Page 5 of Playing for Keeps

“I’m not hot anything, Emerson. Tonight was my first pro game, and I only played because our goalie wrecked his hip. Thanks to me, we lost by three.”

I swirl the ice around in my glass. “I take it losing by three is bad?” I wince at his expression. “I’m not what you’d call a sports fan.”

He smiles at that. “I guess that’s another thing I like about you. I don’t feel like I’m on display right now.”

I chuckle and take another big sip. My body is feeling floaty now, my head swirling. “You’re on display for sure. Every woman and half the men who walk by are drinking you in.”

Gunnar leans toward me, sliding his glass away with his massive hand. “You feeling thirsty, Emerson?”

I swat at his hand and smile, taking the final sip of my drink. Leaning forward over the table, I can smell him: lime and cedar, whiskey and cinnamon. I stare into his eyes a bit and see some vulnerability in there. My whiskey-mind remembers his confession about his rough game, so I say, “I’m really sorry your debut was stressful.” I brave running a finger along the back of his hand. “I might not know sports, but I’m very familiar with performance anxiety and the way it feels to overanalyze a bad night.”

I watch him swallow, the beautiful muscles of his throat working, and then his jaw clenches before he nods. “Thanks.” He furrows his brow, the sandy blond fuzz dipping toward those bright eyes. “You’ve played in public before? A lot?”

“Ha!” I reach for his whiskey and down it, surprising both of us. I sit back in my chair as Gunnar signals the server for another round of drinks. I wonder if he’s feeling as buzzed as me, but I doubt it, considering he’s probably got fifty pounds on me. And I’m no slim pixie, much to my mother’s chagrin. “Gunnar, all I’veever done is play. My whole damn life was mapped out for me, but nobody ever bothered to ask me if I wanted to stick with that atlas.”

“You don’t want to play the cello?” He crosses his arms and leans back in his seat as well. He has already ditched the suit coat, draping it over the third chair at our table and covering half of my cello case. Gunnar has rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing muscular forearms that seem unfair. These are not the forearms of a percussionist or viola player. These are the powerful arms of a man who could bench press a viola player.

I shake my brain away from staring and explain, “All I’ve ever wanted to do is play my cello. But I want to play my music, my way.” I sigh. “I was doing that today, actually.”

The server brings our replacement drinks, and Gunnar raises his glass in gratitude. “You sounded incredible. But I already mentioned that.”

“Thank you. Today marks my big mutiny.” He gestures for me to continue, and my words all seem to spill out at once. “My first act of rebellion was pawning my designer shoes to buy myself a cello.”

Gunnar arches a brow, looking so handsome and intrigued. I smile and continue. “I took off my Prada Mary Janes and traded them for that gal over there. My parents were incensed. It’s not a ladylike instrument, especially not when the player has to straddle the great wooden body like a lover.” I watch as Gunnar’s eyes shift at that. His jaw clenches. I have no experience with lovers, but I can tell the word is affecting him. I fiddle with my glass and lean closer, feeling bold. Maybe it’s the liquor. “I was taught violin and flute—dainty instruments befitting the female child of a legendary conductor.”

“Hmm,” he nods. “You have a famous dad in the same industry.” He raises his glass. “Now that's something I can relate to.”

“Yeah.” I smile at him and shrug. “Eventually, someone must have convinced my parents it was okay for me to have a side hobby…as if playing the cello were so very different from making other music. They constantly sneered at me, forced me to use a sound damper when I played in the apartment, but mostly ignored it as long as I went on dates with the appropriate sons of wealthy investors and wore my pearls to quartet performances.”

Gunnar chuckles. “Pearls, eh?”

My phone starts vibrating in my bag again. I have no idea who is trying to reach me. I’m not feeling compelled to check. “Eventually, they’ll find me and drag me back to the stuffy compositions by dead men. But today I just wanted to play my style, my way.”

Gunnar looks alarmed. “Drag you? Who?” He sits up straighter, and I shake my head.

“Probably not physically drag me. But …” I hesitate. This is supposed to be carefree drinks. This guy doesn’t want to hear my whole sad story. But then again, he was honest with me about his day. “I was performing in public this morning at Penn Station. My father saw me and blew a gasket.” I don’t tell Gunnar that the maestro called me worthless trash and an idiot. Even without these details, Gunnar seems upset. “Ordinarily, I sort of take it when he yells at me … but today I figured, I have a college degree now. I am an adult. There’s absolutely no reason I shouldn’t turn around and just board the first train.”

My date smiles, his face blooming with admiration. “That’s kind of awesome. Wait. This was today?”

I nod. “Yeah. The train went to the airport, and the airplane went here.” I finish my second glass of whiskey. Or is it my third? My speech is a little slower now, but so are my thoughts, and for that, I am grateful.

Gunnar laughs and takes a big swig of his drink, his eyes a bit glassy. I suppose he was drinking a little before introducinghimself, and well, the two of us seem somewhat less than sober. “So, what comes next, Em?” He leans forward on his elbows, his face an inch from mine.

I purse my lips. “I have no idea.” I lean closer to him. “What do you think I should do?”

Gunnar laughs and rubs the stubble on his cheek. “You could wait for that manager to call you. It seemed like you had a job offer there.”

I shake my head. “No one wants to stay in Vegas. I certainly don’t.”

Nodding, he taps his fingers on the table. “I know I’m biased, but Pittsburgh is pretty nice. We have a symphony.”

“A symphony is the last thing I want right now. No, thank you.” When the server stops by offering glowing test tubes of neon liquid, my stomach protests, but my whiskey-fueled brain gets excited, and I clap my hands.

Gunnar pulls out some cash and procures two tubes, and we smile at one another over the blue drinks. “You could come and stay with me, though, while you figure out what’s next. I have a big place, and I hate living alone.”

I glance over at my cello. “You don’t want me as a roommate.”

His brows shoot up as he downs the drink. I follow suit and cough at the sickly sweet berry flavor. He says, “Don’t tell me what I want, Emerson.”

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