Page 55 of The Big Puck

Second, she’s a decent person even if she’s not for me. She came down here and watched my game even though she’s not a hockey fan, and I can’t exactly blame her if she uses a person’s job as a measuring stick because that’s what most people do. That’s what I’ve been doing.

With a hand on my wine glass, I listen to her talk about the hotel guest who wouldn’t leave and how she refused to call the police, instead tricking him into leaving his room.

“One of the managers suggested pulling a fire alarm, and I pointed out that would hardly be any better for business—or the other hotel guests’ nerves—than calling the police.”

“So, what did you do?” I find I want to know.

She grins, and her perfect teeth shine. I stare, but there’s no beaming rays of sun wrapping me in welcome or blaring trumpets heralding her magnificent joy—not like Lainey’s smile. Nothing like it. Shit. I maintain a semblance of my smile though it feels less natural now.

“I found out he loves watching Jeopardy, so I had the maid whisper about Ken Jennings playing golf and being down at the club house. You should have seen him shoot out of his room as soon as she left. We were in his room scooping up his belongings so fast we had them waiting out front for him before he knew it.” She laughs.

I can’t even bring myself to chuckle. Fuck. I smile anyway, but all I feel is sad.

How did I get myself into this place where I’ve been walking through the motions with a woman—with life in general, except for hockey?

“I need more,” I say out loud.

She knits her brows, and I can’t blame her. “What? More wine? You’ve hardly touched what you have?” She laughs, but I hear the unease.

“More from a relationship,” I say.

Her eyes go wide. “What are you saying? Are you pro—”

“No.” I cut her off so fast and sharply that a few people turn their heads to us. I lower my voice. “No, I mean I want someone, if I’m going to have a relationship, who’s as into hockey as I am, someone I can share more than a bed with.”

She sits back in her chair and gives me a cynical quirk of her mouth. “This from a man who says he has no time for anything but hockey? Now, you suddenly want a serious relationship?”

“Yes—no.” I shake my head. “I don’t want a serious relationship—you’re right. But if I did have one, it would have to include hockey. I’m all in with hockey. And I realize I would need someone who’s also all in with hockey, too, or it doesn’t feel right.”

“So, you’re saying it doesn’t feel right between us? After you call me to come here, after making me take a weekend off?”

“I’m sorry—”

She pushes her chair back and stands. “I want to leave.”

Nodding, I get out my wallet and thank fuck I’m carrying enough cash to more than cover the bill. She picks up my glass of wine and drains it, then turns. I rush to follow her. More than a few stares are aimed in our direction from the thinned-out crowd of late night diners, but no cell phones, thank fuck.

Quiet tension permeates the air on the ride home, and I do nothing to spur a conversation to find out what’s on her mind, because it’s clear that she’s angry more than sad and ready to explode. I’d prefer to get home without crashing the car.

We go inside the front door, and I’m glad she uses the front stairs to go up to her room. Less chance of waking Krissy—or worse, Lainey. Shit. I follow her into the guest room and shut the door behind me.

She wheels around. “I knew you had something going on with that girl—”

“No. I don’t. There’s nothing…” I can’t bring myself to lie, but damn if I know what the fucking truth is.

“Don’t lie to me.” She watches me, and I could swear I have my game face on, but she sees something. Maybe she’s learned a few things about me in the course of our casual relationship—because that’s what it’s been I now realize—pretty much a fling.

She speaks softly, “Or maybe you’re lying to yourself. I know you’re not the cheating type. Don’t tell me you’ve never been with her…?” It’s a rhetorical question so I don’t answer.

She laughs.

“It’s not funny, Shonda. Lainey is not… She’s not…”

“What, Spencer? Spit it out.”

“Not for me.”

“Really? You could have fooled me the way she looks at you and talks about you, and you—just look at you. You really are a fool. Why did you invite me here? To try and keep her away?” Her voice rises, and I glance at the door.