Crazy Thing Called Love Page 6

  That took her aback, made her recalculate her route.

  “I didn’t mean for it to go that way.”

  “Really? How did you think it was going to go?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think that far ahead.”

  “Classic Billy. Tell me, why are you doing this show?”

  “My image. You heard Victor—”

  “Oh please, Billy. You don’t give a shit about your image. You never have.”

  “A guy can’t change?”

  “Not if he’s you.”

  That grin, macabre and strange, pulled and twisted by the pink knot of his scar.

  She knew there were millions of people in the world who believed the scar made him ugly. In her eyes, however, it was one of the most beautiful things about him. Maybe because she knew how he’d gotten it. She looked at that scar and remembered him leaning out the window, telling her everything was going to be fine.

  “It’s been years, Maddy. I might surprise you.” He walked away, down the beige steps into the great room and then through it to the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her purse falling from her shoulder.

  “Getting a beer,” he yelled back, out of sight. “Come on in.”

  She stared at the carpet, the stacks of athletic shoes by the door, as if they were snakes waiting to bite.

  The feel of her colleagues’ eyes—Ruth’s eyes—staring at her with horror and fascination in that meeting had kept her up for three nights.

  Like a knife at her back, the memory forced her to walk into his kitchen, even though everything in her gut told her to leave.

  It was getting darker outside, the brilliant blue of the Texas sky bruising at the edges, and the kitchen was shadowed when she stomped into it. Billy sat at a round mahogany table, his body a muscled curl. He looked so brawny in his clothes, but naked he was sleek.

  She used to love touching him. Could run her hand down his back for hours.

  The memory started unpleasant fires in places in her body that had grown used to being cold.

  No, she thought, resisting, denying him and his brute appeal. Not him. Not again. We like sophisticated men, she told her unruly hormones. We like men with class and dignity. Men who like art and culture. Who drink wine and wear shirts.

  Her hormones weren’t listening.

  He held up a beer, at home in the surprisingly warm kitchen with its granite countertops and pretty red tile backsplash. His house looked surprisingly like a home.

  “You sure you don’t want one?”

  “I’m not here to drink.”

  “You changed your name.”

  She blinked at the sudden shift in subject. “Baumgarten isn’t exactly made for television.”

  “You were Maddy Wilkins.”

  “Did you think I would keep your name?”

  His indifferent shrug sent her into some dark, angry places. He’d used that indifference against her for the last year of their marriage, making her feel crazy. Like her suspicions and worries were insane.

  She stared at him, her reasons so obvious a child could see them. Or even a man as rock-headed as Billy.

  “That’s what I figured,” he finally whispered.

  “So you can imagine why I’m concerned about you doing this show.”

  “You think I’m planning to go on air and tell everyone your real name? Imagine the scandal.”

  “None of this is funny, Billy. I have no idea what you’re planning. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well,” he rubbed his chin, the sound of his hand over the scruff of his beard loud in the quiet house. “I don’t know if you saw my last game …” He paused as if waiting for her commentary. She used to do that, years ago, help him analyze his game, find the places where he could improve. Hockey had been something they shared … before it tore them apart.

  “I haven’t seen a single minute of hockey since our divorce.”

  “Really?” Why he sounded sad was beyond her. “You used to love it.”

  No, asshole, she thought. I used to love you.

  She slammed her bag down on the table.

  “Cut the crap, Billy. This isn’t about your image, or that fight—”

  “You did see it.” Only he would sound proud. She ignored him.

  “You’re coming onto my show, ready to debase yourself, willingly. The Billy I knew would never do that. Why,” she enunciated each word, “are you doing the show?”

  For a long moment his fingers pulled at the edge of his beer label.

  “Because I wanted to see you. Because after seeing you at that spa thing, I … I missed you.”

  Oh. Unable to look at him, she turned away, wanting to leave. Desperately wanting to get out of there. She’d expected this, but not really. Not with that naked honesty in his eyes.

  “You don’t get to miss me,” she told the stainless steel fridge. “You don’t have that right.”

  “I know.” He took another sip of beer, somehow forlorn and resigned. “Believe me, I know.”

  She grabbed her purse, clutched it, a life raft in turbulent seas. “You miss having someone who makes your dinner, keeps your stats, rubs your shoulders after a loss. You don’t … you don’t miss me.”

  “No?”

  “You don’t even know me. You barely knew me when we were married.”

  “How can you say that? We grew up together! You were my best friend, and I’m pretty damn sure I was yours.”

  “Oh please, Billy. Our whole marriage was about you. About hockey. Your career.” Distantly, she realized she was falling right back into her role with him. The nagging wife. Shrewish and hurt.

  “That’s not how I remember it.”

  She stared at him until she crushed that twinkle in his eyes. Until nothing remained but the hard rock and grit of the past. Of who they’d been to each other. And what they’d done.

  Rising from the table like some kind of gladiator, he braced his hands on it, the outrageous musculature of his chest flexing, the veins and sinew standing out in relief. She was suddenly breathless with anger and want.

  “I didn’t cheat. Ever. From the homecoming dance until I signed the divorce papers, I didn’t cheat.”

  She’d had fourteen years to pull herself back from the wild ledge of emotions their marriage had put her on. Now she was able to be calm. “I know. But that wasn’t the point, was it?”

  “That night … the hotel room.”

  She held up her hand. “I really don’t want to talk about this.”

  “You think I do?”

  “Then why are we doing it?”

  “Because it’s here!” He pointed at the table as if that night was sitting between them on its mahogany surface, that girl in the bright pink dress and all that heartbreak, right there. He pointed to his head. “It’s in here. And it’s been killing me for a lot of years.”

  “I had told you I was leaving. The night before, I told you I didn’t want to be married, that it was over.” The things she’d said echoed through the years; she still felt bad. “I don’t know what I expected, flying to Detroit like that.”

  “That night … the hotel … I swear nothing happened.”

  She was suddenly so tired of all of this. Of carrying this anger around in hidden pockets and secret compartments for years. Perhaps that was why she was here, really, to finally set this burden down.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” She meant what she said—she wasn’t sure if this was forgiveness, or just weariness, but she was ready to be done with this old madness. “We were kids, Billy. And everyone knew what we were too blind to see; we were too young. Your career was just taking off.”

  “No. Maddy …” He stepped toward her and she shifted back, wanting the distance. Needing it. But Billy kept walking, until he was a foot from her. She could smell him, salty and raw.

  It made her breathless, dizzy.

  “You … you were right, all those years,” he said. “I was selfish and disrespec
tful. An idiot. And yeah, I was a kid, but I loved you. Christ, Maddy I loved you so much and I treated you like an afterthought. You were so sad and so angry after your dad died and I didn’t know how to handle it. How to make you feel better. And I’m more sorry than I can say for the way things ended. You deserved better. You always did.”

  The words blew holes right through her chest, tearing through bone and muscle and blood, and it hurt. It hurt so much she gasped for breath. He’d apologized a million times, the words so easy for him, because he never really applied his guilt to them. It was easy to say sorry if you didn’t actually mean it.

  But now he sounded guilty. Agonized with it.

  “Maddy,” he sighed, more naked in front of her than he’d ever been in their marriage. He touched her fingers, slowly gathering them into his giant palm. His skin was hot and that heat sizzled up her arm, spreading through her body, frying her nerve endings. Her skin recognized his touch, his heat. Like an old code she’d forgotten, her body remembered him, and responded. Opened.

  She snatched her hand away.

  “Nothing will ever happen between us, Billy. You have to know that.” Looking into his eyes, she could tell that he didn’t see. “You can’t screw around with my show, thinking you can change my mind.”

  He leaned back against the granite counter, a bowl of apples behind him. Apples. Honestly, in a warm wooden bowl. It was like he lived in a catalog. “I won’t use the show, but is it impossible to think that this might be fun?”

  “You’ve taken a few too many shots to the head.”

  “We used to have fun.”

  “We were different people, Billy.”

  He rolled his head on that thick neck of his, and she heard tendons pop. “I feel the same. Older, maybe. But I still feel like the kid who grew up down the block from you.”

  “That’s your problem.” She laughed. “That’s always been your problem. You don’t change, Billy. You’re the same reckless, single-minded, selfish kid you always were.” He absorbed her words like blows and she wished she had more to fling at him.

  But that wasn’t why she was here.

  Professional. She needed to be professional.

  “And my name is Madelyn. No one calls me ‘Maddy’ anymore.”

  That was as good an exit line as she would get.

  “We’ll be in touch,” she called over her shoulder and left. Out the door and into her car and she didn’t look back, not once. Not until she was sure he couldn’t see her.

  But where it clutched the steering wheel, her hand still felt him. Like a brand, it burned.

  Sixteen years ago

  His blood hummed in his veins and despite the shower and the Gatorade he couldn’t calm down. His first NHL game and he’d nailed it.

  He’d fucking nailed it.

  “Press conference,” Georges St. Bleu growled as he walked by Billy, who was still wearing only a towel. Still sweating. “Five minutes. Get dressed.”

  “Yes, Coach,” he said and started to throw on his clothes.

  “Good one out there, rookie.” Oh God, it was Vincent Larue, the goalie. The legend. Future Hall of Famer, two-time Olympic gold medalist, three-time Stanley Cup winner. Vincent hadn’t said one word to Billy since he’d gotten called up from Rochester. Barely looked at him.

  But after Billy’s two assists and … well, that fight, now the guy was talking to him. Billy had turned the momentum with that fight.

  “Thanks, Vincent. You too. I mean, I thought Jackson had you there at the end; but man, you were like a wall, nothing could get past you.”

  Vincent’s smile was razor sharp. “Doing my job. How is your face?” Vincent pointed to his own face and Billy felt the cuts and the swelling from his fight. His eye was the worst. And he had a tooth that felt a little loose, but all of it was secondary compared to the long scream of jubilation in his gut.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Good. Some of the boys, we all go out afterward. Steaks, some drinks, we unwind. Montreal is a fun city.”

  “Are … are you inviting me?”

  Vincent smiled, revealing his own missing tooth. “Yeah, Billy. We’re inviting you.”

  “Of course!” His voice cracked—oh God, his voice actually cracked. “I mean … yeah. That would be great.”

  “Here’s the address.” Vincent handed him a card and Billy tucked it into the pocket of his coat, which was hanging behind him.

  “Wilkins!” Georges hollered from the door leading to the press room.

  “Crap!” Billy pulled his shirt over his head, his hair still dripping from the shower.

  Ten minutes later he was in front of a wall of cameras, trying not to blink every time a flash went off, but it was hard.

  “Billy!” someone cried, a faceless voice behind the lights. “How do you feel after that game?”

  “Great.” He laughed. “Who wouldn’t feel great?”

  “Popov is out with a possible concussion,” someone else said. “Any comment?”

  “Popov dropped the gloves. Not me. And he’s got a hard head, I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  Georges laughed beside him and clapped his shoulder. “Billy’s fight turned the game around for us,” he said. “Pulled our boys’ heads out of their asses. I’ve never seen a player get pulled up and make such an impact on a game.”

  Billy felt like his head had lifted off his body, like he was looking down at some beaten-up, nobody kid getting his whole freaking life handed to him.

  In the corner, where the lights didn’t blind him, was Maddy. His Maddy.

  He’d done it tonight. All that faith she had in him, the sacrifices she’d made for him—tonight he felt worthy of them. The smile on her face was beautiful and radiant and proud—so damn proud, it was like looking into the face of the moon.

  I love you, he thought, willing it across the room and into her head.

  I love you, too, her eyes said right back.

  There were a few more questions about the fight and then some suit from the front office cleared the room. When the guy put his hand on Maddy’s arm to try to push her out, Billy stood.

  “That’s my wife!”

  Everyone who was still in the room stared at him, openmouthed. She looked young, he got that. And his marriage wasn’t common knowledge. But he scowled at them just the same.

  The suit lifted his hand from her elbow and she nearly ran toward Billy and he would have jumped over the table to get to her if every single square inch of his body didn’t hurt. He was starting to feel those body shots. He circled the table and met her in the empty space between the chairs.

  Her arms went hard around him and he crushed her to his chest.

  “You did it,” she whispered fiercely into his ear. “You did it, Billy.”

  “I can’t …” He felt tears well up in his eyes and she seemed to know it, turning them slightly so no one could see his face buried in her beautiful hair.

  “I’m so proud of you, baby,” she whispered. “So proud. Although,” she leaned back, smiling up at him, “I don’t know why all they asked about was the fight. You had two assists and twenty shots on net. You were more than just that fight.”

  “But the fight was pretty awesome.”

  She touched his face, the bruises and swelling, the cut at his lip. “I hate watching you get hit.”

  “Just doing my job.” He took Vincent’s line and tried to smile, but his lip stung so much that he stopped.

  “Oh, honey, let’s take you home.”

  “Hey, no … actually, Vincent asked me to go out with him and some of the guys.”

  “Oh.” She blinked and then mustered a smile, his beautiful girl. “You should totally go. Celebrate.”

  “Come with.”

  “Billy, I’m twenty—”

  “No one will care if you come in with a bunch of Pit Bulls. And it’s Montreal, I don’t think they care about that here. Come on, it will be fun. Vincent said something about steaks.”


  Her eyes lit up at the mention of steak. His little carnivore would do just about anything for a good steak.

  “Let’s go!” she cried, her happiness making her buoyant. She curled her hand around his arm and they headed out the door, into what felt like a brand new life.

  The taxi dropped them off in front of a building sandwiched on either side by what could only be strip clubs. The letters XXX meant the same thing in French. He checked the address on the card. They were in the right place.

  “Billy,” she said, staring up at the building. “This is the red light district.”

  “Yeah, I bet the guys come here because there’s no press and they don’t get hassled.” Or something.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s just check it out.” He knew she didn’t want to be here, just like he knew she’d roll with it if he pretended not to understand that. She was good like that.

  “You really want to go in there?”

  “I got invited, Maddy. I said I’d come. I’ll bet there are other wives here. You’ll be able to make some friends.”

  It took her a second but she finally agreed.

  They walked up the stairs to an old brick and stone building that didn’t have a name on it. If it weren’t for the red light above the door, you wouldn’t even think it was a club. You wouldn’t even think anyone was there.

  His skin prickled at the thought. It was so exclusive it practically didn’t exist. How cool was that?

  A giant man with no neck opened the door for them, the sound of music pouring out all around them. But not that cheesy dance stuff—which gave him hope that there wouldn’t be naked women dancing inside.

  “Who are you?” the giant asked, his voice so low the ground practically shook. It took Billy a second to wade through the man’s French-Canadian accent to understand what he meant.

  “I’m … ah … I’m Billy Wilkins.”

  The guy stared at him, tilting his head to look at the scar, and then his dark face split into a grin. “Nice game tonight. Hell of a fight.” He clapped Billy on the shoulder, ushering him inside. But then he held up a hand, stopping Maddy.

  “She’s with me,” Billy said.

  “I’m his wife,” she clarified and the bouncer glanced between them and then shook his head, chuckling like he knew a punch line they didn’t.