her old coach snorted. “So you gonna let me steal the couch tonight?”

“You’re buying dinner.”

“I can do that.”

She wasn’t home. Brett’s heart sank a little as he realized Chris’s car was gone. But he didn’t want to miss her, or risk calling her to spoil the surprise, so he pulled into an available spot and prepared to wait.

He’d managed to put off driving over until noon Saturday. Forcing himself to hold back was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done. He felt like a kid who’d risen at dawn only to be told he had to wait until everyone else woke up before they could open Christmas gifts. Pure, basic torture.

Ten minutes after parking, he saw movement in her upstairs window that faced the parking lot. Thinking he was seeing things, Brett concentrated, and sure enough, the shadow of a person walked by the window a second time.

Maybe she let someone borrow the car, or it’s in the shop.
He decided to risk it and hopped out of his Escalade. There was a momentary debate, and he finally chose to leave the stringing machine in the back until he knew it wasn’t a shadow and that she was really home. The thing weighed a ton.

He knocked on the door and waited. And waited. And waited. After three full minutes, he convinced himself he had seen things and turned to walk back to his SUV when the door opened. Whipping around, expecting to find a slightly pissed-off but still adorable Christina standing on the porch, it was a blow to the gut when he saw Dax Riley standing there in the doorway.

Wet.

In nothing but a low-slung towel.

“Hey.” He looked sheepish, like he was a sixteen-year-old caught with his hand up a girl’s shirt, and hitched the towel up with one hand. “Uh, what’s up?”

Brett’s mouth went dry, his hands felt numb where they gripped his keys. He had to try twice before he could croak out, “Christina?”

“Oh, yeah. Chrissy ran to the store.”

Chrissy? What the hell?

He caught himself nodding like one of those stupid ducks that dipped its beak in water over and over. “I thought…” He cleared his throat, tried again. “I thought you broke up.”

The hand not holding his towel up rubbed the back of his neck, and Dax looked distinctly uncomfortable.

That makes two of us, buddy.

“Yeah, after I talked to you, I ran into Chrissy on the way outta town. You know, one thing led to another and we decided to give it another go. She’s sorry for the way she acted, and, I mean…” He looked up, then away again. “Sorry, man,” he mumbled as he ran a hand over his soggy Mohawk. “I know you guys just broke up and all, but I can’t help it. I didn’t mean to poach or whatever. It’s just that we have something special, you know? And seeing her again…I missed her.”

“Yeah.” Not the most intelligent thing to say, but it was all Brett could wrap his mouth around. “Well, sorry to disrupt…whatever.” Before the younger man could say another word, Brett walked back to his SUV and drove home in silence on autopilot.

He pulled into his driveway not remembering a single moment of the trip home. Can’t feel pain if you can’t feel anything at all.

Hoping to aid his mind’s path to numbness, he bypassed the beer in favor of Scotch. Normally he barely poured two fingers, but it was more than a two-finger day. It was a “to the brim” day. Bringing the bottle with him, he set it down on the end table and sank into his father’s recliner. He let the burn from the first gulp sear his insides, reminding him that the numbness wasn’t forever, but it was good enough for now.

Once again, he was the fucking jester in the court of life. He’d put himself out there and gotten drop-kicked in the balls.

Another burning sip brought him back to his problem. How the hell had he let Chris worm her way in so fast? He’d gone from thinking she was a sharp-tongued shrew to the love of his life in a snap.

Apparently that didn’t mean a damn to her, since she was already back with that jackass.

Jackass. Despite the “I’m just a good ole boy, I worship you” routine Riley had been putting on, Brett wasn’t an idiot. He highly doubted the guy was as innocent as he pretended to be. But how much was truth and how much was lies? Had he made up every word about Chris looking for her next meal ticket? Or was he telling the truth…

The dude was in her house. Using her shower. She clearly let him in, had no problems leaving him in her house alone to run errands. Let it go, man.

But he couldn’t.

He swished the liquid in his glass, then tossed it back, choking at the burn. But after the burn subsided, he could still feel the dull throb in his chest, the one that felt like someone had sliced him open, stepped on his heart, then sewed him back up without anesthesia.

Of course, the foot that did the stepping would be clad in a size eight Adidas court shoe.

He looked at his watch. Not even two in the afternoon yet. Plenty of time to get drunk and fall into bed. Let the numbness from alcohol take away some of the pain and anger, at least for a while.