Crazy Thing Called Love Page 8

  Billy blew out hard through his mouth like he was about to dive into deep water.

  “Nervous?” she asked, still not looking at him.

  “I might throw up.”

  She set down the cards and took a quick sip of water from the bottle Peter handed her. “Wait until commercial break.”

  “You’re cool as a cucumber, aren’t you?”

  No, she wanted to howl. No, I’m wrecked inside. I can’t look at you. I can’t stand to smell you. I don’t want to remember any of the good parts. I don’t want to remember what we shared. What we had. A life and a history. I don’t want any of it.

  She steeled herself to look at him. To lock herself down tight, to remain unmoved at the sight of his nerves, the bead of sweat at his hairline.

  It was humanizing, his worry. The scary hockey player was freaking out under the lights.

  Not. Cute.

  “This is my job.” She hoped her smile wasn’t as blank as it felt. “And I’m good at it. Don’t worry.”

  “Right.” He used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe his forehead, leaving a streak of sludgy powder on the dark fabric.

  “Really, Billy?”

  “What? I’m losing my mind.”

  “Ten seconds.” Peter slipped back behind the camera.

  “Oh Christ.”

  “Breathe.”

  Again that deep sucking breath—somewhere in Oklahoma there were cyclones.

  “Five. Four.” Peter held up three fingers. Two. And then as the light glowed red Peter pointed at her and she felt that sudden rush, the sudden spasm of excitement and ownership.

  I am Madelyn Cornish, she thought. And I own this.

  “Welcome back, everybody. All week long I’ve been talking about our mysterious makeover guest. And today all will be revealed. Does everyone recognize this man?” Beside her, Billy awkwardly waved and the studio broke out into polite applause.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Who are you kidding? You guys have no clue who he is. Here, maybe this will help.” She grabbed the prop at her feet and handed Billy a Mavericks’ hockey helmet.

  This is a joke, right? his deadpan eyes asked in the moment before he took it and put it on.

  “Anyone? Ring any bells?” Three people cheered wildly, and she laughed. “Looks like we have some hockey fans in the studio today. Let me fill in the rest of you. Sixteen years ago Billy Wilkins was a second-round NHL draft pick. Since then he’s won Olympic gold and silver, and he’s been in the Stanley Cup play-offs no less than seven times. In 2002 he was voted one of the most important NHL players on the ice by Sports Illustrated.” Madelyn rattled off the rest of Billy’s very impressive resume and found herself reluctantly connecting to the stats.

  Billy Wilkins, that rough wild boy who’d lived up the street from her, had followed his dream and his skill right out of the nightmare he’d been raised in.

  This sudden pride? In him? In this man who’d hurt her? It couldn’t be a good thing.

  Distance, Maddy, she thought. Distance.

  “All of that incredible success aside, Billy has been the NHL leader in penalty box minutes for three different seasons. He’s been suspended and fined and hospitalized more than any other player in the league. Some of you remember this headline.” She held up the newspaper Ruth had opened that day weeks ago when she pitched this idea. Billy’s face, bloody and maniacal, grinned out at the audience, which appropriately gasped and groaned.

  “He’s been called ‘the unrepentant bad boy of the NHL.’ He’s the Dallas Mavericks’ own Billy Wilkins and he has agreed to be a part of our very special five part series, the Billy Wilkins Project.”

  This time the crowd applauded with more enthusiasm.

  “Can I take this thing off?” Billy said when the applause died down.

  He was still wearing the helmet.

  “Yes,” she laughed. “Go ahead.”

  He took off the helmet, patted down the worst of his hair, and grinned. Part little boy, part prison escapee, with that scar.

  “Billy we’re so excited to have you here.”

  “I’m pretty excited to be here, too.”

  Now, that’s a lie, she thought.

  “AM Dallas has done some incredible makeover shows, but you’re going to be our first man.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “You should be. We don’t take this stuff lightly around here. My question is, do you think you need a makeover?”

  He blinked as if stunned that she’d asked. “I guess so.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Ahh …” The air was empty and dead between them. Panic was a halogen light behind his eyes. He watched the audience as if they’d suddenly all appeared in his bathroom while he was peeing.

  He had that trapped hamster look she’d seen in plenty of her guests’ faces.

  It was in moments like this that she earned her substantial salary.

  “Well, Billy,” she reached over to squeeze his hand. Lord, he was sweating. “Let’s see what your teammates have to say about you getting a makeover.”

  The lights dimmed and the screen behind them sparked to life. Jan Fforde, the young Swedish goalie, filled the screen, looking handsome and boyish.

  “Does Billy need a makeover?” Jan asked, clearly unsure of the word’s meaning. His eyes flickered to someone behind the camera who translated the term. Jan started howling with laughter.

  The audience loved it.

  The video cut to the captain of the Mavericks, Mike Blake, who had the black and yellow remains of a shiner on his right eye.

  “I’m not going to tell Billy Wilkins he needs a makeover, are you crazy? He’d kill me. Billy, if you’re watching this, I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

  They cut back to Jan Fforde, who was still laughing, but now he was wiping his eyes.

  Coach Hornsby appeared in a dapper sports coat, his thin glasses catching the camera light as he nodded, definitively. “Yes, Billy Wilkins needs a makeover.”

  “Good God, you asked Coach?” Billy said. The mic picked up his mumble. “Don’t tell me you talked to my mother.”

  Only she knew that was impossible and the crowd laughed at his joke.

  “Better,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “An ex-girlfriend.”

  A woman with short, cropped black hair appeared on the screen, her arms crossed over her chest as if she was waiting for a late bus. “A makeover?” she asked. “Billy?” She slapped her hands on the arms of the chair. “Oh, let me count the ways. One,” she ticked on her fingers, “he doesn’t own a decent suit. Two, he’s probably wearing white athletic socks with black shoes right now.”

  Billy lifted his pants to reveal white athletic socks over the tops of his black shoes.

  The crowd roared.

  He glanced up at Madelyn and winked.

  Quickly, she turned her attention back to the screen.

  Luc Baker, dark-haired and devilish in a sublime navy suit, filled the screen, and the mostly female audience sighed. Estrogen filled the air.

  The future Hall of Famer’s sharp features were made even sharper by a scowl. “Billy Wilkins is one of the best men I’ve ever had the pleasure of skating with. He’s a fighter in the best sense of the word. He’s loyal, he’s fierce, and his hockey IQ is through the roof. No one knows the game like he does and no one—I repeat, no one—loves the game like he does.”

  There was a scuffle off camera and then a beautiful blond woman leaned into the frame, her blue eyes sparkling.

  “Tara!” Billy cried, clearly surprised.

  “The fighting thing,” she said. “It’s a problem. You can tell he doesn’t love it like he pretends to.”

  The blonde darted back off screen, revealing a wincing Luc.

  “Sorry, Billy,” he muttered.

  Back to Sandra, who was still ticking on her fingers. “Three: chews with his mouth open. Four: opens beers with his teeth if he has to. Five: he’s a full-gr
own man and all he knows how to cook is toast.”

  “That’s not true,” Billy protested. “I make great pot roast.”

  Maddy stared at him incredulously.

  “What?” He shrugged as if it wasn’t the strangest thing. “My mom taught me.”

  She knew firsthand that his mother’s pot roast was barely edible, but she turned back to the screen.

  The clip went on for another forty seconds, players talking about how rude he was. The Mavericks’ manager told a story about Billy getting into a fight at a restaurant.

  Jan just kept laughing.

  Finally, the lights came up and Maddy could see that the people in the crowd were grinning at one another as if they were all in on the joke.

  Gold. This was pure gold.

  As good as she was at her job, this feeling, this moment, was rare. Rare because it was effortless. Over the years, there had been some great segments, but they had required a lot of work. That was her job, making the difficult look easy. But this … this was simple.

  This was fun.

  Whatever was outside the studio was irrelevant. She needed none of it. All she needed was the audience, her staff and crew, and a story to tell.

  Billy.

  It was like she was thirteen all over again, and he was magnetic. So compelling she couldn’t look away. He was sweeping her back into his tide.

  “Well,” Billy said, looking as abashed as a man with such a scar and such a twinkle in his eyes could, “I guess I need some help.”

  “And we’re here to give it. Are you ready?”

  “Will you be gentle with me?” he asked, taking her hand in his giant mitt.

  Careful here, Madelyn, she tried to warn herself, but instead she gripped his hand right back. Diving headlong into the contact. A firm shake. Partners, teammates, whatever. For the segment, she’d commit.

  For this feeling she’d do anything.

  “Sorry, buddy, there’s nothing gentle about it.” She turned to the studio audience and winked. “Makeovers are a brutal business, aren’t they?”

  They roared and Billy hung his head.

  “This is going to be bad,” he muttered.

  “Join us next Friday,” she laughed and told the cameras. “For day one of the Billy Wilkins Project. We’re going to bring in a tailor and get this hockey player a new suit and some black socks.” Shaking her head she glanced over at Billy. “Really? Athletic socks with dress shoes?”

  “At least the socks match.”

  “Tim from the Man Room Spa and Salon will give Billy an updated look. Tell me, Billy, have you ever heard of manscaping?”

  Billy didn’t have to fake his fear. He shook his head. “No.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She rose from her chair, still holding Billy’s hand, and he stood up with her. The two of them facing a wall of excited women. “Join us on Friday, guys. This is going to be fun!”

  The theme music swelled up around them and the red lights on the cameras went dark.

  “We’re clear,” Peter called and the stage was swarmed.

  She immediately dropped Billy’s hand, but he wouldn’t let go. As she pulled away, he yanked her toward him, holding her in his arms, surrounding her with his size and strength, the warmth and smell of him.

  Her eyes closed and before she could stop herself, she squeezed him right back. Holding him hard against her body in sheer jubilation.

  She could feel the sweat under his jacket, smell it on his neck. He’d been nervous, but he’d managed to keep his shit together.

  “You did great,” she whispered.

  “You are amazing.”

  His breath teased her neck, setting off alarms in her body. The adrenaline of the show was a powerful aphrodisiac and she wanted—for one wild, breathless moment—to kiss him. Press herself full-tilt against him. Test her nails and her teeth and her sex against his strength.

  Lust roared through her, opening up every nerve ending, every synapse, every pore. Her skin was a giant receptor and she twitched with sensation. Shook with it.

  Sex. Oh God, suddenly she wanted to have sex. With Billy.

  She tore herself away from him, pushing him back.

  He gave her a confused look, his arms by his sides.

  “Maddy?”

  Without another word, she turned and left. Leaving all that victory, tainted now, colored by her foolish lust, on the set behind her.

  Billy watched Maddy walk away, half aware that three people were surrounding him. Someone took off his mic. That Ruth woman was telling him what a great job he’d done. Phil shook his hand. And still Billy was barely paying attention.

  If the last ten minutes had proven anything, it was that he’d been right to come here. He’d been right to think this show might be a second chance for them. She might not see it that way right now, but it was clear to him. Obvious. As obvious as the lust she’d been feeling just seconds ago.

  Maddy was right, she was a different person than the girl she’d been. More exciting. More interesting. More realized. Like all the promise in that young girl had not only been fulfilled, but surpassed.

  And they were still good together, better than good. They fit, when the whole rest of the world chafed, she fit him perfectly.

  In the shadows past the set he could see the green of Maddy’s shirt as she made her way back to her office.

  Where she was going to fix the cracks in her armor. She would convince herself that what just happened between them on the stage—the connection they’d felt—was nothing. A mistake.

  “No,” he muttered.

  “Sorry?” Phil asked.

  Billy shook his head, “Sorry, man, give me a second, would you?”

  Maddy could pretend all she wanted, but they were good together. There was magic between them. And he wanted her out of that armor. He wanted her naked and real and in his arms.

  He took off after her.

  He nearly threw the door to her office off its hinges when he pushed it open.

  “Whoa, what’s the rush, Billy?” Maddy asked from where she sat in front of her mirror. Her hair was pulled back, her face slick and free of makeup. Her eyes empty of all that fire … that excitement and lust she’d revealed just a few minutes ago.

  Every ounce of anger he’d swallowed since agreeing to this ridiculous proposition roared through him.

  Finally. Thank God. A fight. A fight he could win.

  He kicked the door shut.

  “Holy—”

  “Maddy, you can’t pretend that wasn’t great.”

  “I told you,”—her smile was bright, fake,—“you did a great job. The segment—”

  “Fuck the segment, Maddy.”

  Maddy stood, heading for her desk. “It’s Madelyn.”

  “You are Maddy. You’ll always be Maddy. And what was great out there was us. We did a great job. We … Christ, Maddy, I know it’s scary.”

  “Scary? It’s my job.”

  Frustrated, sweaty, and miserable, he grabbed her. Her shoulders fit the curve of his hands so perfectly. Like always. Like a key he’d lost somewhere along the way.

  Her gasp was kindling to what burned inside of him. She didn’t fight him. Thank God—he didn’t know what he would have done if she had.

  She put her hand against his chest and it burned right through his clothes, past his skin and muscle, down to his blood and bones. She was in him.

  And then like some kind of miracle, like some kind of divine gift, she was kissing him.

  After years of being out of his life, Maddy was kissing him again. Her lips were soft and full, lush against his. Her hands were urgent, but never cruel. Never rough. They threaded through his hair, holding him close. Closer.

  His tongue touched hers, old friends finding each other after years apart. Her hips were so thin under his hands, but no less exciting. No less her. His Maddy.

  Relaxing into the kiss, into her, the years fell away and it was better than everything that had happened on the ice in th
e last decade and a half.

  It was perfect.

  “Madelyn, I’ve got your water and some—” The door flew open and Madelyn shoved him away. He stumbled back into a chair and whirled toward the doorway.

  “Sorry,” a startled brunette said, putting the water down and making a rapid retreat.

  The door shut behind her and the silence was profound. Choking.

  Billy didn’t have the words to convince Maddy not to freak out, that it was okay to trust him. That he wasn’t the boy he’d been. He was a man, and he could take care of her. He could honor her. The past was gone, burnt and buried, but right now, at this very moment, they could change their future.

  Carefully, knowing how thin the ice was beneath his feet, he touched her shoulder, curled his hand there, a finger resting patiently against the pulse in her neck.

  Please, he thought, have a little faith. A little faith in me.

  But then she shrugged him away, crossing to the other side of the room.

  “Leave,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “Maddy—”

  She took a deep breath and looked at him dead center. Right into his black soul. “It’s Madelyn. Now get out of my office.”

  It was the Snuggie that did it.

  A six mile run. A long-distance phone conversation with her mother about the weather in Miami. An hour of yoga. None of it put a dent in her fever.

  But the Snuggie was the tipping point.

  As Madelyn waited to give her credit card number to the woman on the phone at three o’clock in the morning, she knew that the empty pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream on the floor and the Bumpits hair accessory she’d ordered twenty minutes ago were all flash. Distraction from the real problem.

  Just watch some porn and be done with it, she told herself.

  Now that she was mentally and physically exhausted from trying to banish the desire still rumbling through her body, she could be honest.

  She didn’t want porn.

  She wanted Billy.

  And she could order all the Kenny Rogers greatest hits CD sets in the world (CDs? Who bought CDs anymore? Besides … well, her, obviously), but it didn’t change the fact that she wanted to have sex with her ex-husband.