Chapter 40
“What?” he said, clearly confused. And maybe a little hurt. “Why not?”
Alyssa scrambled into her clothes, hopping on one foot to shove her foot into her shoe. She had a coat somewhere and didn’t know where it was, and Nick was still standing there, somehow taking up more space than he had before. Like he was one of those shape-shifting toys that started off as a sexy hockey player and ended up … as an angry sexy hockey player.
“Alyssa.”
She hopped into her other shoe. His shoulders were wider. How did he do that? And his hands looked bigger. Stronger. “Did you know that when Michelangelo sculpted David, he said he gave him the hands of a killer? Because you always think of David as the underdog, right? Because of Goliath. But David killed him.” Was that babble? She was babbling.
“I’m not sure I want to talk about Michelangelo with you right now.”
She gave him a tight smile, too bright, and caught sight of her coat beyond the sofa. “I need to go.”
“Damn it, Alyssa.” He caught her arm, his fingers holding tight. “What’s going on? Is this some sort of game to you?”
He was right there, the bulk, the spicy scent, the stubble, his eyes searching hers. How could she hurt this man? But she already had, and there was no way to stop it.
“I was trying to do the right thing,” she whispered. “I meant to help.”
“The hell?”
“I made a phone call. It may have been inappropriate.” She didn’t know how to explain beyond that. “You’ll see,” she said. “At the team meeting.”
“The meeting?”
“I sort of called it.”
He leveled a stare at her, and she understood for the first time the intensity he must bring on the ice. What it would be like to see those eyes burning through his facemask, hurtling toward a goalkeeper. It was a little terrifying. “I was trying to help,” she repeated, then said, “I’ll drive separately.” She snagged her coat and fled.
The drive to the rink was miserable, and not just because she’d had one final chance with Nick Sorensen, who was essentially perfect. He was a man who would shove water lilies in a bowl to help her get a wedding reception ready in time. He had grooves in his shoulder muscles that begged her fingers to explore. He could discuss art. He could do that thing with his tongue.
But he also was parked closer to the building and therefore pulled away first, which resulted in her following him through the city, turn after turn, while he stared into the rearview mirror. A taco truck pulled between them at one point and she relaxed, but then it peeled off after a few blocks. Nick pulled into player parking, and she couldn’t follow, which was actually a relief. His hard stare in the rearview mirror, wondering what she’d done, what she’d brought to his workplace, had unsettled her.
Alyssa pulled into visitor parking, grabbed the box in her back seat, and thought about Pandora. She’d already unleashed chaos into the world—at least, into her world. And she hadn’t even opened the box yet. A security guard expected her and let her in, then escorted her through corridors, bright with red paint and oversized action photos, to a lower corridor and into a room with a ping pong table and massive, sweatproof sofas. It wasn’t a conference room; it was an area off the locker room where players were likely to be gross and smelly.
The entire team was already there when the guard walked her in and nodded to her, then stepped back into the hallway, the sound of his retreat echoing. She was acutely aware that she would never have seen this inner sanctum in ordinary circumstances. Nick stood near the ping pong table, rubbing a thumb along its edge. The players were in street clothes except for five of the guys who were already in practice uniforms, including skates. They just walked around in here on blades—she’d have to find out what the floors were treated with.
Devin was one of the guys already dressed. The captain stepped forward. “You may be wondering why I called this meeting,” he said. “But only if you’re Nick.” Nick frowned and glanced around. “Everybody else knows what this is about.” Nick shot Alyssa a hostile look, and she tightened her grip on the box she held in front of her chest. “Alyssa came to me a few days ago with some information she got from Dr. Simone Lavigne in the Art Department at Boston College.” Nick looked confused. “You want to take it from here, Alyssa?”
She nodded to him and stepped forward, her fingers digging into the box. “I …” Her voice squeaked. Good god, she’d squeaked in front of an entire hockey team. She didn’t know a lot about hockey, but she was pretty confident there was no squeaking in the NHL. She cleared her throat. “Nick almost finished degrees in art and art history. He actually has enough credits to get the art history degree if he’d just file the paperwork.” She pulled a sheet off the box, stepped forward, and shoved it at him, then retreated a couple of steps.
“He said he had one project left to do for the art degree and that he wasn’t going to finish it. So I called Boston College and talked to Dr. Lavigne.” She didn’t look at Nick, but the hairs on the back of her neck responded to the way he lowered his head. He was standing with his feet apart, balanced. An athlete ready to react to whatever was coming his way. And right now, she was the one hurling it at him. “Dr. Lavigne said the last assignment was to create a large-scale painting, at least four feet by eight feet, of a group of at least five people.” She looked out at the Red Wheels, standing silently. “Nick was painting some of his teammates in Boston: Dragan, Tyler, Eric, Luka. And Sammy.”
The guys looked at one another, mouths tight. He’d been painting his best friends. The guys he’d lost. They shifted. This was uncomfortable territory.
“I talked to Devin about the project,” Alyssa said. Nick’s head swung fast, and he gave the captain a hard stare. He was clearly not enjoying the team meeting. “And I bought a new canvas.”
“We’ll never replace those guys,” Devin said softly. “But you’ve got friends.”
Alyssa walked to the center of the room, brushing past Nick’s strong and hostile shoulder. She wasn’t sure where the guys had stashed the canvas, but Leif and Jakub stepped into the trainer’s room and emerged with it. It was huge, and Alyssa had draped it in a white tablecloth. That seemed dumb now—a reveal of nothing. Devin found the easels she’d dropped by his house earlier, and set them up—two because the canvas was so long. “You have people, Nick,” she said, pulling the cloth off. The canvas was incredibly empty. So was Nick’s face. This was a bad idea.
The five guys on skates clomped forward. “Where do you want us?” Jakub, the Czech left wing, said. He swiveled his head back and forth. “Both my sides are my good side.”
André turned his back. “I think my ass is probably my good side.”
Someone called, “Considering what your face looks like, that’s true!”
The guys fell in, jostling, resting elbows on one another’s shoulders, lining up. “The team decided you should paint us because we’re the best-looking!” Devin called. He was answered with hoots and a barrage of friendly abuse.
Alyssa walked forward with the box and opened it. “Paint!” she said with a false brightness that even she could hear.
Nick reached in and took out a brush. He rubbed the bristles with his thumb. “Did you consider asking me if I wanted to paint the last piece? If I even cared about the degree?”
“It crossed my mind,” Alyssa admitted. “And I’m so sorry if this isn’t the best way. But I thought you needed a little shove.”
“I needed a little shove.” His voice was flat.
“Just like you thought I did, with starting the business,” she admitted quietly. “I was pissed at first too. But then I realized—that push you gave me, it was a gift. And I wanted to do the same for you.”
“She’s tougher than Moose McFarland, man!” someone called. “Don’t mess with her.”
“If I’d wanted to discuss this with the guys, I’d have discussed this with the guys,” Nick said, his gaze steady on her. He did not look friendly.
“It’s a good thing we found out,” the backup goalie called. “We didn’t know we were hanging out with a guy who hadn’t finished at least two college degrees.”
“Yeah, you’re bringing down our educational average,” someone called, then dissolved in laughter.
“We can talk about your loss,” Devin said, moving out of the line of guys in uniform to put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Or how you’re feeling. We’re your team.”
“Yeah,” Leif called. “I mean, if we can talk about the boil on Filip’s ass …”
“How’s your ass doing anyway, Filip?” someone shouted.
“Better. Thanks for asking.”
“An unfinished painting isn’t something we can’t talk about here,” Devin said gently. “Come on, Nick. Grab your brush and get to work.” He stepped back into the line with other guys, expecting to be immortalized in oil.
Nick stood there, then dropped the brush back in the box.