Chapter 44 All the Lucky Ties
All the Lucky Ties
Darcy
October
I wake up starfished in the king-sized bed in Eric’s penthouse bedroom, to the sound of the gentle beep that his coffeepot makes when it’s done brewing.
He walks into the bedroom a beat later, wearing nothing but a towel, two mugs in his hands.
“Wake up, princess. Breakfast in forty minutes. And I need help choosing a tie.”
“How come?” I force myself upright to take my coffee mug from him.
“We’ve rumpled some of my usual picks,” he says, pacing into his vast closet. “And I almost always wear a blue or red tie on game day.”
“Oh no.” It’s still early, but the ramifications of wearing inauspicious ties at the start of the season are important enough that I catch on right away. “Why did we rumple those, then? Obviously, we should be playing our naked games with the unlucky ties.”
His head pokes out of the closet. “Bite your tongue. I need all the lucky ties for getting lucky.”
“Hmm.” It isn’t, I guess, any more or less ridiculous of an idea than any other athlete’s superstition. “Okay, clearly, we need to go shopping. But in the meantime, what are we working with?”
Eric emerges from the closet holding two ties. “This one,” he says, indicating the blue one draped over his left arm, “has a little orange on it, which is not ideal. And this one,” he holds up his right hand, “is red with a white stripe. Classic, but maybe boring?”
I examine both options, taking this decision as seriously as he is. “The blue one is handsome, but you’re right—we can’t take that risk on a road trip to Philly.” I reach for the red tie. “This is better. It’s not boring, it’s confident.”
“Sold,” he says, gulping his coffee and walking back into the closet.
I pry myself out of the bed, admiring the sparkles on the water of the distant river. It’s shaping up to be a classic autumn day. “Where’s breakfast?” I call as I head for his bathroom.
“The NoMad!” he calls.
“Ooh, my favorite. You spoil me.”
“It’s intentional!”
It so happens that Eric and I are as good at secret dating as we were at fake dating. Possibly even better. Breakfast dates have become our thing—it’s easier to schedule outings together in the mornings than it is in the evenings.
Fortunately, there are a lot of linen-napkin restaurants in the Flatiron neighborhood and the west twenties—all of them in a reasonable proximity to our apartments.
I’d have guessed that a surreptitious relationship would be awkward and uncomfortable. But that’s not the case at all. It’s dreamy. All those stolen glances and the occasional copy machine alcove kiss.
It turns out that being a secret couple makes you focus on the way you treat each other.
You have to work for those special moments.
You have to show how much you care in subtle ways—like when I occasionally have lunch waiting for Eric after a grueling practice, or when he quietly leaves a cappuccino on my desk.
For two people who haven’t enjoyed a long history of successful dating, it’s kind of perfect. Like we’re wearing training wheels.
These are my thoughts as I shower and dress for work. Eric summons a rideshare, and I roll my travel bag to the front door of his apartment. He saunters out a few minutes later wearing his game day suit, and my stomach does the same flip it’s always done when I catch a glimpse of him.
Yup. Still going strong.
I reach for the doorknob, but he stops me. “Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Whoops.”
He steps into my personal space, takes my face between his fingertips, and kisses me sweetly. “There. That’s all I get before tonight.”
This is also part of our new tradition—the kiss at the door. “One more,” I whisper. “For luck.” Then I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him again.
Like I said, we’ve gotten very good at this secret dating thing.
Three hours later, Zoe and I wait to board the team jet until all the players have gotten on.
“This is so exciting,” she says, elbowing me. “Baby’s first road trip.”
“This is my eleventy billionth road trip, you dingus.”
“But not as half a couple,” she insists.
I elbow her back. “Shut your pie hole!”
She rolls her eyes because, unless the gate agent is super interested in my love life, there’s really nobody who can hear us. “Need any tips on how to sneak into his hotel room tonight? Sometimes I carry the ice bucket with me as a decoy.”
“I’m sure everyone is fooled.”
“It’s more for plausible deniability.” She grins. “If you think about it, the team is wasting some serious cash on our hotel room now. It will just be sitting there, empty.”
“I always get work done in our hotel room,” I point out. “It’s my sanctuary. I discovered a long time ago that Sharp will never knock on my room door, because it’s a bad look for him.”
“Wait.” She follows me onto the Jetway. “You two snarl at each other like lions, but he’s afraid to knock politely on your door?”
“Accurate.”
“I will never understand that man,” Zoe says. “Every time I have him written off as a hopeless asshole, he reveals a shred of decency.”
“That’s not decency—that’s just self-preservation. He has his rules, and I have mine. I can handle him so long as he doesn’t find out about… you know. I have to maintain the illusion that I respect the hierarchy.”
“Hmm,” she says. “I get that you like your privacy. But I hope you don’t waste too much energy worrying about this. He was really decent when Chase and I told him that we’re a couple.”
“He was,” I agree. “But you and I aren’t the same in his eyes. Your coaching was a huge contributor to our deep playoff run last year. Plus, the Legends fandom loves you almost as much as the players. I, on the other hand, am completely replaceable.”
“Not true!” she yelps as we step onto the jet. “That’s a hill I’m willing to die on.”
“Let’s hope you don’t have to. Now let’s change the subject. Too many ears on this jet.”
“Fine,” she says. “Will this be one of those trips where we get to sneak out for a pedicure?”
“Ooh, maybe.” I mentally tick through my schedule as I snag us a pair of seats.
“Before gametime tonight, maybe? I mean—we’d be doing the team a favor, right?
My nails are the wrong color.” I glance down at the peach-toned pedicure that’s poking out of my open-toed shoes.
Zoe and I like to wear Legends blue and red during the season.
“Cool,” she says. “I’ll try to find us a salon.”
Hours later, watching from our seats in Philly’s press box, Zoe and I are sporting our new pedicures in Legends blue, just like we’d planned. And since the team has two colors, I chose a shimmery red polish for my manicure, because I don’t believe in tempting fate.
Especially right now, with the game tied 2–2. The Legends have dominated possession, though, and Philly looks tired.
Eric moves the puck up the center for another try, and my leg jiggles with unrestrained anxiety. “Hang on, b—!” The word baby almost comes out of my mouth, but I fix it quickly. “Boys!”
On my right, Zoe snorts. On my left, though, Steve Sailor—the team publicist—doesn’t notice. He’s leaning forward in his seat. “Cap is gonna get this done,” he mutters. “He’s locked in.”
It’s true, too. Tonight, he’s everywhere—stealing pucks, making crisp passes, and generally making life difficult for our opponents. And I’ve watched him play hockey hundreds of times before—sometimes from the press box and sometimes on television.
Tonight, though, I’m three times as nervous as usual. Now that we’re together—really together—all my reactions are completely different. Every hit he takes makes my stomach clench. Every beautiful play he makes fills me with fierce pride that I have to work to keep off my face.
“Here we go,” Zoe says, elbowing me as the play develops below.
Eric carries the puck up ice with that effortless stride of his, weaving through two Philly defenders like they’re standing still. He dishes it off to Weber, who one-times it toward the net. The goalie makes the save, but the rebound pops out right to Chase, who buries it top shelf.
The small contingent of Legends fans in attendance erupts, and I have to bite my lip to keep from cheering too loudly.
Down on the ice, Eric skates over to celebrate with his linemates, that focused intensity I love so much written all over his face.
My heart does this ridiculous fluttering thing, like I’m a teenager with a crush instead of a grown woman who kissed that mouth this morning.
“Beautiful goal,” Sailor says, already typing up a social media post. “Great chemistry from that line.”
I’ll show you chemistry, pal. I’m already brainstorming all the best ways to reward Eric for that play later tonight.
In the third period, Philly tries to mount a comeback. And when one of their players catches Eric with a late hit behind the net, I’m halfway out of my seat before Zoe grabs me by the cardigan sweater.
“Easy, killer,” Steve Sailor says, giving me a sidelong glance. “Dude is fine.”
“Right, yup,” I say quickly.
Luckily, the third period winds down, and Philly never gets their mojo back.
The final buzzer sounds, and New York has claimed their first victory on the road.
I watch Eric raise his stick to acknowledge the traveling fans, and the satisfaction on his face makes my chest tight with something I’m not ready to name.
“It worked,” I say to Zoe, pointing down at my toes and trying to sound normal. “Our lucky nail color. We should probably get them touched up every road trip.”
“Sure, buddy. Whatever keeps you sane.” She pops up from her seat. “I’m going to go celebrate with my man. You coming?”
My heart drops, because I want that. I want to go hug my sweaty hockey player and tell him how exhilarating that game was.
Instead, I’m going to let a whole lot of other people say it first. “You go ahead. I’ll check in with the boss and see you back at the hotel.”
She puts a hand on my shoulder, because she can probably guess what’s in my heart. “I’ll save you a bar stool if I get back there first.”