Hard Hitter

  “Omigod.” Becca grabbed a copy of Sports Illustrated off Patrick’s coffee table and began to fan herself. “I’ll never eat donuts on your desk again.”

  “We were very tidy,” Georgia insisted, her face pink. “And anyway, we’re getting off the topic. Is Doulie a good boyfriend? I’ll bet he is.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Ari insisted. “I can’t have one of those right now. I think I need to remember how to be alone.”

  “I remember!” Becca cried, raising her hand. “And it blows. So forgive me if I don’t think your argument holds any water.”

  “Even if I wanted to date someone right now, I don’t think we’re a good fit. I always fall for the bossy macho men, and then I can’t figure out why they want to control my life.”

  “Hang on,” Georgia said, running a hand over the bumpy nap of Patrick’s sheeplike rug. “Macho can take many forms. They aren’t all bad. Does Doulie push you around?”

  Ari shook her head. “He’s bossy, though.” Usually when we’re naked. But was that even fair? “Ugh. He shouldn’t press me for a relationship, anyway. I’m a freaking wreck. My ex is trying to break into my home, and even worse . . .” She cut the sentence off. Some things were harder to admit.

  “What could be worse than a violent ex?” Becca asked. “I mean, seriously. You’ve got no place to go but up.”

  “Bec!” Georgia scolded. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  Mine last for eight years. “I can’t afford to make another mistake,” she admitted. “Because I want a child. And Patrick told me once that he’s never having kids.” Even as the words came out, she recognized how important it was to her. The truth was that she liked Patrick a lot. He was a good man, and she didn’t really doubt he’d make somebody an awesome partner.

  But she wanted kids. And he wasn’t the type.

  Georgia pointed at Becca. “Maybe it’s time to move on to the nail-painting portion of the evening. Before we’re too drunk to do a good job.”

  “Good call.” Becca peeled herself off the couch. “I’ll set up the footbath.” She disappeared to rattle around in Patrick’s kitchen.

  “Let’s pull the coffee table out of the way,” Georgia suggested. “We need the whole rug.”

  They set that up, and then Ari remembered the bakery bag. “Hey—I have baked goodies.”

  “Yesss!” Becca yelled. “Let me guess—whoopie pies from One Girl Cookies?”

  “How did you know?”

  Becca’s laugh was evil. “I may have been consulted.”

  “You helped him?” Ari yelped.

  “Who wouldn’t?” Becca asked, carrying a tub of soapy water and a dish towel toward the rug. “He’s adorable. You know—in a really rugged, panty-ripping kind of way.”

  Georgia arranged the towel and the tub. “Take off your shoes, Ari. You’re going first. Becca’s theory is that everyone thinks better with her feet in a tub of warm water.”

  Ari didn’t argue. She stripped off her socks and put her feet in the bath.

  “Oh—and Becca likes to choose the polish. She’s bossy like that.”

  “Only for you, sweetie,” Becca said, opening up a big bag full of nail polish and poking through the bottles, which knocked together like marbles. “Because you aren’t vain enough to get it right.”

  “Well, damn,” Georgia said. “Just for that I’m going to warn Ari that you screw with the travel reservations sometimes. Don’t be too shocked if Doulie ends up in the adjoining room when you go to Ottawa tomorrow morning.”

  Ari almost swallowed the wedge of lime she was sucking on. “Omigod!” she said, setting the glass down on the floor just off the rug. “That was your doing in Raleigh?”

  Becca grinned, and passed the bag of nail polishes. “Did it work?”

  “Good lord. Hottest night of my life,” Ari admitted. She still caught herself thinking about the way it felt to slide down the table toward Patrick’s waiting . . .

  Gah.

  “You’re blushing,” Becca pointed out.

  “You would, too.”

  Her friend sighed. “Always the wingman, never the target. Somebody better make me another margarita.”

  “I’m on it,” Georgia promised.

  Ari passed Becca the bag of whoopie pies. “We still have to figure out what Vince left in my apartment. What could it be?”

  “His heart, honey,” Becca said softly. “I think he’s just jealous. Sometimes men don’t know what they have until it’s gone.”

  Ari wished that was the answer. “That’s a nice idea, but I think he’s serious. I’m going to have to go to the police again, aren’t I?”

  “Probably,” Becca agreed. “I’ll go with you if you want. But tomorrow we’re going to Ottawa, so you have a reprieve.”

  “And your drink is ready!” Georgia called from the kitchen.

  She looked from one of her lovely friends to the other and wondered how life could be so beautiful and so troubling all at the same time.

  TWENTY-ONE

  O’Doul had taken some heat for waltzing into Leo’s apartment with a fancy drink in his hand.

  “This is our captain on his night off,” Castro teased. “He probably wears a silk smoking jacket around the house.”

  “What’s a smoking jacket?” Zac Sullivan asked. “Maybe I need one.”

  But Castro just shook his head, as if he couldn’t be expected to explain shit to the masses. He was another smart guy, like College Boy over there on his sofa. O’Doul studied their relaxed faces. None of his teammates were dumb enough to get caught up in the bullshit Ari’s ex wanted to rain down on him.

  If he got out of this mess with his dignity intact, he swore he’d never be so stupid again.

  “Who’s winning?” he asked the room. “Louisville,” someone said with a sigh. “We’re all losing our bets tonight.”

  “You can’t all be losing,” O’Doul pointed out. “Who has Louisville in the bracket?”

  “The kitty!” Castro complained. “The charity kitty has Louisville. I think Jimbo put that in, the little smartass. It sucks because the winner is supposed to buy us drinks after the Final Four! You’ll never let us dip into the kitty for drink money. I know this.”

  Hysterical. “Buy your own damn drinks, asshole. You’re pullin’ down more money than most people can make in years.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” Castro said, beer bottle pointed at him like a weapon.

  “The principle of the thing, huh?” O’Doul grinned. “Put twenty bucks into the kitty just for being a boob.”

  “Fuck.” He reached for his wallet. “Who do I pay?”

  “I’ll tell Jimbo you owe him.”

  “What’s in your glass, captain?” Beringer asked. “Doesn’t look like Scotch.”

  “Maybe a lady friend made it for me.”

  There was a chorus of “whoa!” and other interested noises.

  “So it’s all working out for you?” Leo asked. “Do we ever get to meet her?”

  “Dunno,” O’Doul said, trying to picture a future where he and Ari were an honest-to-god couple in public, and coming up blank. He’d never had a girlfriend before. But he’d never wanted to be with anyone the way he wanted Ari. “Your bakery thing was a hit. They even delivered it for me.”

  “Never underestimate the power of baked goods,” Leo said, nodding like a prophet.

  “My next ploy will be Jimbo’s birthstone thing,” he said, sipping his margarita. “Found something, but it took a while. There is some fugly jewelry in the world.”

  “Next time, ask a chick where to shop,” Castro suggested. “Who has nice taste? Georgia, of course, but she doesn’t seem like a shopper. Rebecca, maybe. Or—I know—ask Ari.”

  Oh, Christ.

  “Or how about Lauren?” Leo suggested. “She’s always
dressed to kill.”

  “With Lauren, that’s not a metaphor,” Castro said. “Say the wrong thing to that chick and she’ll cut your balls right off. No sense of humor on that girl.”

  Nobody else in the room was willing to touch that, even if Castro was right. The veterans understood that Lauren had her reasons. “Hey,” O’Doul muttered, moving around the sofa to try to find a place to sit. “Castro, I need that ottoman.”

  “My feet need this ottoman.”

  “It’s either that or we’re snuggling together on your part of the couch.”

  Castro sighed and removed his big feet from the footstool. “Take it. I don’t want a love triangle with your lady friend.”

  “What a gentleman.” He sat down to watch Louisville win the basketball game.

  * * *

  Two hours later O’Doul paused in front of his apartment door. He heard female laughter coming from inside.

  “That is bullshit,” Georgia giggled. “Matt Damon is so much hotter than Ben Affleck.”

  “He can’t pull off a beard, though,” Ariana argued. “Admit it.”

  “Or a ponytail,” Becca added.

  He shook out his keys and let himself into the apartment. “Hi, ladies. Miss me?”

  All three of them were stretched out on his rug, throw pillows under their heads, looking up at the TV. The coffee table had been moved aside. Their bare feet were pointing straight up, and there was . . . paper towel? Something white was strung between their toes. It was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen.

  “Hey.” Ari sat up fast. “Whoa.” She seemed to sway, though she wasn’t even standing up. “Wow. We had a lot of tequila.”

  “Indeed!” Becca sat up, too. “Ran out of margarita mix. Had to do some shots.”

  O’Doul bit down on his lip to keep from laughing. “And how’d that go?”

  “Pretty good!” Georgia slurred from her cushion. “But I can’t really feel my face right now.”

  “Is that right?” he asked as laughter threatened again. There were three women on his floor, and they were wasted.

  “I think I can get up by myself. Let’s give it a try.” She rolled over and got to her hands and knees. “So far, so good.”

  Becca stood up, then leaned over Georgia. She seemed to be faring the best of any of them. “Come on, babe. Let’s pour you back into your own apartment.”

  “M’kay.” Georgia staggered to her feet.

  “Come over here and hold onto the door while I get my stuff,” Becca coached, leading her friend toward the door.

  “I can walk her home,” O’Doul suggested. “And you, too.”

  “We’re fine!” Becca said cheerfully. She tripped over the edge of the rug, though. “Whoops!”

  “Don’t worry about the . . .” Ari made a sloppy waving motion at the crumb-covered plate and the margarita glasses. “I got those.”

  A couple of minutes later Georgia and Becca were on their way. O’Doul watched Becca walk Georgia down the hall toward her own door. They seemed fine, so he locked his door and turned his attention to Ari.

  She was seated in the middle of the rug, knees to her chest, forehead in her palms. “I’m drunk,” she said, as if this was news.

  “I know, baby. It’s okay.”

  “I’ve had more drinks this month than in the last”—she paused to hiccup—“year.”

  “Is that bad?” he asked, walking over to her and sinking to his knees.

  “Maybe? I think my chakras are out of alignment.”

  “You can work on that tomorrow,” he suggested. “Let’s put you to bed.”

  “I brought a toothbrush in my purse. I thought I was going to crash at Becca’s.”

  He got up and found her bag and brought it to her. Then he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bathroom, steadying her in front of the sink.

  “I can do this,” she said, nudging him away.

  “Please don’t fall down and hit your head.”

  She made a noise of displeasure. “You do sometimes. They pay you for it.”

  Women. They outargued him even when they were drunk. “Just humor me and stay vertical. I’ll find you a T-shirt to sleep in.”

  After spending a few minutes in the bathroom, Ari shuffled out and sat on the edge of his bed.

  “Here,” he said, handing her two ibuprofen and a glass of water. “Do you think you could take this? How’s your stomach?”

  “Fine,” she said. “Thank you.” She swallowed the pills and drank the water.

  O’Doul set the glass aside. “Let’s get this off,” he said, lifting her shirt over her head.

  “Mmm,” she sighed, and reached for his fly.

  He let her fumble with his zipper because it kept her busy. He had her changed into his T-shirt just a couple of minutes later. “There you go,” he said, pulling the covers back. “Hop in there.”

  She didn’t hop, exactly. It was more like a military crawl. He pulled the covers up to her chin and she sighed. “Come to bed?”

  “In a few minutes.”

  He spent some time putting the glassware in the dishwasher and shutting off lights. By the time he finished getting ready for bed, Ari was curled up on the pillow, breathing softly. Sleeping.

  But when he got in on his side (and since when did he start thinking of his bed in halves?) she rolled to face him. Ari put her hands on his chest and sighed. So he pulled her closer. “The room is spinning,” she complained.

  “I got you,” he whispered, laying a hand on her head, enjoying the silky softness of her hair.

  “Not supposed to like you so much,” she murmured.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Tough luck, because I’d be an awesome date.”

  “So humble,” she said into his T-shirt. “Thanks for letting us get sloppy on your parket.” She hiccuped again. “I mean carpet.”

  “Totally worth it.” He chuckled, trying not to bounce her head around with his laughter. “You girls are very entertaining when you’re drunk.”

  “Don’t know why you like me,” she slurred. “I’m a pain in the gluteus maximus.”

  A month ago this whole scene would have been unfathomable—margaritas in his living space and cuddling in bed. He was getting comfortable with this. It made him feel useful in a way he wasn’t used to. “You’re not so bad,” he said, cradling her closer.

  “It was not a good day. I have to hire the lawyer for more hours.”

  “I’m sorry, baby.”

  “I should have become a lawyer. Two hours of private massage equals one hour of lawyering.”

  He petted her hair. “But then you’d only live half as long because lawyering sounds boring as shit.” And he’d pay for her fucking lawyer if she’d let him.

  She giggled. “I don’t know if lawyering is a word.”

  “It is when you’ve drunk a lot of tequila.”

  Ari sighed against his chest, and he thought she was done talking for the night. But a couple of minutes later she spoke again. “I heard you telling Crikey how you learned to fight.”

  His hand froze on her head. Fuck. “Yeah. It was a long time ago.”

  “Where were your parents?”

  He resumed stroking her hair, and tried to decide how much he was willing to say. Not much.

  “Just tell me, Patrick. You want me to trust you, but everything is on your terms.”

  Fuck. She sounded a lot more sober all of a sudden. “You know, you’re the only one who calls me Patrick since my mother died. Since you want to know so bad, I was eight when it happened. I watched my father shoot my mother in the head.”

  “Oh my god.” Ari lifted her face off his chest.

  He did not want to have this conversation. Not ever. But here it was. He tucked her head back down, because it was easier to talk without looking her in the ey
e. “Obviously my father went to prison. I went into the state’s care. For a couple of years they found foster homes for me. But foster parents are usually people without a lot of stability, too. When I was ten they sent me to a group home, and it was a disaster. I was the youngest kid there. Never got enough to eat because the teenagers would take my food, my school supplies. Once they sold my shoes to buy beer. I started trying to fight back but they outweighed me by a hundred pounds.”

  Ari gripped his wrist, as if trying not to react. His shitty childhood wasn’t her fault. And if he could have avoided talking about it, he would have.

  The next part of the story was sort of fun, though. “That’s when I found that boxing gym in the neighborhood. I passed it every day after school. I started staring into the window watching these guys train. And I was just a kid who had nothing to lose, so I started imitating them—right there on the sidewalk. I’d shadowbox in front of the plateglass window. They must have thought it was hysterical. So after this goes on for a while the owner invites me inside. His name is Rick, and he’s got tattoos covering like ninety percent of his body. I thought he was so big and scary and so badass. I wanted to be just like him so I could scare the shit out of the guys who keep taking my stuff.”

  This got a small smile out of Ari. But still, her body language went all stiff and weird.

  “‘What are you doing, kid?’ they asked me. ‘Do you have to train for a fight?’ So I told them yes. And Rick asked, ‘When’s your fight, kid?’ And I said, ‘Every morning at breakfast and every night at dinner, but lunches are at school and the big kids can’t steal my lunch except for Saturday and Sunday . . .’”

  He’d known right away that he’d said something weird, because all the men stopped grinning and just stared at him.

  “. . . So, anyway, Rick put some protective gear on me and let me kick off my shoes and get into the ring. And I just about pissed myself with glee.”

  Ari wrapped her arms around him. Tightly.

  “Those guys taught me to fight for real. How to punch, and how to keep my head up, and how to move. I went there every day and they didn’t kick me out. I didn’t always get time in the ring, but there were bags to hit, and people standing around to tell me what to do. And then I decided I’d learned a lot, right? So one night when this high school kid decided he was going to eat my piece of meatloaf I socked him right in the eye. He still weighed twice as much as I did, so he picked me up and threw me into the bookcase face-first . . .”