Chapter 19
Nick woke up, stretched, and sniffed the air. Paint and sex. His bedroom definitely smelled like paint and sex. And his sheet was wrinkled where Alyssa had grabbed it as she climaxed.
Oh, shit. He’d had sex with the decorator.
The bed still smelled faintly of her, something floral, but not heavy. A June garden when the foliage hadn’t yet overgrown its space. She smelled like dappled green light. If he were going to paint her, he’d put her in a long white dress in an early summer garden, stroke in cerulean blue for the shadows in her skirt, maybe some Scheveningen blue. He’d use Old Holland paint or Michael Harding—she was worth it. It would look like something Monet would have painted—except that wasn’t his style. What did it mean if you couldn’t paint a woman in your own style?
He stood up and padded into his green living room. She’d gotten the shade right. It was light, unobtrusive. It would give the place a natural, outdoorsy feel without calling attention to itself or being too dark. Greens were tricky, and yet she’d made a slap shot from center ice.
But shit. He’d slept with her. What was he thinking?
Eric had had an ultrasound picture taped inside his locker.
Tyler, Luka, and Sammy had been happily playing the field.
Dragan had boarded the plane with a ring in his pocket.
And then it all ended.
None of them were slipping the interior designer’s panties off. Although Sammy totally would have. Nick smiled faintly. Sammy definitely would have approved.
Nick wished he could see Sammy’s reaction to Alyssa. Sammy knew a pretty woman when he saw one, and he would have liked her too. Nick was sure of that. He felt like his insides were glowing and Sammy would see that, would give him a warm smile, slap him on the arm, and say, “Don’t mess this up.”
“I won’t,” he said out loud. He wasn’t sure if he was promising Sammy or Alyssa.
He shook his head sharply. That was wrong, because it’s what Sammy would have said when he was alive. But now, moving forward meant leaving his friends behind. Every new thing he did pulled him further away from them. His being traded to Detroit—Sammy never knew about that. Would never know. If Nick married or had children, Sammy wouldn’t know that either. And how could that be? Sammy would have given the toast at his wedding, no question. How could he carve a different future, one without these men? They had been great friends. Good men. And he was betraying them, taking his pleasure with Alyssa, watching her paint his walls, the way she brushed the hair out of her face, the way she looked so intent as she worked at the edge of the baseboard. He’d grown hotter and harder as he watched the steadiness of her smooth small hand, and wondered how it would feel if it wasn’t wrapped around a roller brush handle. If it was around him.
Going forward was leaving them behind.
He got up, peed, looked at his coffeemaker, and didn’t bother. He had to see the therapist again this morning—the team doctor had rescheduled the appointment he’d missed when he was at the museum. Dr. Williams was middle-aged, wore heavy jewelry, and her hair was in short dreads. She was kind, her smile was genuine, and she had a row of framed diplomas on her office wall. Nick would have liked her in any other circumstance—but she wanted to talk about his feelings, and he didn’t plan to have any.
Maybe they could talk about Gretzky’s records. About how many points you could score for how many seasons and still not be anywhere near his point total. If she wanted to be philosophical, they could discuss why God would have made Gretzky in the first place. Was it a message to hockey players? To fans? And if so, was it a wake-up call? Look what I can do—I made Wayne Gretzky. Think what I could do if I wanted to lay down an Old Testament smiting. Then everybody would review the Great One’s sixty-one NHL records; mouth, “Oh, fuck” to one another; and shape up.
There was really nothing the therapist could talk about that he couldn’t turn into a discussion of Gretzky. But the first appointment had done nothing to make him think she’d be enthused about it. So obviously that was a mark against her.
Nick walked into Sammy’s bedroom, shut the door behind him, and stood in the middle of the room. When Nick had moved into the Detroit apartment, he’d taken the larger bedroom. Sammy would’ve been pissed about that, but if Sammy didn’t like it, he could come up behind him and grab him in a headlock and take him down. Or bounce a grape off his eyeball.
“I had sex last night,” he said. Sammy didn’t say anything. I’m a guy who talks to an empty room. “I’m sorry you’re not having sex. Although in fairness, I could get busy for a couple of years before I’d ever reach Sammy Gonczy levels of doinkitude.” He stood silently. Sammy didn’t laugh. “You ever think about how elephants’ teeth wear down, and then they starve to death? I think that would have happened to your dick.” He stood in Sammy’s room for a couple more minutes and then left, closing the door behind him.
In the shower he thought about Alyssa and how he probably had to make things right with her too. He wasn’t worried about consent. Alyssa had put the condom on him—thinking about it made him hard again—but she’d been in his place to work, and he’d lain there on the mattress, watching her ass. Which was magnificent. But had that made her uncomfortable? She was having trouble with her boss, and she might not have been able to tell him to go to hell if she hadn’t wanted him in there. He was used to being around guys who would tell him to go to hell for anything—if he didn’t return the tape roll or he left his skates on the floor. It was amiable and direct, and it made everything so much easier. Not much said, but nothing unsaid.
With Alyssa … she’d seemed fine when she’d left his apartment last night. He’d watched from the living room window as she walked to her car. Once she was safely in the driver’s seat, he’d turned off the bedroom light and moved to step away from the window, but paused when he realized she wasn’t driving off—she just sat there, slumped in the car.
It wasn’t the way someone acted after good sex, and it had been very good. He damn well knew she’d enjoyed it—he’d be thinking about her little gasping noises all day. Was she unhappy with him? Did she regret it?
He had been too forward, maybe. She’d been there to work, not be seduced—but he could fix this. On the way to his therapy appointment, he stopped at a flower shop and asked for extravagant pink peonies and white heirloom roses because Alyssa had stopped in front of a painting of a bouquet like that when they’d been in the art museum. He added a card and gave the florist Alyssa’s work address—it was the only one he had.
When he got to Dr. Williams’s office, he played on his phone until she let him in, smiling broadly and taking his hand. “I’m so glad to see you, Nick,” she said, motioning vaguely toward a collection of furniture. He could sit where he wanted. Sofa, big chair, small chair. She would be secretly evaluating every move. He knew that. It was like being scouted.
“How was your week?” she asked as he sank into the big chair, and she pulled her desk chair around.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Wayne Gretzky,” he said. Control the game from the beginning.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
Shit. He was definitely going to have to tell Sammy about this. He’d laugh his ass off.