The Game of Love (8 page)

Tears welled in her eyes, and she furiously wiped them away as another spasm shook her body. She wouldn’t cry. She refused. Leaning a hand against the rough brick, she willed her body to pull it together.

Damn it. Why now?

But she knew why. The pressure of competition was back. Even if she wasn’t playing, the demand was still on her. And her father’s voice echoed in her mind, reminding her that her best just wasn’t good enough. She could have done better, she was failing, therefore the girls would suffer.

And even without her father’s voice, she would have heard Dax’s casual greeting, a harsh reminder of the worst time of her life.

Chrissy, baby…

She pounded her fist against the wall, scraping her skin as another shiver racked her body. The scrape was nothing compared to the pain of memories. At least her skin would heal.

“Better?”

She jumped. Damn. There was no mistaking that voice. She didn’t know whether to be glad it wasn’t a parent she had embarrassed herself in front of, or disgusted it was Brett who’d caught her in a vulnerable position.

Easiest to just go on the defensive.

Shrugging her shoulders, she turned and faced her tormenter.

“I’m fine. Must have eaten something bad. You shouldn’t have come over here.” She looked up, caught Brett’s eye for the first time and was relieved that she didn’t see pity. Pity would have pushed her over the edge of humiliation.

“I know the school’s meatloaf is bad but I doubt it’s vomit-inducing.”

“Whatever,” she mumbled and dragged the back of her hand over her mouth. She was too tired to put up a good fight.

Without a word, he passed a bottle of water to her. Not wanting to bite the hand that provided water, she took a swig, swished and spit to the side in a gesture that would have Grandma Parsons swooning. She could see it now…four tiny legs sticking out from under the old biddy, muffled yipping from her precious pup—

“Well, at least your color is better.”

Chris thrust the bottle back at Brett. “Here, thanks.” God, she sounded like she had an icicle stuck up her—

“Uh, you can keep it. Look, are you sick? Do you need a doctor? Do you need me to call someone?”

Again with the concern. Who was this guy, and what had he done with the football coach? “No, like I said. Bad lunch. I just need a minute before going back out there.” It wasn’t even convincing to her. And the raised brow he sported told her he didn’t buy her crap either. “I need to get back to my team.”

“They’re warming up still. Looking pretty good, I gotta say.” He leaned a shoulder against the brick, effectively blocking her path. “I’m impressed with what you’ve managed to accomplish in such a short time.”

She waited for the
but.
It didn’t come. “Thanks. The girls worked hard before, they just didn’t know anyone expected anything of them.”

“You’ve done well.” He gave her an easy smile, and she felt the muscles in her shoulders relax a bit. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No, I would rather not talk about eating bad meatloaf.” She took a step to the side, but his hand caught her forearm in a gentle but firm grip.

“I’ve played in three Super Bowls, countless playoff games and dozens of overtimes. I’ve posed in my underwear because I had some stupid idea I was still supposed to act famous even after the curtain fell. And I’ve endorsed some cool—and stupid—shit on TV. But I never lost my cool. Never let it get to me.”

Her stomach lurched again. Hope that he would be different—a hope she hadn’t been aware of—died. Why was she expecting more from him? Where had that hope come from? “This is supposed to make me feel better?”

“But the night of my first game coaching high school football—just high school football—I almost didn’t make it to the field ’cause I was puking my guts out in the teacher’s lounge.” He sighed, and the pad of his thumb rubbed circles on the delicate skin of her inner arm almost absently. “I was so fuc—so scared of letting those kids down. Terrified.”

That put an end to her plan of storming away in a self-righteous huff. She stared at him, not sure what to say. Half of her screamed to deny the truth, not give him the satisfaction of being right.

But the other half, oh, the other half was dying to admit her fears. God, she longed to just open up, explain, be honest about it. To tell him this wasn’t the first time she’d been physically ill from nerves and anxiety. From fear of failure.

“It’s an important match,” she hedged. “Nerves all around. I guess it got to me. I’m a little scared that even after all their hard work, the girls won’t feel like it was worth it unless there’s a
W
in our column tonight. I just want them to feel supported.”

“Is that all?” He looked unconvinced. His hand released her arm, but she found her feet wouldn’t move. One calloused finger trailed down her cheek. She leaned back, breaking contact. But she didn’t feel the urge to slap his hand away. “I think you’re lying, but whether it’s to me or yourself, I don’t know.” He stepped back. “So you want support, right?”

She could only nod.

He stuck his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels. “Good, ’cause you’ve got more of it than you probably bargained for.” With a sly smile, he walked around the corner toward the courts.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Trotting to catch up, she turned the corner and saw exactly what he meant.

The aluminum seats were full, along with the grassy slope between the front row and the fence around the courts. It was a sea of red and blue.

And most of the crowd appeared to be in the fourteen to eighteen age range. Male, slightly damp from sweat or showers. And all wearing Northeastern football shirts.

She stopped in her tracks, knew her mouth was hanging open like an idiot. But it took all her effort not to burst into happy tears. Looking at Brett, she tried twice to say something, but all that came out were half syllables and babble.

“You mentioned that we needed to support each other. I agree. Since it was your season opener I thought I’d pop by for a show of school spirit.”

She didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything.

He started to shift, his eyes darted to the crowd and back. “I mean, it wasn’t exactly hard to convince the guys to come watch girls in short skirts, anyway.”

She knew he was trying to blow off the entire thing like it was no big deal, but she couldn’t speak around the lump in her throat. It was a big deal. For her and the girls. Her vision blurred, and she blinked a few times to clear it. She glanced to the courts, and she could see the difference the crowd made in her girls. The extra half step they took, that tiny bit of oomph in a serve. The crowd made them feel validated, special. And they would play better—harder—because of it. Even if they lost, they’d be proud.

She’d been given gifts before. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets. Weekend trips to the Bahamas or a day at the spa. Expensive—but meaningless—trinkets that showed Dax didn’t have a clue what to give her, that he didn’t listen to her. Things that could be meant for any woman. Nothing that said she was special, that what she thought and wanted mattered.

A set of aluminum bleachers full of teenage boys meant more than any of those things combined.

She took a deep breath and turned to Brett.

“Is it all right? Or should I have the guys leave?”

“No, it’s perfect.” She cleared her throat.

He gave her a crooked little half smile, and her heart tipped a bit. She grabbed his arm for balance, stood on her toes and brushed a kiss across his cheek. His perpetual five o’clock shadow scraped her lips, but she didn’t mind. “Thank you.” She pulled back.

His long arms came around her, locking behind her lower back, preventing her from going anywhere.

Her body stiffened and she had a horrible moment of déjà vu. Was he about to violate the tentative trust they’d just built up by groping her in public? But instead he simply leaned over, placed a gentle kiss on her temple. “You’re welcome. Knock ’em dead.” His voice was low, husky, and he let her go as if he hadn’t just thrown every preconceived notion she’d developed about him in the garbage.

Confused
didn’t begin to describe how she felt. He’d had her in a position of weakness, of vulnerability—both emotionally and physically—and didn’t take advantage of either.
Novel concept.
God, she needed to shake the memory of Dax from her mind. It seeped in, poisoned her thought process, her reactions to normal interactions. It could have ruined the chance for friendship with a fellow coach.

She hated overly sensitive people, and now she was starting to think and act like one. Not okay.

He had already turned to walk toward the bleachers. Chris jogged over to the parking lot as Central High School’s bus pulled up. She shook hands with the coach, pointed out where the guest locker room and training room were located and let them start warming up.

“Ladies,” she called as she walked to the courts. “Huddle up!” The girls hustled over. “We’re going to let Central have the court for a bit to warm up, and then we’ll do the line up and meet our opponents.” She took a moment to look each girl in the eye. “After that, the show is yours.”

The looks on the girls’ faces were priceless. They were prepared, they were ready, and best of all…they were having fun.

It was ugly, it was brutal, and it was heart-wrenching. But they’d pulled it out and won their first match.

She heaved a huge sigh as she unlocked the door to her townhouse and flung her bag onto the couch.

Northeastern had lost to Central last year, and almost every year before that. She’d watched the other team’s coach as he saw the writing on the wall, that they were going to be beat by Northeastern for the first time in six years. Disbelief had warred with frustration on his face, and she didn’t envy the opposing team’s ride home.

Despite the win and the glorious feeling of satisfaction, her head was pounding.

Nothing said headache like the eardrum-piercing shrieks of teenage girls.

She toed off her tennis shoes and left them in a jumble on the floor of the entryway. She would get them later. A growling stomach had her heading for the kitchen. The phone rang just as she hit the fridge for a bottle of water, and she groaned. She wanted to bask in the glow of winning, and the odds of whoever was on the other line letting her bask were slim to none.

But if she didn’t answer now, she’d just have to return the call later. She popped two ibuprofen, guzzled some water and grabbed a granola bar while the phone continued to ring. She picked up right before the machine would have kicked on.

“Christina, how are you?”

All the excitement from the win evaporated in an instant.

She almost felt the frostbite from her father’s stiff, cold greeting. His voice would have held the same lack of warmth even if she had been in their good graces. Her parents, she’d finally accepted one day, were not warm people. They were rigid, unyielding and formal to a fault.

Even though it was how she had been raised, she’d never bought in to the idea. “Hey, Dad,” she replied, her cheerful tone forced. “Everything is great. We had our first match tonight, and we won.”

“Why are you wasting your God-given talent coaching children when you could still be playing professionally?”

She bit back the exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose, willing the ibuprofen to work faster. Then, with a deep breath, she repeated the same explanation that she had given her parents when she took the job. The same explanation they’d rejected before. “They’re not children, Dad, they’re teenagers. And it’s not a waste if it positively impacts a life.”

Her father huffed. Actually huffed.

“I enjoy tennis again, Dad. I started to hate it, resent the sport so much at the end of my career, that I wanted nothing to do with it. Didn’t even want to pick up a racket. But watching those girls play, watching them grow as players while I coached them…I love it again, Dad. Can you understand that?” He wouldn’t understand, she knew from experience.

“You quit.” Her father’s tone was flat. “You just up and quit your job. That’s what it was, Christina, your job. And you left. We didn’t raise you to be a quitter. I can’t begin to tell you how disappointing—how
embarrassing
—that is to remember.”

“Yeah, you
can
tell me how disappointed you both are. You show me, tell me, all the time how disappointed you are in me. I’ve heard it before, I’ll hear it again.” The first time she’d heard this speech, it was like having her heart cut out without anesthesia. The second time, a punch in the gut. But now the words had no power over her. She’d put enough distance—both emotionally and physically—between herself and her parents that the pain felt like nothing more than a dull ache, a longing for family that embraced instead of rejecting. “Guess I’m just too comfortable in my black sheep costume to change now.”

“We didn’t raise you to speak to us like that.”

No, you raised me to be a robot that didn’t speak up or think for herself.
“Is there something you needed, Dad?”

“I have a message from your mother. But with your attitude I’m not sure that it matters one way or another.”

She rolled her eyes, put down the unwrapped granola bar and grabbed the peanut butter and a loaf of bread out of the pantry. A peanut-butter sandwich sounded good right about now. That sticky, gooey texture could erase the nasty feeling she always got when talking to her parents. The granola bar wrapper crinkled as she set the jar down on top of it. Inspiration struck.

She held the wrapper up to the receiver. “Dad? Dad, can you hear me?” Scrunching the silver material until it crunched and crinkled and sounded like static.

“Christina?”

“Dad, I think I’m losing connection. If…hear me…I’ll call back…sorry…” Then she hit the power button.

The image of her father red-faced, sputtering at the phone and raging about how rude the phone company was to lose the connection, brought a smile to her face.

Taking a large bite of her bar, she headed out of the kitchen. The peanut-butter sandwich would wait. Right that moment, a nice long bath was in order. Before she made it to the stairs the phone rang.

Dad again, most likely. She paused by the foot of the stairs and let the answering machine pick up.

“Christina. Chrissy. Please pick up. It’s me.”

Dax.
Instant pain warred with fear in her mind.

“Babes, come on. I know this is your phone number, your mom gave it to me.”

Dammit, Mom!
So this was the message her father had tried to pass on. Of course, to them it’d be a happy message about possible reconciliation instead of the warning it should have been.

“Fine. I’ll assume you’re not there. Look, I left you a message on your cell’s voice mail. Lucky for me you still had the same number. Babes, we can make this work. I don’t know what happened—”

Seriously?

“—but come on. We’ll get you some help, get some therapy or whatever. I’ll go with you. Then it’ll be good. You and me. My number’s the same, I’m sure you still have it. Call me.”

The click signaled the end of the bullshit. She stood, rooted to the spot, staring at that hateful thing she now had to get rid of…her answering machine.

No, that was too drastic. But still, she longed to just sweep the entire machine into the trash can and leave it there to rot. She focused on breathing in deeply and letting it out in a slow, controlled stream. She told her body to relax muscle by muscle. Her shoulders had locked up and there was this throbbing at the base of her skull.

Dax. The son of a bitch.

With calm, controlled motions, she went to the phone and stared at the blinking message. Then she took a deep breath and hit the “delete all” button. She sighed with relief when the display showed zero messages. But it wasn’t enough. So she unplugged the phone, wrapped the cord around the base and left it on the counter, useless.

There. Much better.

She plodded up the stairs, into the bathroom, and threw up the celebratory dinner she’d shared with the team. Her stomach protested the abuse it had suffered in the past twenty-four hours. She indulged her weak side for a moment and cried on the cool tile floor. Then she forced herself to clean up and move on.

Even without talking directly to him, Dax made her feel like crap. The man was like kryptonite to her confidence. Even the hint of him and she started to feel ill.

No, don’t get down. Get angry.
That’s what had helped her break away in the first place, start the healing process. Anger, and a damn good therapist.

She flipped the lights to her bedroom, changed out of her coaching outfit—jeans and a red polo shirt with Northeastern’s name and mascot embroidered on the front breast pocket—and slipped into yoga pants and a stretch tank. As she yanked clothes off and on, she started to categorize all of Dax’s faults, hoping that would make her feel better.

He spoke down to her, constantly, as if she were four years old. She couldn’t order a freaking salad in a restaurant without him making some stupid comment on her choice.
Too much cheese, not enough protein. That dressing is all wrong for the flavor combination.
Nothing was right, and if she came close to being what he wanted, she was rewarded with the proverbial pat on the head.

He was forever waving his NHL career in everyone’s face. He used it to get in to hot spots, to get out of traffic tickets, to pick up women or just as a conversation piece. His pro career was his calling card, his “thing,” as he used to say. Why not play it up?

Her own time in the pros was, as he reminded her, insignificant and almost embarrassing. While she was still playing, he asked her to not mention her pro status to people he introduced her to. Too pathetic, and no point in mentioning it if she wasn’t the best. Why didn’t she just quit and move in with him and be there when he came home from practices and road games like the other girlfriends and wives?

When he didn’t get his way, he was manipulative, or at times scary. He never hit her, no. But he knew how to use his size as a weapon, and he had no qualms about throwing it around for intimidation. How she ever could have fallen for a man who could treat a woman like a verbal punching bag, like a nonentity, was beyond her.

And maybe worst of all…her parents loved him. He was just the type of high-powered, high-profile athlete they thought she should be seen with. Probably because they didn’t know he had a hand in her quitting tennis. All right, so that wasn’t really his fault. She walked back downstairs to grab her yoga mat from behind the couch. But it was definitely not a point in his favor.

Two years after leaving the golden goalie of the NHL, she could look back with perspective. He had been emotionally abusive. Many of the pro athletes she got to know through him were also. Their girlfriends sat like creepy china dolls, waiting to be told how to dress, what to say, how to act. Waiting to be useful to their man. It was sick, twisted.

And she would never get sucked into the vortex with another egotistical jock-head again, she reminded herself as she went into Sun Salutation. Never again.