EPILOGUE
Lianne
THE HOCKEY GAME starts in two minutes, and I am still hoofing it toward the rink. Tardiness is inexcusable, because this is a quarter-finals game. Harkness men’s hockey is trying to squeak into the Eastern championships, and then hopefully into the NCAA finals. And I have become nearly as rabid a hockey fan as Bella these past couple of months.
It’s a sickness, and I don’t want to be cured.
As I trot across campus, I try to keep my mind on Harkness’s chances. The team has been hit hard by injury the last two weeks, and I’m worried. Our Boston opponents are having the same problems. I know it’s bad karma to wish injury on anyone. But it would be really nice of God to keep these things even. All the talk at Orsen’s house this week has been about whether or not O’Hane will be able to play this weekend. He’s nursing a shoulder injury. And we’ve already benched Big-D for a stress fracture.
Our defense could be a problem.
These are my thoughts as I hurry toward the rink. Because the other thing that’s on my mind is an email I received a little while ago out of the blue. And I feel a shiver of nervous excitement thinking of it.
Dear Lianne,
A couple of weeks ago I received a letter from your college friend Daniel Trevi. He told me that you might be considering a change of management, and he thought you could use my help. And he suggested I reach out to you.
I have to tell you, I felt really guilty when I got this note, because I should have asked you long ago whether there was any way I could help. And to be honest, I’d lost track of the fact that you’re all grown up and making your own decisions now. Every Christmas when I call your mother to say hello and ask about you, she gives me a big fat brush-off, which didn’t encourage me to keep asking questions.
That’s no excuse, though. I’m sorry. I can’t believe it’s been eight years since I’ve seen you.
I went home and I told my girlfriend the whole story. She called me an asshole, and I’m sure I had it coming.
Lianne—if you need any help or advice on the management side, or if you’d just like to have lunch next week when I’m next in New York, please let me know. I’m on the East Coast about a third of the time. I have an office in Union Square. So if next week doesn’t work, I’m sure we can find another time.
Sincerely,
Rick Challice
There are several mind-blowing things about this letter, not the least of which is the fact that leaving Bob might turn out to be easier than I thought. And that Rick speaks to my mom. Every year. And my mom has failed to tell me. Every year.
But also, when I first read it, I couldn’t imagine what possessed DJ to hunt down Rick and then ask for his help without consulting me. But then I remembered the conversation we’d had in the hotel lobby, and how I’d said I was afraid to ask Rick to help me.
I’d forgotten all about that chat, but obviously DJ had not. Then the logic became clear—if DJ asked Rick for help and Rick blew him off, I’d never have to know. DJ did this for me because I needed help, and he wanted to fix it.
I got a little teary over it. Like J. Lo on American Idol, but without the highlights. Then I realized I was going to be late for the hockey game, and my makeup was starting to run. So I had to fix it.
Even as I scamper across campus, I’m thinking warm, happy thoughts about DJ. Some of those thoughts include various ways we might celebrate later. I’ve gotten better at expressing my appreciation lately. It got easier to say sexy things to DJ when I realized how much he liked it. So I’ve been practicing with little things that I’ll whisper in his ear.
Tonight seems like the perfect time to step up my game. So I pull out my phone, taking a page out of Bella’s book. She’d told me what to say once before, and I’d refused. But now I’m so full of gratitude, it’s time to surprise my man.
The phone rang only once before he answered, and the sounds of a very full hockey stadium were suddenly in my ear. “‘Lo?”
“DJ,” I sort of shout into the phone so he can hear me. “I want to strip you naked and bounce on your dick.”
“Lianne?”
I yank the phone away from my ear and stare at the call screen. It says “DJ” on it, just as it should. “DJ?” I yell into the mouthpiece.
“It’s Graham. DJ had to—”
I don’t give him a chance to finish. Instead, I hang up, my heart pounding.
Holy God.
Two minutes later I show my ID at the door and scurry through the student entrance. I don’t bother looking for Bella in the stands, because I’ll be watching the game from the press box. That’s where I sit for every game now, watching DJ work and interfering with his playlist when I see fit.
But Graham will be in there.
What have I done?
I open the press-box door a couple of inches, just to make sure Graham is busy at his computer. If I’m going to be avoiding him for the rest of my life, I kind of need to start now.
But he isn’t in front of his computer. Instead, he’s standing over DJ’s setup, poking at the sound board.
And DJ is nowhere in sight.
Graham turns around and catches me watching him. “Hey! Could you please get over here? I can’t find the introduction music.”
Damn it.
I scurry over, and there’s no time, because the players are circling the ice to silence. Bending over DJ’s computer, I flip between playlists until I find U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”
The crowd actually cheers when the music starts up, and Graham heaves a sigh of relief.
“Where’s DJ?” I ask.
“My God, do you two not talk?” He slides out of the way. “He said you’d cover for him.”
“We would have talked except…” Gah! Why did you have to answer his phone?
A slow smile spreads across Graham’s face. “Right. You know, it’s a shame, but the last call to DJ’s phone was a terrible connection. I couldn’t hear a thing.”
I roll my eyes. “Good. We shall never speak of this again.”
“Fine. But anyway—DJ needs you to back him up tonight.” He waves at the equipment.
“Why?”
“The players are lining up, Lianne.”
Shit! I whip around and fade out the song so the announcer can call for the national anthem. A women’s a cappella singing group does the honors while I slip into the seat and check everything over. DJ’s computer is all cued up and ready to go. But where is he?
Down on the ice, players circle into position for the first faceoff. I hit play on Santana’s “Smooth” while they get into position. They crouch in readiness. The ref drops the puck, and I fade out the song.
Again I turn around. “Seriously—is something wrong? Where’s DJ?”
“Not a thing is wrong. Not really.” Graham’s smile is strange.
“Okay? Then…?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“What?”
He only gives me that odd smile and moves down the row to sit in his seat.
Below me the game is in progress, and I have to pay attention. Harkness looks strong tonight. Leo and John Rikker execute a number of fast passes which leave the other team struggling to keep up. But two minutes in, they haven’t gotten off a shot. There’s a line change, and then we lose possession. Fortunately the other guys get called for icing. I play “Ice Ice Baby” for the faceoff, and wonder where DJ is.
I’ve gotten good at this, and my hockey knowledge is a whole lot better than it used to be. DJing the game is easy now, though I still wish I weren’t doing it alone. These past couple of months together have been a lot of fun. I’ve always loved DJ’s company, but after his problems were resolved, he became lighter. Sillier. We have a great time both in and out of the press box.
Things are going pretty well down on the ice, too. Boston gets called for high sticking, so I play “Hard to Handle” by the Black Crowes. I’m squinting at the line change when I notice something odd. One of our defensive players is much shorter than the other one. Who is that?
“Oh my God,” I say suddenly. “Oh my GOD!”
“Now she gets it,” Graham mutters from two seats down.
“DJ!” I squeal. I’m so excited that I forget to fade out the Black Crowes and the song plays three seconds too long before I jam down the fade lever. Then I plant my hands on the desk and lean so far over for a better view of the ice that falling into the stands would be a real risk if I weren’t so short.
DJ is chasing down a Boston player on the backcheck. “GET IT!” I scream. He makes several attempts before successfully lifting the other player’s stick and knocking the puck out of the other guy’s control.
The skidding puck goes wide until it’s picked up by another Harkness D-man, who barely gets the pass off to a forward before getting slammed into the plexi. It’s not the cleanest play, but THAT WAS MY BOYFRIEND WHO STOLE THE PUCK!
I’m practically in defib from the excitement.
Harkness charges around, looking for a scoring opportunity while the penalty clock ticks down on the opponent. Coach calls for an unlikely line change of forwards at the forty-second mark, and I can barely breathe. The fresh legs take a run at the net, but it’s a fake-out. Leo Trevi flicks the puck backward under his own skate to his brother. My heart is in my mouth when DJ fires it back immediately to Rikker.
Who scores.
My scream could shatter windows.
I’m jumping around and shouting, tearing my way over to Graham. He’s on his feet too, because his boyfriend just scored the goal that mine assisted. “Oh my GOD!” I shriek, throwing myself at him. I’ve probably shattered his eardrum. Down on the ice they’re having a proper celly, high-fiving Rikker and rubbing DJ’s helmet. “This is awesome! I love you, Graham.”
Laughing, he sets me on my feet. “You know there’s dead air right now, right?”
“FUCK!” I skid back over and double click on “Moves Like Jagger.” I’m the worst DJ ever tonight. And it’s totally worth it.
During the break between periods, I finally get the story from Graham.
“It’s O’Hane’s shoulder,” our resident sportswriter explains. “Coach wants to take it easy on him if he can. And Bridger has a stomach bug.”
“Oh!” Bridger is the senior who filled in last year in the post-season when Graham got injured. I try not to think too hard about how dangerous hockey really is. “So they just came up to the press box and said, ‘DJ where are your skates?’”
Graham laughs. “I think they caught him at home when he was packing up his computer to come here. But, yeah. Pretty much. He dropped his computer here, plugged it in and told me to have you take over. Meanwhile, Leo was practically dragging him out of here by the collar. He looked a little stressed out.”
“I bet.” I hope DJ is enjoying himself. Skating in a Harkness playoff game wasn’t something he ever thought he’d do. I hope this night is everything for him.
Also, I resolve to be a better DJ for the rest of the game. If he hears me slipping up, it will stress him out.
This gives me an idea.
There are six minutes left in the break, and already the Zamboni is halfway done surfacing the ice. So I’ll have to work fast.
My next batch of songs is eclectic, to put it mildly. There won’t be any calls to give me the job permanently after tonight’s game. But I don’t care. This is for DJ. The first time I ever watched a game from the booth I was already on my way to falling for him. So if nobody but DJ understands my picks tonight, it’s really okay with me.
My choices might sound weird. But my cues are all perfect, no matter how nervous I am. Even when DJ is crosschecked into the boards, I keep it together, and he’s back on his feet before I have the song cued up. I play:
“Dynamite” by Taio Cruz.
“Jump” by Van Halen.
“Dancing in the Streets,” the Bowie and Mick Jagger version.
“Jenny” by Tommy Tutone, the only song that made the world memorize a phone number.
“Dancing with Myself” (The Green Day Cover, because what is a hockey game without Green Day?)
“Just What I Needed,” the old Cars tune.
“Daughter” by Pearl Jam.
“Justify My Love.” Thank you Madonna.
“Dancing in the Dark.”
“Jailhouse Rock.”
“Dark Horse” by Katy Perry.
“Jet Airliner” by the Steve Miller Band.
In other words: D J D J D J D J… I spell out my boyfriend’s nickname over and over with the starting letter of the songs I choose. And even if they throw tomatoes at me afterward, it’s worth it.
Three periods seem to last three years, and DJ doesn’t get anymore shots at greatness. But when it’s over, Harkness has won the game, 3-1.
I’m sweaty and high on adrenaline by the time the buzzer sounds. With shaky hands I carefully pack up DJ’s computer and cables in the bag he’s tucked under the desk.
“Good game, right?”
I look up to find Graham waiting for me. “The best.”
He winks. “You need anything?”
“I’m good. Except…” This is weird. “Where do I wait for him?” I’ve never been a puck bunny before. I don’t know the protocol. Too bad there isn’t any time to make a stupid sign. Like MEET ME BEHIND THE ZAMBONI or YOU CAN HOOK ME ANYTIME YOU WANT.
“In the hallway downstairs. C’mon. I’ll show you.”
I follow Graham down a staircase and into the bowels of the rink. It’s the same place we went the night DJ walked me out the back to keep out of the photographer’s way. Except we turn right instead of left, and the corridor is stuffed with people. Girls, mostly. “So this is puck bunny central,” I say, eyeing all the swinging ponytails and Harkness Hockey T-shirts.
“Watch it,” Graham says, elbowing me. “I don’t like that term.” He crosses his big arms in an exaggerated way and gives me a comical face.
“Sorry!” I laugh. “Present company excepted. Obvs.”
“Obvs.”
“Is it weird to wait here? I mean…last year you were in there.” I point to the locker room door.
He grins. “I never wait here. I was just showing you the ropes. After the game I have a story to file. My editor reads ’em all to make sure I mention other players besides Rik.”
“But he had a goal and an assist tonight. It’s not like you can leave him out of the article.”
“See my problem?” He winks.
“What is taking so long, anyway?” I can’t wait for DJ to come out here so the celebrating can begin.
“They have to beat on their chests and dance around to ‘Centuries.’ These things take a while. Then there’s showering and slapping each other with towels. And words from Coach.”
“Huh.” I stand up on my tiptoes, but there are a lot of people between me and the door. I don’t see any players yet. Although one head of long red hair makes me do a double-take. I try to raise myself up even higher, but there’s only so much a short girl can do. Then a pair of hands grasps my ribcage and lifts me a few extra inches into the air. “Thanks,” I huff as Graham offers me a better look of the girl leaning against the wall outside the locker room.
Hosanna.
When Graham sets me down, I don’t know what to think. Who is she here to congratulate?
“Here they come,” Graham says.
Leo is the first one to emerge from the locker room, and Amy pops out of the scrum to take a flying leap at him. She then holds up traffic by trying to eat Leo’s face.
Lovely.
Rikker is the next to emerge, and he grins when he sees Graham waiting for him. “This is a surprise.”
Graham holds up his fist for a bump, but Rikker grabs Graham’s outstretched hand and pulls him into a headlock, then proceeds to give him a world-class noogie.
“Christ,” Graham complains, shaking his boyfriend off. “And you wonder why I don’t wait for you here in estrogen alley.”
Chuckling, Rikker heads for the door, and I see Graham pinch his ass as he follows him out.
That was cute. But where’s mine?
Other players begin to stream from the door, and I wait with a goofy smile on my face. The hallway begins to clear somewhat, giving me a better view of the door. None of the freshly showered heads that emerge are the one I’m waiting for. And then, finally, DJ emerges from the doorway, and he’s the only one with a big bag of equipment on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he says quickly to the girl closest to the door, because the bag nudges her in the chest.
That girl is Hosanna.
I watch while DJ does the same double-take as I did. “Hey,” he says, with an awkward wave.
“Hey,” she replies with a nervous smile. “Good game.”
“Thanks.” He moves forward with an uncertain look on his face.
Behind DJ, the injured freshman O’Hane emerges. His hair isn’t wet from the shower, and he looks a little bummed.
“There you are!” Hosanna says brightly.
Immediately O’Hane’s face lights up. “Hey! You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He scoops her up into a hug.
“Careful of your shoulder,” she says immediately.
“Nah, it’s okay.”
I tear my eyes off this little surprise when DJ stops in front of me, a funny smile on his face. “Hi, smalls.”
The sight of him triggers my inner Amy. Springing forward, I wrap my arms around his neck. “Oh my God, that was fun to watch. You were awesome! Was it amazing? What did Leo say? Did you hear my playlist?”
Chuckling, DJ drops his bag and braces himself against my onslaught. “What’s with those sloppy fades in the first period?”
I punch him in the arm. “You asshole! I was in shock!”
“Kidding, smalls.” He backs me up against the wall and kisses me. “Thank you for the interesting musical selections at the end there. I loved it.”
“That was me cheering.”
“I know.” He kisses me again, and the slide of his lips against mine sends a ripple through my insides. Then he says, “Let’s get out of here, sweetheart,” and the ripple turns to a quake. I’d better stop making fun of puck bunnies. I think I just became one.
He grabs his giant bag and I skip along in front of him to get the door. “I want to hear everything! Did you even get to warm up? And do you think they’ll need you in the semi-finals?”
We emerge into the dark April night. “I had no prep time at all, but it was almost better that way. No expectations, you know? Just ‘Get in here, we need a warm body because O’Hane needs another night off and Bridger’s puking.’”
Ahead of us on the sidewalk are Hosanna and O’Hane, holding hands. I reach over and nudge DJ. “That’s a surprise.”
“Who knew, right?” He gives me a big smile with both dimples.
I wink. “Okay, I’m still not over this game, though. That assist blew my mind. Just…no hesitation!”
His smile is truly beautiful. “I think I’ll be remembering that when I’m old. Maybe it’s because I played with Leo my whole life, but I just knew he was going to flick the puck back to me like that. And I guess Rikker did too, because he got open.” He shakes his gorgeous head. “It was just perfect.”
I sigh. “It was. And I effed up the victory music because I was busy freaking out.”
“I didn’t even notice, because I was freaking out, too.”
We turn toward DJ’s house and walk half a block. But then he stops and turns to me. “Are you up for a party? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what we’ll find at my house. If you’re not, we can go to your place after I drop off this bag.”
I take his hand in mine. “We’ll just see. Maybe Bella will make me a margarita.”
DJ squeezes my hand. “Sounds like fun, but I’m cutting you off after one.”
“And why’s that?” I tease.
“Gonna need you sober later.”
My ripple becomes a shimmy, and I pick up our pace toward the house.
In Orsen’s living room there is much rejoicing.
There’s music and dancing on the coffee table courtesy of Pepe. Alas, there are no margaritas. Bella is on a gin and tonic kick, and I’m not a fan. So sobriety is not an issue.
“Lianne! Come fight trolls with us!” Leo calls from across the living room.
Amy gives me a bitchy stare and I almost say yes just to teach her a lesson. But I’m not in the mood. These days, I rarely play DragonFire except with Leo. And we had a game just yesterday. “Another time!” I call. “You need the practice, anyway.”
He gives me the finger.
I love Leo, and now that DJ is less stressed out, we spend more time with him. I don’t know why, but he and DJ are sharing a beanbag chair right now. It’s a really cute picture, so I pull out my phone to get the shot. The phone opens to my email app, which makes me remember—for the first time in four hours—the email I received from my brother.
Only a wild night watching my boyfriend play hockey could have made me forget.
I take the picture and then walk over to ruffle DJ’s hair. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
He looks up immediately. “Sure, smalls. Hang on.” He struggles out of the beanbag and follows me to his room, where I sit on the bed. Playfully, he pushes me back onto the mattress. “So. Is talking code for something else?” He kisses my ear.
“Not in this case. Although you can feel free to hold that thought for just a few minutes.”
He gives me a wicked grin and rolls onto his back, tucking both his arms behind his head. “Okay. Then what’s on your mind?”
But now I’m distracted because his shirt rides up to reveal a nasty scratch on his belly. I lift the shirt and see red skin and the beginnings of bruising. Everywhere. “What happened?”
He pulls the shirt down. “That’s just payment for all the fun I had tonight. Boston wanted it bad. If they ask me to fill in again, I might borrow some newer pads.”
“Are they going to?” That’s an exciting idea.
“No idea. Depends on everybody’s injuries and the risks that coach chooses to take.” He gives me a tired shrug. “I’m not even going to worry about it. It was great to be asked, and even better to play. Tonight was like a victory for the short people of the world. I’m just happy I got to do it. I’m a pretty lucky guy these days.” He gives me a sexy wink.
Aw. “Does this hurt?” I lay a hand gently onto his abs.
“Not there.” He gives my hand a little shove down his belly. “Lower, baby.” When I roll my eyes, he grabs my hand and kisses it. “Really, I’m fine. Let’s talk about your thing.”
Right. “My thing is that I got an email from my brother Rick today, inviting me to lunch.”
His eyes widen and he sits up on his elbows. “Smalls, I gotta tell you—”
I silence him with a raised hand. “It’s okay. I know you wrote to him.”
“I’m sorry I went behind your back. That was nosy, but I couldn’t figure out another way to feel him out.”
“I get it.” I pat his chest gently, mindful of the bruises. “I know exactly why you did it. It was actually a really kind thing to do.”
He catches my hand, covering it with his larger one. “It was supposed to be. I’m glad he answered you. Are you going to meet him?”
“Definitely. It was a really nice note. Do you think you could come along, too? I mean, if it’s not at a bad time…”
“Of course I will. Already told you that, smalls. I’ll go anywhere you lead me.”
His smile and those big brown eyes, they just break my heart. “Listen, I’m worried about one thing.” I put my free hand on his cheek. “If you play any more games, isn’t there a pad you could put over your dimples?” I put my thumb right there in its favorite place, feeling his evening whiskers tickle my finger. “Don’t hurt the dimples.”
He pulls me down onto his chest. “You got it bad, babe.”
I really do.
His kiss is soft, and I sink into it, still mindful of his midsection. “Is there anything I should kiss to make it better?”
“Um…” He laughs and kisses me again. “I can think of a few places.”
“Funny, so can I.” I kiss down the side of his face and into his neck. He smells like soap and DJ.
With a happy groan, he tightens his grip on my body, pulling my hips against his.
Life is good. And getting better all the time.
