The Fifteenth Minute (7 page)

Bella gives me a little shove into the room. Then she closes the door behind me.

The little room is long and skinny, with a desk spanning the front. Five heads are bent over computers, all in a row. At one end, an older gentleman wears headphones, and speaks into a microphone. Graham sits next to him. In the center are two guys wearing Saint B's jackets—obviously from the visiting team. Then the fifth guy…My heart trips over itself. Because DJ stands in the corner, his eyes on the ice, his hand on a computer mouse.

He hasn’t noticed me yet. All his attention is funneled onto the game. As I watch, he clicks something on his screen. And then I hear a Green Day song begin to jam from the stadium speakers. DJ’s hand moves to a lever on a sound mixing board, while his eyes stay trained on the action on the ice.

Below me, the players line up for another faceoff. “When I Come Around,” thunders off the walls. But at the moment the ref drops the puck, the song quickly fades out while the skaters chase the puck toward Saint B’s goal.

DJ’s eyes drop to his computer screen while he taps furiously on a keyboard.

He still hasn’t noticed me.

With my back against the press box wall, I feel handily invisible. I finish my hot dog in three bites. Then I dig some mints out of my purse and pop one in my mouth. Then? A fresh coating of cherry lip gloss.

Because hope springs eternal. And you just never know.

M
y awareness
of Lianne is a gradual thing.

I hear the press box door open and shut, but I’m too busy to look. As I cue up my next couple of song ideas, I feel eyes on me. In my peripheral vision, I see a pair of shapely legs in skinny jeans, and a delicate hand, its thumb hooked into the pocket of a tailored wool jacket. Her fingernails are shiny and pink, like candies.

Below me, a whistle blows. I’m smiling—and then scrambling—because Saint B’s is getting called for hooking. I hit “play” on Inner Circle’s “Bad Boys.”

This is good. We need the power play, and I fucking love this song. It’s Friday night, we’re winning the game and I’m in the zone, doing my job, thinking only positive thoughts.

And in spite of the fact that I let her down, the most amazing girl at Harkness is watching every move I make.

With one hand I beckon to Lianne, but I can’t look at her yet because I have to pay attention to the action on the rink. It takes a few seconds for the penalized player to make his way over to the sin bin and for the opposing team to send out their penalty-killer shift. So the rasta beat plays on.

This is my moment of greatness, of course. Nobody knows it’s me, and maybe only half the audience will even get the joke. (“Bad Boys” is perfect for when the other team gets a penalty.) But five-thousand people are nodding in time to the groove I’ve chosen for them, and it’s a beautiful thing.

Not only does Lianne appear at my side, she peers over my screen to see what I’m doing. “Quite the setup you’ve got here.”

I step back to make room for her, putting a hand on her shoulder to guide her past my body where she can see the soundboard. At even this small contact, my pulse kicks up a notch. She smells like flowers and mint.

The ref skates up to the centers, and the players lean in for the faceoff.

Lianne is bent over my sound board, examining it. So I take her hand and move it onto the master lever. “Ready?” I whisper.

She nods, and we’re very close together now. Her hand is warm underneath mine. On the ice, the puck drops. I close my fingers over hers and together we slide the master down to zero, ending the sound clip.

“Oh, the power!” Lianne whispers. “Are you ever tempted to
accidentally
blast an airhorn when the other team is about to shoot for a goal?”

“All the time,” I tease.

She drops into my chair, which I never sit in anyway. “What are you going to play next?”

“It depends what happens.” I lean in closer to her, because I can’t help myself. The pull I feel when she’s nearby is so strong. “If we score again, I’ll play something obnoxious.”

“What if they tie it up? Wait…” She points at the list of songs on my screen. “You could play ‘Are You Gonna Go My Way,’ by Lenny Kravitz?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I say, giving her ponytail a playful tug. I need to stop touching her, but it’s difficult. “How did you end up in here, anyway?” I know better than to think she was looking for me.

Lianne makes a face. “I needed to drop out of sight for a few minutes. I’m kind of hiding behind your computer screen right now.”

“From who?”

She shakes her head. “Just…a jerk with nothing better to do on a Friday night than hassle me.”

I do
not
like the sound of that. But for the moment, Lianne is perfectly safe right in front of me, and I need to keep my eyes on the game. The ref makes a weird call. He stops play on Harkness for icing, but the crowd saw the puck ricochet off a Saint B's stick. There is widespread unhappiness. Half the student section gets to its feet. They’re yelling at the ref. Across the rink I see guys pounding on the plexi in their displeasure.

The music at a hockey game isn’t just for fun. At tense moments like this, its job is to soothe the crowd. To remind the spectators that they’re there to have fun and not to riot. And to express their emotional state in a lighthearted way.

I lean over Lianne and play “It’s Tricky” by Run DMC.

“That’s an oldie,” she says, swiveling around to look up at me.

“True.” I agree, making a quick adjustment to the bass output. “When a song is older than high school, that means we have to dance to it.” Giving Lianne a nudge, I start to move my hips and wave my hands.

Lianne spins my rotating chair until she’s facing me. But for a moment, she just lifts her chin and pins me with a look. Meanwhile, I’m dancing alone like a crazy man. We watch each other, and I can see her trying to decide whether she’s going to play along, or let me twist for standing her up last night.

I deserve it. But I don’t give up. Instead, I stick my ass out a little farther and shimmy. I’m the only one dancing in the press box, and I probably look ridiculous. But I’ll look ridiculous for Lianne any day of the week.

A slow smile takes over her face, and then she caves. She lifts her hands to frame her face and begins to vogue, her slender arms posing and diving in time to the music. We’re both going for it, as if the team’s success tonight rests on our performance.

Six seconds later I’m sliding the master back down to zero as the team skates on, my chest grazing the top of Lianne’s head. I get a whiff of her shampoo, and it’s tempting to drop my face into her neck for a kiss.

Down, boy.

The buzzer rings, signaling the end of the second period. I lean over Lianne, my hand on her slender shoulder. “Double click on ‘Brown Eyed Girl,’ will you?”

She grabs the mouse and does as I ask, her movements swift and precise. “I like your job, Daniel.”

Daniel
. Nobody calls me by my real name, and I like the way it sounds on her lips. “It’s a good time, right? Can’t believe they pay me for this.”
For now
, my subconscious jabs me. The ax that’s hovering over my neck never quite goes away. Not even when I’m having fun.

Lianne tips her head back so she can look up at me. “Why did you stand me up last night?”

Oh, hell
. I’ve never owed anyone an explanation as much as I owe her one. But that doesn’t mean I know what to say. “This year isn’t going so well for me. There are complications, and sometimes they have really bad timing. I’m really sorry. You have no idea.”

Her eyes fall shut and she stands up. My gut plummets, because it seems like she’s about to walk out. But instead she simply turns her back on the rink and folds her arms. “That’s not the most articulate excuse I’ve ever heard. But since you sound sincere I’m inclined to let it slide.”

“Okay,” I whisper, feeling my sadness lift by a few ounces. Her forgiveness is an unexpected gift.

“You’re not the only one having a shitty year, by the way.” The words are challenging, but her expression is vulnerable. Her eyes shift to the side, as if she didn’t intend to say that.

“No? I’m sorry.” I am, too.
So
fucking sorry for being an asshole last night. Though I’m really not sure how I might have avoided it. Oh yeah—by staying away from her in the first place. I can’t help but ask, “What goes wrong for you?”

She gives her pretty head a little irritated shake. “Harkness hasn’t been easy. It’s not the school work, though. That part is fine. It’s just everything else.”

Tell me about it
. Somehow it feels natural to tuck her into a hug. So I pull her small body into my chest, and wrap my arms around her back. And it feels so fucking good to hold her. “Can we still be friends?” She nods into my shoulder. “Good,” I rumble, trying not to notice how perfectly we fit together. We just stand there for a minute, and my mind is quiet again. She has that effect on me.

“Daniel?”

“Hmm?”

Lianne lifts her head. “Your song is ending.”

Fuck
. I release her and grab the computer mouse, executing a sloppy fade into “Sweet Child o’ Mine” that’s only a second or two off the mark. Nobody will notice except for me. And Lianne, of course. What kind of DJ almost leaves dead air?

Her eyes twinkle with humor, but she doesn’t call me on it like I expect her to. “I do a mean Axl Rose,” she says instead, as the opening guitar riff of the song bounces brightly through the stadium.

“No way,” I challenge. “This I have to see.”

She removes her baseball cap and flips it around in her hands. “You have to air guitar Slash’s part. I’m not feeling it yet.” The corners of her mouth twitch.

“Fine,” I say a little huffily. As if I haven’t spent months of my life on my air guitar technique. I mentally pick up a nice Telecaster, brace it against my body and begin pick out the riff.

The drums and the bass come in while Lianne shakes her head, tipping her face downward so that her hair falls forward. Then she puts the baseball cap on backwards and low on her forehead. As the music builds toward Axl’s first line, she slowly lifts her chin, eyes closed, moves her shoulders and claps her hands once over her head. With a serious, pinched expression, my miniature Axl begins to sing the first line about a smile…

And Jesus Christ, she
is
Axl Rose. The way she holds her shoulders. The tense grip she has on an imaginary microphone. The way her hair swings when she moves. It’s
hilarious
. My air-guitar accompaniment breaks down when I start to laugh.

She doesn’t even complain when I quit my part of our act. She just carries on. I hear a snort from further down the press box, and now Michael Graham is clapping from his seat.

“Holy shit, do you see who that
is
…”

My gaze swings in the direction of the two guys from the visiting team. They’re staring at Lianne with a mixture of surprise and amusement on their faces. Just as I realize what’s happening, one of them aims his phone at Lianne.

She stops instantly, whipping the hat off her head and fixing him with a glare. “No pictures.”

“Come on,” the Saint B’s guy urges. “That was awesome.”

“Hey,” I argue a little louder than necessary. “She said no pictures.” Lianne must be so fucking tired of being everybody’s celeb sighting. Their most-loved Instagram upload or their most-liked Facebook status update.

The asshole lets the moment linger, his eyes locking with mine. They say,
What are you going to do about it?

“Put the phone away, pal,” Michael Graham says quietly.

After one more arrogant beat of disobedience—just because he can—the Saint B’s guy shoves his phone in his pocket again.

But the moment is ruined. Lianne is sitting in my seat again, scrolling through the list of songs on my screen, trying to look like she doesn’t care. I’m starting to understand just how good an actress this girl really is. And it depresses the hell out of me. Who wants to be good at ignoring everyone?

She leans in, reading my playlists.

“You have everything arranged by mood!” She claps her hands, delighted by this idea. “Of course that makes sense, though.”

It’s true—I couldn’t do my job without sorting the songs into emotions. There are songs under the headings “victory lap” and “time for a rally” and “penalty box.”

“I don’t get this choice,” she says, her face quizzical. “Pat Benatar’s ‘Heartbreaker’?”

Ah. I give her a grin and then sing the line that makes the song perfect. I have to use a comically high voice for Patty B’s line about the right kind of
sinner
. It’s perfect for when one of our guys catches two minutes in the sin bin.

Watching me, Lianne’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit, DJ. You have a surprisingly competent falsetto.”

“Girls tell me that all the time,” I deadpan, and she giggles.

I’m so tempted to kiss that smile off her face right now, but I can’t. When I’d asked her if we could still be friends, I’d meant it. That’s all I can offer her.

My heart didn’t get the memo, though. I cue up the next song, but all I want to do is admire her smile and pull her into my arms again. I want to tell her some more silly jokes, and put on another song so old that we’re required by my dorky little rules to dance to it. I could stand here all night talking to her, but the game will soon be over.

Happy moments like this are as rare as hat tricks. So all I can do is make the most of it.

“You pick the song we’ll play when Harkness scores again,” I offer. “Anything you want,” I add.

“Yessss,” she says, rubbing her hands together, as if I’ve offered her more than just the choice of a song.

That’s all I’ve got to give her, though. And probably all I’ll ever have.

I
t’s official
. I’m having a blast tonight.

I’ve forgotten all about my paparazzo nemesis. I was supposed to be hiding from him in the press box, but I’m just here to have fun. DJ doesn’t seem to mind, either.

A few minutes into the third period, the crowd makes an unhappy noise as Saint B’s ties up the game. DJ’s response is to play “I’m Not Over” by Carolina Liar.

“Good pick,” I say as he hovers over the sound board. His smile is only inches from me, and the proximity makes me feel warm everywhere.

God, I like this boy. I mean—it isn’t just
anyone
who gets to see my Axl Rose imitation.

While Harkness fights to break the tie, we play songs of encouragement at every opportunity. “How about ‘Bust a Move.’”

“Cue it up!” he encourages me. So I do. And for the next break in play, he picks “Fight for your Right” by the Beastie Boys. They’re both old, so we dance both times.

“We’ve got quite the classic rap thing going here,” I say, sitting down afterwards. I’ve totally stolen his chair, but DJ doesn’t care.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “That’s right. Taste this good should come at a premium price.” But then I lose his attention when his face tenses.

I scrutinize the play down on the rink, but I can’t find the puck. “What’s happening?”

“My brother is trying to…
YEAH!
”

Several thousand people roar as Harkness scores again. The student section goes crazy, and everyone in the press box leans over their computer screens, tweeting or recording or announcing the play. I hear the announcer credit Leo Trevi for the assist and John Rikker for another goal.

When I glance over at Michael Graham, he’s typing and grinning at the same time. Rikker is his boyfriend, and Graham is the sports editor for the newspaper. They’re both having a good night.

“Play your song, lady,” DJ prompts me.

Ack! I’d been so distracted by the goal that I’d forgotten. But a half second later, Springsteen’s “Glory Days” is blasting through the rink.

“That’s cocky,” DJ teases.

I give him a grin over my shoulder. “Sometimes it’s just your turn to be cocky.”

“Fair enough.” He tenses his hand over the sound board again, waiting for the faceoff. I enjoy the view of his muscular forearm poised over the levers. DJ looks more like one of the jocks on the ice than a music geek. He’s a study in contrasts, actually. Hockey nut. Music nerd. Great kisser.

Breaker of dates.

I’ve already forgiven him, though, which means either I’m an idiot or I’m just that smitten. The third period of the hockey game is going fast, and I’m not eager to hear the final buzzer. This is the most fun I’ve had at Harkness. Except for that kiss…

This boy likes me, I think. Maybe? The fact that he stood me up is confusing. Yet every time he looks at me, he smiles.

“Glory Days” plays on as the ref takes an extra moment to reset the position of the Saint B’s net. DJ waits and watches for his cue.

“Can I do it?” I ask, my hand hovering over his.

“Sure,” he says. “Fade out the second you see that puck drop, but not before.” He retracts his hand, but doesn’t move his body. We’re so close that I can feel the warmth of him radiating over me.

The puck falls and I drag the lever down, fading The Boss down to silence. “Now I have the
power
,” I brag.

“Nice job, smalls.”

“What’s
with
the short jokes?” I complain, and his answering chuckle is evil.

A few minutes later the game ends, and we’ve won 3-2. That makes me the only Harkness fan who wishes there were
more
time on the clock. “Do you ever play any going-away music?” I ask hopefully.

DJ shakes his head. “The management doesn’t want me to give the crowd a reason to linger.”

But I want to linger
. Whoever runs this place is totally onto me.

My phone chimes from my pocket, and it’s a text from Bella.
Your photographer is standing outside the front door. I told him you left already and then walked away. Get Graham to take you out the back door
.

Roger that
, I reply.
Thank you!

I watch DJ pack up his laptop. I’m in no hurry to leave him or to run into the paparazzo outside. At the other end of the desk, Graham slings a pack over his shoulder and stands. “Lianne? Bella texted me to walk you out the back door. Ready?”

Crap.

But DJ says, “I got it, man. I’ll walk her home.” So my heart starts doing the tango. “Who are we ducking, anyway?”

Graham rubs his chin. “A photographer with a camera the size of a tanker truck. Let’s all go together.”

“It’s just not that big a deal,” I argue. “Go ahead, Graham. I’m good.”

A slow grin overtakes Graham’s face, and I pray DJ is too busy packing up to see it. “Okay then. Goodnight.”

When he walks out, DJ and I are alone in the booth. I have an irrational hope that he’ll invite me out for drinks or something to make up for last night. Or ice cream. Or a walk around the parking lot.
Anything
.

He picks up his backpack. “Let’s get you home, then.”

Right.

I hold up my phone. “Bella said we should go out the back. If, um, that’s no problem.”

“Sure thing. Follow me.”

I do, and it’s a pleasure, because I love the way DJ fills out a pair of jeans. I like the way his shoulders move when he walks—his gait is tough but casual, like a soldier at ease. My whole life I’ve been surrounded by beautiful people. But many of them have a Hollywood sheen—a self-conscious beauty. DJ is a different brand of sexy. And it’s a brand I like a lot.

I could be a very loyal customer of his brand.

He walks me down a set of stairs at the back of the mezzanine level. There are signs pointing toward the various locker rooms, and I notice there are women’s as well as men’s. “Who DJs the women’s games?” I ask.

DJ turns around and winks at me. “Who do you think?”

“You?”

“But of course.” He stops in front of a metal door. “Do you want me to take a look outside?”

God, I am sick to death of the drama. But there will only be more of it if that asshole is outside waiting for me. “That would be awesome. He’s about forty, dirty blond hair, big camera resting on his beer gut. You can’t miss him.”

Before he steps outside, he turns around to give me the kind of smile that makes me forget my own name. “Be right back.” Whistling to himself, he steps out the door.

Now I’m alone for a moment with my own thoughts.
Invite him over
, my heart whispers. But I’m not sure I’m that brave. Saying the words isn’t all that difficult. But the follow-through is problematic. He would come upstairs to my room and…then what? I’ll probably start babbling like a moron. I won’t know where to sit. I’ll just quietly freak out while I try to figure out whether he’s going to kiss me…

There’s the sound of a key in the lock, and the door opens. “Looks deserted,” he says, and I follow him.

He’s holding the door, and when I step outside he lets it close and then puts a wide hand in the center of my back. I like the feel of it. In fact, it’s fair to say I’ve never felt this kind of sizzle for anyone before. It’s unfamiliar, this fizzy brew of excitement swirling through my insides. Everything seems more intense when he’s around.

It’s a crisp January evening, but I want to walk slowly toward Beaumont House in spite of the chill. In the distance I can hear the murmur of happy voices in the dark — stragglers from the game, probably. It’s Friday and our team won and a very attractive boy is walking beside me. I love the way this feels. The night is so full of possibility.

“So how was your week?” I ask, because that seems like a safe question.

“Eh. I’ve had better.”

“Me too.” But I realize part of the reason my week sucked was our date fiasco, and I don’t want him to know how much it bothered me. So I change the subject to the first thing that pops into my head. We’re passing a kiosk—a place where people hang flyers of all kinds. “I need to hire someone, like a drama student. To help me with some…homework. How much do you think tutors get paid?”

DJ thinks it over. I like the way the light from the street lamp slides over his handsome features. “Depends on the subject. If it’s math or statistics, it could be like forty bucks an hour. But writing tutors get about half that much.”

Of course, money isn’t an issue for me. I just wanted to make sure I put the right amount on my flyer. “All right. What I need isn’t exactly skilled labor.”

“What are you hiring for?”

“Reading Shakespeare out loud.”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “Can’t you do that yourself?”

“Of course I can. But I need someone to read
with
me, a whole play, two or three times. I want to hear every line of it. That’s the only way to really understand.”

“Are you taking a Shakespeare course?”

I shake my head. “It’s, uh, a personal project.”

“A play?”

“The Scottish play.” I give him a smile, because I probably sound like a crazy person. “There’s a superstition against saying the name of it. But there’s three witches, and the king gets murdered.”

“MacBeth,” DJ says, then he nudges me with his hip. “Is it unlucky for you if I say it?”

“I hope not.”

“So this is a play you’re doing? Like, for work?”

“Only if I’m lucky,” I admit. “I want this part very, very badly. The film won’t be made for a year, but the director is casting it soon, and if he calls me in I want to be so well versed that it’s practically dripping off me. So he won’t be able to
imagine
someone else playing her.”

“One of the witches?” DJ asks.

I whirl on him. “Bite your tongue! I want Lady M.”

He holds up two hands in submission. “Easy. You mentioned the witches a minute ago. I’m just trying to follow along.”

We’re standing under another street light, and I realize I probably sound as loopy as one of the weird sisters in the play. “Sorry. I’m just a little nutty about being typecast. I’ve spent seven years waving a magic wand. It’s a problem.”

He doesn’t seem offended, though. He’s smiling at me again. “‘Lady M,’ huh? You can’t say her name? Someone’s a little superstitious.”

I raise one hand toward the cold night sky. “Guilty.”

He shrugs. “Athletes are superstitious, too. My brother used to have a pair of lucky skate laces. They broke, like, five times before he was finally willing to give up on them. But I’ve never been superstitious. I don’t have a lucky mouthguard or any pre-game rituals.”

“You play hockey?” I blurt out.

His expression flickers. “Used to,” he says, jamming his hands in his pockets. He starts walking again, and his voice dips low. “I didn’t get recruited for the Harkness team, though. Came close with a few Division One schools, but it didn’t happen for me. Could have played Division Three, but it meant picking a college that just wasn’t as good.”

“Sorry,” I say. See how good I am at flirting? I’ve got this boy talking about rejection.

“I’m over it,” he chuckles. “I used to think that not playing college hockey would be my life’s greatest disappointment.” The mirth drains from his voice at the end of the sentence. There’s a story there, but he doesn’t volunteer it, and I don’t ask.

Maybe it’s bravery, or maybe it’s foolishness. But I reach out and take one of the oversized hands I’ve been admiring all night. When his fingers close around mine, this little act of courage is vindicated. Yessss!

His hand swallows mine up. Then his thumb strokes my palm, and…holy cow. Who knew there were so many nerve endings in my hand?

“I could do it,” he’s saying.

“What?” I mumble. I’m too busy focusing on his touch to hear him.

“Reading out loud. Shakespeare. Even a dumb jock can read the lines of a play.”

“You…” My brain cells realign themselves just enough to allow me to respond to his offer. “You’d take the job?”

He gives my hand a squeeze. “You don’t have to
pay
me. Jesus. It’s just some reading, right?”

“Well,” I squeeze his hand back. “It’s a bunch of hours, though. Maybe…six? But not all at once. And if you got sick of it I could just hire someone after all.”

“I won’t get sick of it,” he murmurs.

Looking up, I’m startled to find we’ve reached the gate to Beaumont House. And I’m not ready to let him go. But he drops my hand anyway, presumably so I can dig out my ID.

Fumbling, I do that. And it’s now or never. “You want to”—my voice squeaks—“come in?” It’s probably not possible to deliver that line with less finesse than I just did. Seriously, Actor’s Equity should yank my membership.

DJ’s expression becomes so solemn that my heart drops into my shoes. “This is as far as I can go,” he says.

That’s an odd way to word a refusal. But I don’t call him on it, because his face tells me that his answer is non-negotiable. So I pull myself together and stand as tall as my five-foot-one frame allows. “Thank you for walking me home.” I look him in the eye, but I’m dying inside. What does a girl have to do for a little more of this guy’s time? Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I’ll become it. I’ll study up, and I’ll ace the test.

Those long lashes blink at me once. Twice. “Goodnight, Lianne.” Then he leans forward and I hold my breath.

The kiss lands on my forehead, lingering sweetly there for a moment.

Then he’s gone. I watch his ridiculously attractive denim-clad backside retreat into the shadows of the walkway between Beaumont House and the architecture library.

Damn.

Damn damn damn.

I race up the stairs to my room, where I let the door fall shut with a frustrated crash. Then I’m kicking myself, because the noise will probably bring Bella through the bathroom door to see what’s wrong.

It doesn’t though, and in a few seconds I understand why.

“Ohhhhh,
Belleza
.” It’s a deep, resonant moan, and it’s followed by some curses in Spanish.

Bella and Rafe are going at it again.

As I nudge my computer mouse to wake up the machine, he moans again. By the time I’ve double-clicked on the song I want, they’re both moaning and grunting like a couple of wild boars during truffle season.