Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) (7 page)

“I
might
be able to get us free tickets,” I tell Mariko, as we weave through the Chinatown crowd in front of the Eagles ticket office. “Emphasis on
might
. But if not, maybe we can catch a movie, or just get drinks . . .”

“I don’t care.” She smiles and bashes her mittened hands together to warm up. “Thanks for asking me to come out with you.”

I return the smile, despite the tight fist clenched in my gut. I shouldn’t have invited Mariko. Yes, it’s true that I need to make more of an effort to have actual ‘friends’ instead of merely co-workers and colleagues. But if Marcus was just giving me a load of pillow talk, and there’s no tickets waiting for us, I’m going to be seriously embarrassed.

Worse than embarrassed. A little disappointed.

I square my shoulders. But I can’t afford to think that way. If last night was all there was to the story of Marcus and me—so what? I’ll live. I’ve lived through worse. At least he seemed eager in the moment, and not frustrated with me and my dominating personality, like every other flippin’ guy I’ve slept with.

Oh. And that filthy mouth of his. And those clever, clever hands . . .

No, Fi. Focus. Enjoy an evening out with a friend. Right? A friend? You can make those, too.

Even if you can’t keep a guy for longer than it takes you to get dressed.

I reach the front of the Will Call line. “Hi, yeah, um. Tickets for Callahan? Fiona Callahan?”

“Sure, one second.”

The attendant flips through her box of reserved tickets. Makes it through all of the Cs, frowns, then starts back at the beginning. The fist in my gut starts to punch through. I’m a big, goddamned fool.

“Oh. Here we go. Someone put it in the Bs by accident.” She pulls out a slender folder. “Two tickets, right?”

I let out my breath. “That’s right.”

After she checks my idea, I strut back to Mariko and flash her the tickets. She squeals and bounces in place.

“Ohmigosh, Fi, you are
so cool
! I had no idea you had connections to the Eagles! Like, I didn’t wanna say anything, but I’m actually a huge fan. Like, a really, really big fan. Have you seen Drakonov? And Erik Magnussen?” She presses the back of her hand to her forehead. “What a bunch of hunks.”

“I’m partial to Marcus Wright, myself.”

Mariko giggles and loops her arm through mine. “Can’t blame you there. Though he hasn’t been doing so hot lately.” I hold out our tickets to the entry clerk and we slide our purses through security, then head into the arena. “Word is, they might send him down to the farm team if he doesn’t shape up by the All-Stars Game.”

“Wow. You really do know a lot about the Eagles.” I raise one eyebrow at her. Marcus hadn’t said anything about his uncertain prospects. Not, I realize, that we spent much time talking about hockey at all. “Where did you hear that?”

“Ummm, well . . .” She turns her gleaming dark eyes toward me. “Promise you won’t tell anyone else at the paper?”

I give her a confidential grin. “You got it. We’re off the record here.”

Mariko relaxes at that. “Well, I’ve been doing some freelance writing for the District of Sports blog. They get loads of insider tips on all the area sports teams. Anyway, I guess someone in the Eagles front office let it slip that Wright’s on unofficial probation with Coach Isaacs.”

“Interesting.” I wonder how recently that happened—if it’s true at all. And then, because I’m a relentless bloodhound, I start to wonder what else these “Eagles insiders” might know about Marcus. And all the other leads I’m chasing on my sports corruption story. “Hey, do you think your friends at District of Sports might be willing to talk to me about a story I’m working on?”

“A story about the Eagles? Maybe.” Mariko frowns. “I can put you in touch. But I didn’t think we were running anything on pro sports in the student paper.”

I clench my jaw. “Yeah, well . . . it’s not for the school paper.”

“Ahhh. I see. I’m not the only one chasing leads on the side.” She elbows me in the ribs. “I should’ve known. You’re going places, Fi.”

“Trying to, anyway.”

“You wanna be a hotshot at Insight News like your mom?” Mariko asks. “I can totally see that.”

My stomach sinks. No. I want to do my own thing. As much as I can, with a pedigree like mine. “We’ll see.”

Mariko checks our tickets again, then checks the Section number on the wall. “This looks like us. Holy crap, we’re going to be right against the glass, center ice.”

I blink. “So we are.”

“Why don’t you go find our seats while I get us some drinks? Then I want to hear all about this mysterious benefactor who got you these kick-ass seats.”

I manage to sidestep most of Mariko’s questions while we drink our beer and wait for the game to start. Yes, the tickets are from an Eagles staff member. Yes, it’s for this secretive story I’m working on. No, I really can’t say anything more.

Fortunately, she’s more than happy to spend most the time chatting a mile a minute about everything she knows about the Eagles and how they’re playing this season. “They say Drakonov’s coming back tonight. I wouldn’t, if it were me. Did you hear he got electrocuted? That’s messed up. By his own brother. I mean, I wish I
could
electrocute my brother sometimes, but still! Oh, and did you know she’s dating one of the girls in our class?”

“Yeah, I’m supposed to get an interview with her at some point,” I say. “Jael Pereira? Are she and Drakonov dating?”

“Yeah, supposedly they got back together after he got all healed up. Can you imagine? Dating a hockey star.” Mariko sighs wistfully. “The sex must be
fantastic.
”

I manage to only half-choke on my beer.

The lights dim, and a series of red and blue spotlights sweep across the packed arena. Despite the proliferation of Drakonov jerseys, my eye keeps picking out the Wright jerseys, and I have to force myself to look away. Mariko leaps up onto her seat and screams wildly, so I muster a half-hearted “Woo!” as the Washington Eagles team take the ice, one by one.

“Left Wing, Sergei Drakonov!”

So he really is back. The crowd erupts in stomps and whistles and cheers. Someone blasts an airhorn right behind us, and I jump.

“Center, Marcus Wright!”

The cheers are nearly as enthusiastic, but I do my best not to vary my volume from cheering for Sergei. Marcus circles the ice, waving to the crowd, and am I just imagining it, or does his gaze rest on my seat? I glance away quickly.

Then look back at him.

It really is a shame that hockey requires so much body armor and warm weather gear. Mentally, I summon up an image of his bared chest and abs, flawlessly sculpted, heaving and sweaty beneath my palms.

The announcer iterates through the rest of the Eagles team, then introduces the Nashville Hunters. I try not to think of Marcus. Anything but Marcus. It doesn’t mean anything that he gave me the tickets. We’ve had our fun, and now he’s done with me.

I tried starting to write up my notes on Marcus earlier today.
Wright looks like a brutal, efficient hockey machine, but he nurses a lingering heartache . . .
Sure, his admission was off the record, but I can find other ways of confirming it. I dug up a few of his old college friends through a little Facebook magic, and I’m hoping to get a little confirmation of the story he gave me.

It’s not a smear job—not about Marcus. If anything, it paints him in a far more human light than I’ll be shedding on the rest of the Eagles administration. If I can just find the rest of the dirt that I know is there. I make a mental note to pester Jael Pereira some more, and soon.

The buzzer sounds, and the first period begins.

Marcus is magical on the ice—he can weave and bob through any wall of players. I don’t yet have the sports vocabulary to understand what’s going on, and it’s all I can do to keep up with a puck, but I can tell he has an edge to his movements that some of the other players lack. Sometimes, though, it looks like he gets ahead of himself. A smirk to myself, remembering how I scolded him to be patient. Reminding him he had to earn his way.

Shit. No, Fi, you cannot be thinking that way. It was a one-time thing. Never to happen again.

Mariko watches breathlessly right alongside me, and when she realizes I’m not fully grasping what’s happening, she starts to point out key elements of the game to me.

“Okay, see, the Eagles have the power play, so the Hunters are doubling up on defense around their goal. Now watch Drakonov—he’s looking for a way through the Hunters’ screen. He’s looking for Wright. Snakes it between their legs—and Wright connects the pass beautifully and—YESSSSSS!!!!!”

She flings her arms skyward as the sound of the goal buzzer fills the arena. I join her, screaming, as sirens crash and the air horns wail and everyone shouts themselves raw. And in that moment, I can see how someone can get caught up in the drama, the tragedy and triumph, of sports. I can see how they might matter to people who need something to care about.

But it can’t change anything. I have to get my story. When the trail goes cold, find a new trail.

Like Mum always says.

At the period break, I check my phone, and grin to see one of my Facebook messages has already been responded to. David Gresham, now a law student in DC, but formerly a dear friend of Marcus Wright’s from College of Adams & Jefferson.

Okay, sure, I can meet. But please—I don’t want you to name me in the article. I’ll bring a confidentiality contract. Bar None, 9pm. If you’re not there, you’re SOL.

I raise one eyebrow. Something has him spooked about whatever it is he’s going to say. I quickly thumb back a response.
I’ll be there.

“Sorry, the investigative trail calls,” I tell Mariko. “I’ve gotta go.”

“What? But it’s just getting good!”

I shake my head. “Skittish source. Now or never. We can still do drinks afterward, if you want.”

“Okay.” Her shoulders slump. “Good luck. Text me when you’re done.”

I tug on my trench coat and head out to learn more about Marcus Wright’s lovelorn past.

Or whatever it is he’s hiding.

I am electrified tonight. I am Moses, parting the green sea of the Nashville Hunters. Whatever strange instinct Sergei drilled into me this morning, it is working beautifully. I see the plays opening up around me, and it’s like some kind of
A Beautiful Mind
action spinning around in my head. Plotting trajectories, knowing how the defense guys are gonna move, feeling the moment Sergei’s going to shoot before it actually happens.

And the scoreboard shows it.

Sergei’s got two goals and one assist; I’ve got one goal and two assists. We are a dynamic duo. When I hit the bench after a gruelingly long stretch of play, Coach Isaacs claps me on the shoulder and says, in his classic Canadian stoic tone, “Lookin’ good.”

I’ll take it.

And then there’s Fiona, watching me from the sweet seats I scored her and her friend. Her green eyes are dazzling as she watches—no lie, I make time to look at her, even when I’m on the ice. You can always tell when someone doesn’t quite get what’s happening, but she’s clapping and cheering, and asking her friend lots of questions, from what I can tell, so I know she’s trying.

A whole arena of people screaming my name when I score. But all I hear is her, and that wonderful, breathy moan against my ear.

I want to hear it again and again.

Sometime around the middle of the game, though, she vanishes. At first I figure she’s just getting a refill on her drinks—girl seems to like her vodka martinis—but by the third period, she still hasn’t returned. Her friend keeps pulling out her phone to check her screen, like she’s worried about her, but if it was something that serious, wouldn’t her friend have left with her?

Well, it’s none of my business. I just hope she’s okay. And that she’ll answer my texts after the game.

By eleven o’clock, we’ve won 4-2, we’ve gotten our ritual post-game pumping-up and dressing-down from Coach Isaacs, I’ve given about three short media interviews, and the locker room is slowly emptying out. Drakonov was the first out the door, turning down Magnussen’s invitation to grab drinks at the Red Star (now under new management, since the previous owners turned out to be mobsters).

“Sorry, my boys.” Drakonov winks. “I have the hottest date.”

I cheer him on with the rest, and wish I could say the same.

After my equipment’s all checked in, I consult my phone. Fi still hasn’t responded to my text from half an hour ago:
Enjoy the view?
I thumb out another query, offering to buy her drinks, but no thought bubbles appear to indicate a forthcoming response.

“Hey, Marcus, lookin’ good tonight. Made me look good, too.” Brian Osbourne, our main goalie, nudges me in the back. “How about a beer?”

“Sorry, man, already got plans.”

The words are out of my mouth before I even think them. But I feel it—that itch under my skin. That monstrous thing, begging to be set free. I need it. I need to let it roam for a while, to tear up my flesh and consume me.

I need Brimstone.

God dammit.

I slam my locker shut and press my face against the cool metal with a groan. No, no, no. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. My muscles are already beat to shit. What I need is a good hot soak in my jumbo Jacuzzi tub, overlooking the Potomac, while I comfort my heartache with a fine glass of Green Hat gin and my piles of money.

But no. Only Brimstone can soothe the particular brand of ache that I’m feeling.

I tug my sweater overhead with a snarl and head out into Chinatown.

Club Brimstone welcomes me like a cold embrace.

Brimstone is sleek chrome and black vinyl and Victorian clocks flocked velvet wallpaper. An eerie mish-mash of Edward Gorey and H. R. Giger. A red leather nun struts past me as soon as I enter, leading a nearly-naked congressman on a leash. A fanged South Asian woman bares her teeth at me and hisses as I try to angle around the massive Marie Antoinette ballgown of PVC she’s wearing to reach the bar.

“Hello, worm.” The woman at the bar slaps down a napkin on the counter and an empty glass. “I guess you’ll be wanting your usual tasteless swill.”

“Ease up, Carmilla, I’m not paying you for the sass.”

Carmilla bats her false eyelashes, spangled with butterflies and stars, at me. “Fine, fine. The usual for you?”

“Please.”

She pours me one of her exceptional bourbon drinks, full of all sorts of rare liquors and bitters I can’t pronounce. “Want me to tell the Mistress you’ve arrived?”

“Please. Victoria, if she’s free.”

Carmilla nods and saunters over to the phone beside the bar to have a quick chat with the main office.

The guy at the bar next to me, in a long black trench coat, does that thing people do to me a lot. Where they’re checking me out, knowing they recognize me from somewhere, but are trying to play like they aren’t checking me out. It’s fine. Even in Washington, I’m not a household name like Drakonov. It’d take a serious Eagles fan to know me instantly. But now I wonder how likely that is to continue, if I get sent back down to the farm team.

Just another reason to atone.

Carmilla returns to the bar and flashes me a quick smile. “Please proceed to your usual room. You know Vic’s rules?”

A tiny jolt of electricity courses through me. “Oh, yes, I do.”

My usual room is the Taj Mahal, a sumptuous silken affair straight out of
Moulin Rouge
. Breezy fabrics in jewel tones sway gently in the draft from the HVAC (skillfully concealed), and the scent of spicy incense wafts all around me.

Victoria usually insists that I shower immediately before a session, but I just came from the showers in the locker room, so I’m not too worried about pissing her off. I peel off each item of clothing I’m wearing and fold it up, neatly, and stack it on a pile of cushions in the corner.

Then I crouch down into a ball on the floor, sitting on my heels, my arms tucked around my knees.

And wait.

Victoria likes to make me wait. It’s all part of the experience. Somewhere, I’m sure, there’s a hidden camera monitoring the room—Club Brimstone is lousy with ‘em, for their workers’ safety—and I can just picture her sitting behind her bay of security cameras, smirking. I don’t mind. It gives me time to prepare. To sink into that dark space, the one Fiona just barely scratched the surface of. To remember all the reasons I need to atone.

Oh, there are so many reasons.

Finally, after what must be fifteen minutes have passed, the door to the Taj Mahal room crashes open.

“Get up. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Get the fuck up.”

Victoria slams the door shut. I curl my head against the ground to look at her behind me: she’s standing with her legs spread wide in her thigh-high boots and corset, her fists planted firmly on her hips. The red slash of her mouth is twisted into a scowl.

“I’m sorry, Mistress.” I slowly uncurl from the ball I’m wrapped in and stand before her. “I thought you’d like me this way.”

“You think you know me? You think you can assume what I want you to do?” She spits—real, actual spit—right in my face. “Fuck you. You wait for me to tell you. Stand still.”

For a long, cruel minute, she paces a circle around me, tapping one finger against her red-stained lips. She’s tall, though she wouldn’t quite as tall as me if she weren’t wearing five-inch heels. White, but tan, though devoid of tan lines that I can see. Her blonde hair, frayed from too many chemicals, is swept into a severe French braid down her back.

I used to think her divine, but now, I see all the faint ways in which she’s fallen short. There’s a weariness to her that belies her few years. She can’t be much older than me, but this is a rough business. Few people probably hold her in much higher regard than they’d hold a stripper. Maybe worse. I invented a backstory for her in my head—she’s just a sweet little sorority girl from one of the private schools in DC, looking to pay her way through school so she can keep up with all her trust-fund friends.

And it’s true that this is just a job. It’s a business transaction. I’m not going to read anything more into our sessions than what’s there, and neither will she. I’m not one of the crazies, stalking the dominatrixes, or trying to pressure them into more than what the contract states.

But it isn’t what I really want.

What I really want is Fiona, and that tears at my heart way more than it should.

“You look rough.” Her gaze rakes over me, harsh as her acrylic nails will feel soon. “Have you been letting another mistress command you?”

“Only you, Mistress Victoria.” I keep my gaze straight ahead. I’m not allowed to look directly at her until she says I can.

She cackles, low and throaty. “Unless you count the mistress hockey, I suppose.” She seizes my chin in her hands. “Isn’t that right, worm?”

I swallow, trying to alleviate the pressure in my jaw, but the way her nails are biting into the soft flesh under my chin feels incredible. It stings and swells, and I try to focus on that. “Yes, Mistress. I got slammed against the boards. But I did my fair share of dishing it out, too.”

“Good boy.” She releases me and struts away, then turns to her array of instruments, lined up on the wall. Her gloved hand glides over the floggers, riding crops, whips, ropes . . . “Hmmm. What shall we use on you tonight?”