Between the Pipes

Chapter 18

"Maybe you could open a bottle of wine for us while I put the flowers in water. Thank you for these. They're lovely." Sarah handed Mike a corkscrew and ran a hand down his bare chest. His jeans were low on his hips. She wore his sweater to keep the fragrance of his cologne and his male scent wrapped around her.

"We can start with the soup while the tenderloin cooks." She bent and slid the dish into the oven. The sweater rode up, exposing the lace of her thong. Mike's eyes smouldered as he watched her. She turned away trying to remember what else she needed to do.

As the meat and rice cooked, she tossed the salad and dished out the soup. Mike lit the candles on the table, and she rearranged the chairs so they were sitting beside each other.

They took their time and savoured the meal. The soup was light and lemony, the meat perfectly done. In the flickering candlelight, they talked about the best restaurants in Clarington and the international cuisine available, and touched on the aspects of global law that Mike still followed. He held her hand and rubbed his thumb against her palm. The sight of his naked torso turned her on, and his intelligent mind sent her over the top. Conversation was easy – as long as they avoided the topic of hockey.

Mike tore off a piece of bread and looked at her. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." She glanced at him in surprise, reaching for her glass. "Anything."

"I probably should've asked earlier," he said with a wince. "Are you pregnant?"

Sarah choked on the sip of wine. "No." She shook her head briskly. "No, I'm not."

"Oh, sorry." He looked at her sheepishly. "Some of the guys at the rink–"

"No, it's okay. Danni called and asked me, too. I'm not pregnant," she reassured him. "I was out grocery shopping today, and I popped into the spot reserved for, you know, pregnant customers." She felt a warm flush stain her cheeks. "Someone must have recognized my car." She fiddled with the stem of her wine glass. "It's a good thing I tend to be a rule follower. I can't get away with anything."

"Well, it's not much of a crime," Mike said with a smile. "I know we've used condoms, but I had to ask. Unless there's someone else?"

"No, there's no one else."

He reached for her hand and brought to his lips for a kiss. "For me neither."

Her heart ached. She needed to talk to him about how she felt about hockey. It was time to lay it out. "Would you like to finish our wine in the living room? It would be more comfortable."

Sarah turned on quiet background music, and they sat comfortably on the sofa beside each other. Mike wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him.

She sipped her wine, wishing she could skirt around the issue. "Mike, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

He brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. "What's that?"

"You know the day I went to watch you practice, when I fainted at the rink?"

"Yes, you seemed pretty shaken."

"Well..." She set her glass of wine on a nearby table and shifted so she could look him in the eye and gauge his reaction. Then she recounted what had happened years ago at the hockey game with her dad. Mike listened without interrupting. "I haven't been able to go to a rink comfortably since then," she finished slowly.

"Because you feel responsible for what happened?"

"Yes. Being at the rink brings it all back."

"But you know it wasn't your fault? Accidents happen. You can't blame yourself." He rubbed her arm. "Someone I admire and respect once told me that, after an accident I'd thought I'd caused."

She smiled sadly. "Sounds very wise. Interesting how it's easier to give advice than to take it." She cleared her throat. Was there an easy way to say this? "The problem is that, as a result, I haven't had much of an interest in hockey." To put it mildly.

"Really? You live in a town that eats and breathes hockey, and you've never been sucked in?"

"No. I've, ah, managed to avoid anything to do with hockey." Except falling for a hockey player.

"It must have affected you pretty deeply." Mike hugged her close.

His tone was comforting. He didn't seem angry or disappointed. She took a deep breath. "It did. I don't enjoy watching hockey at all," she said quietly. "I can't stand the fighting or the checking. I worry that another puck will fly into the crowd." She glanced at him apologetically. "I can't sit in a rink without having a panic attack, which means I can't go to the games. I'm just not a huge fan of hockey." Mike stiffened, and her heart pounded. "Sorry," she whispered.

"No, it's okay," he said.

But clearly it wasn't. He loosened his hold and looked off into the distance. Nausea clawed at her. He must think the worst of me.

The silence lengthened uncomfortably. "You're quiet," she said. "I wanted to be honest with you."

"I appreciate that. I really do. It's just not what I expected to hear."

Tell me it doesn't matter. I want us to be together. She wanted to say the words, but she couldn't. The mood had changed, and there was a chill in the air. A wave of sadness overwhelmed her. Crying in front of him would only add to her embarrassment.

He took a sip of wine and asked if she'd heard about the city's plans for a winter festival. She picked up her glass again and mentally shifted gears to answer his question, but the conversation was stilted. He'd steered the conversation away from hockey, and she wasn't brave enough to bring it back. She let it go.

Mike drained the last of his wine and sat up. "I should probably get going. You have work tomorrow, and the team has an early practice."

Sarah nodded reluctantly. She thought about offering him coffee but dismissed it. So they were just going to pretend the conversation hadn't happened? "You'll need your sweater." She went upstairs and changed into her own clothes, wishing he'd stop her.

When she returned and handed him the sweater, he put it on and then shrugged on his coat, not bothering to do up the buttons. "Thanks for dinner."

Sarah looked at him trying to form the words. To get reassurance that everything was okay between them. "Mike–"

He kissed her briefly on the cheek. "I'll call you." He didn't look her in the eye.

She shut the door behind him and leaned against it, impatiently brushing away tears. What had she expected? His reaction hadn't been surprising. Disappointing, heart-breaking, yes. Surprising, no. It was her own fault. Now she'd find out if getting over Mike was any easier than getting over hockey.