Crazy Thing Called Love (10 page)

He watched her in the mirror. Her cool imperial beauty. Would she give him this? Any sane man would have his doubts.

“Can you give us a second, Gina?” she asked and Gina vanished into the shadows behind the set.

“You can have your pound of flesh, Maddy. I owe you. But Christ, it’s going to be hard enough going out there—”

Awkwardly she patted his shoulder. “Okay. You’re right.”

She tucked her hands out of sight, like secrets she had to keep. Her gaze touched his face, and he would have given anything for her actual touch right now.

“Have you seen the video footage?” he asked.

“Yeah. Ruth found an ex-girlfriend.”

“Ex …?” He couldn’t for the life of him figure out who would be an ex besides the woman standing behind him.

“Sandra Marks.”

He groaned. Sandra had been a black six month period in his life about three years ago. “Ruth must have really dug to find her.” The wood grain on the arm of his chair was suddenly fascinating. “What about my sisters?”

“Apparently we couldn’t find them.”

“That’s too bad.” The bitterness and sadness tasted like chalk in the back of his throat. “They’d make good television, wouldn’t they? Very Jerry Springer.”

“I don’t do that kind of television, Billy.”

“Of course not. Did … did they find out about us?”

Maddy nodded. “Ruth did.”

It was so strange to feel bad for her because of her association with him. “Even if she put it on the front page of the paper, no one would believe you were slumming with a Wilkins.”

“I was never slumming.”

He pointed at their reflections in the mirror. “Look at us.”

Both of them came from nothing, and he still carried the dirt of 12 Spruce under his nails and in the seams of his suit. But she looked like her dress cost more than the house she grew up in. Like she’d ridden in limos down Spruce on her way to someplace else.

“Where is your family?” she asked. “Do you know?”

“Mom died ten years ago. Dad … well, Dad never came back after the … accident.”

“I’m sorry, Billy. She was a good woman—I know she tried.”

That she understood how complicated Mom was, how hard it had been, broke his heart all over again. “She always liked you.”

Maddy laughed. “Because she knew I was on the pill and wouldn’t let you knock me up.”

“That, and you made me do my homework.”

“A mother’s dream, clearly. What about your sisters?”

“Last time I saw either of them was at Mom’s funeral. Denise has been in and out of rehab a few times.”

“Oh, Billy. I’m sorry.” The way she said it, she wasn’t surprised. Denise had started down the road to destruction when she was sixteen years old.

“She went twice. I stopped giving her money about five years ago. She was messed up again. I told her I’d pay for her to get better, but I wouldn’t give her money for more drugs.” He crossed and uncrossed his legs, unable to get comfortable. “She told me to fuck off.”

“And you haven’t talked to her since?”

“All she wanted was money, Maddy. I couldn’t keep giving it to her knowing she was killing herself.” That wasn’t all of it, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. He cleared his throat, wishing things could be different, but after all these years he was so damn tired of not being able to figure out how he could change anything.

“I know,” she said, shocking the hell out of him. “I talked to her about two years ago. She called me up out of the blue.”

“And?”

Maddy shrugged. “She asked me for money. I sent it.”

Her guilt on top of his own was crushing, and taking a chance, a huge one, he took her hand, slipping his fingers through hers. Holding his breath, he waited for her to pull away. Stealing the moments to memorize the silk of her skin over the hard knots of her bones.

“I stopped answering her calls after that.” She pulled her hand away, and he released it one piece at a time. Palms, fingers, crimson nails.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Maddy.”

“I could say the same to you.” How strange that she still saw him so clearly, especially the guilt and worry he carried over the decision to sever ties with his family.

“It’s not the same. I was their brother. All they wanted
was money, how hard would it be to just give it to them?”

“I remember what they were like,” she said. “Even before you got drafted they treated you like you were their own private bank. Like you owed them, when all they’d ever done was take from you, their whole lives.”

“Denise has a kid. A three-year-old at the funeral.” The words erupted from the guilty place they lived. “And I walked away from that kid, knowing … knowing what her life must be like. I set up a trust fund for her, but I can’t trust my sisters to manage it. So, I’m … Oh hell, Maddy. I’m ignoring them because I don’t know what else to do.”

Their eyes met again, this time without the mirror between them, and it was the most intimate, most real moment he’d had with a woman in years.

Blood churned through him, thickened with the desire he’d always felt for her.

Like he was a damn kid again, he got a hard-on—because Maddy Baumgarten had turned those whiskey eyes his way.

Remember when we’d kiss for hours?
The words were burning on his lips.
Remember how we’d touch each other?
Love had made them gentle. Tender. No lover since then had wanted his tenderness.

“Hockey is all you have left, isn’t it?” she asked.

His dick deflated, the desire vanished.

Reality was as good as a cold shower any day.

He sat back in his chair, not even meeting her eyes in the mirror. Instead he stared at his hands, the scars and scabs his life had left on him. “You gonna call Gina back, or do my makeup yourself?”

“After the break we’re going to reveal our top-secret guest. Trust me when I say you do not want to miss this.
It’s the segment everyone is going to be talking about.” Maddy smiled into the camera until the red light on top went black.

“Commercial. We’ve got ninety seconds,” the stage manager called out and suddenly the set erupted with activity. She closed her eyes and let Gina brush powder over her nose.

“We gotta stop the sweating around here,” Gina muttered.

“Please, I haven’t broken a sweat on air in five years.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you can give some tips to Billy. He’s looking like he’s fresh off the ice.”

Gina vanished. A chair appeared to her left and the big screen was unfurled behind her, where they would show the clips of Billy’s teammates and his ex.

As she flipped through her cards, she was aware in a very distant way of Billy sitting in his chair, and she leaned away. She needed distance from him.

Strangers
, she reminded herself.
We’re strangers
.

“Watch it, cold hands,” Billy muttered as Peter mic’d him, clipping the small lavaliere mic between the buttons on Billy’s shirt.

“Test,” Peter said and then waited for the response from the booth through his headphones. Finally he nodded and backed away.

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.”