Page 8 of Pipe Dreams
“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 curlin 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.
