I blink but don’t respond, because really, what can I even say to that?
“Can we go for coffee or something?”
“No. We can’t.” I wish I had a cool superpower that would allow me to scale walls or jump really high so I could get away from him without having to make physical contact. It’s been weeks, but I still don’t have the desire or energy to deal with him, so generally I don’t. I dislike confrontation, and I fear that I’ll lose it on him when we finally do talk, and work would not be the ideal location for that to happen.
“Why not?”
“Because you were warming your dick in a vagina that wasn’t mine.”
He makes a face like he doesn’t appreciate the image I’ve painted. I don’t particularly like it either, but it is accurate. “Come on, Stevie. You can’t be mad at me forever.”
I put a hand in front of his face, and he takes a step back, possibly because he thinks I’m going to hit him. It’s definitely something I’d consider if I wasn’t so opposed to domestic violence. Self-defense is a whole different beast, though. “First of all, you don’t get to tell me how to feel about any of this, particularly how long I’m allowed to be angry. As far as I’m concerned, I wasted a year of my life being your girlfriend, and I have zero plans to waste more time, emotion, or energy on anything related to you.”
“I made a mistake.” He’s whiny rather than remorseful.
“How many times did you happen to make that mistake?”
“I was alone out here for two months.”
Well, now I know it wasn’t an isolated incident. “A mistake becomes a choice when you make it more than once. Looks like maybe you should’ve thought about the consequences before you made yours.”
“Baby, I get that you’re—”
“Hey! There you are!” Pattie and Jules, bless their hearts, manage to worm their way between us. They flank me like very pretty bodyguards and thread their arms through mine.
Jules flashes a smile I can only describe as extra syrupy with a side of fake at Joey. “So sorry to interrupt, but we need Stevie.”
Joey’s overly groomed eyebrows furrow. “We were talking.”
“Really? Because it looked a lot like you were trying to corner her,” Pattie says.
Jules shoulders him out of the way, and my feet barely touch the floor as they basically carry me through the staff lounge. We have to turn sideways to get through the door because they refuse to unlink their arms. I feel a bit like Dorothy with the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion, minus the Yellow Brick Road, as we walk down the hall toward the front doors.
We burst out of the building, and still they keep their arms linked with mine as we bust it down the street, past university campus buildings. My bus stop is in the opposite direction, and I’d like to tell them this, but I don’t want to appear ungrateful for the save.
Jules looks over her shoulder. “He’s not following us; we’re good.”
They unhook their arms from mine, and we shuffle off to the side so students can pass us on their way to and from their afternoon and evening classes. Working at a university clinic is interesting. It straddles a line between nostalgic and wistful, especially since the three of us are fresh from graduate school and could still pass for students, even though we’re not.
“Thanks for getting me out of there.” I shake off the uneasiness I feel when thinking about confronting Joey.
“It looked tense.” Pattie gives my arm a gentle squeeze.
“It’s annoying more than anything.” For the most part I can avoid him, but it seems like he’s made it his mission to seek me out every time we’re in the building together.
“He’s more persistent than a case of crabs in a rent-by-the-hour motel,” Jules gripes.
“And just as unpleasant, actually,” I agree.
Jules and Pattie invite me to join them for dinner. If I go home now, I’ll end up perseverating on my altercation with Joey. It’ll be one of those downward spirals where I question all my past boyfriend choices while eating a pint or two of ice cream.
Then I’ll start wondering if Jerkwad is getting his fuck on with his newest bedpost notch. Inevitably, I’ll start fantasizing about duct-taping his pretty mouth shut and using him as my personal dildo, which will result in self-loathing. Nothing good can come from going home and being alone, so I agree to dinner.
We head down the street to one of the local restaurants. Everywhere seems to be buzzing tonight, and I suddenly realize why as my brother’s form fills the multiscreen TV that takes up nearly an entire wall in the bar.
“Seattle’s first exhibition game is tonight.” Pattie motions to the screen. “I bet the guys are watching this at home.”
“The guys?”
“You know, our brothers.” Jules has three, and Pattie has two, I’ve learned. “They’re all sports fanatics, and we are, too, so it can get out of hand sometimes,” Jules explains.
“Especially when two different sports overlap at the end or the beginning of the season.”
“I can imagine.” All the tables near the TVs are taken, so we bypass them and head for the patio. We’ll still sort of be able to watch the game. I can’t believe I forgot that tonight is RJ’s first game. I shoot him a quick message wishing him luck as we browse the menu.
I’m able to half pay attention to the game from our table, so I don’t feel like a totally horrible sister. We order pints and a bunch of appetizers. I’m busy stuffing my face with nachos when a collective gasp from the entire bar has me looking at the TV screens. It’s a flurry of action on the ice, players shoving each other as one from Seattle curls into a ball close to the net.
“Oh shit! That had to hurt!” some guy from two tables over says.
“That was a dodgy play. They better give LA a penalty for that shit,” someone else says.
“Who got hit?” I ask Jules and Pattie, who both have a hand covering their mouths. “Was it number forty-four? Bowman?” I ask, my heart suddenly in my throat.
Jules gives her head a shake. “No, uh, number fifty-two. Winslow. Some trade from Nashville.”
“Thank God.” I breathe a sigh of relief and slump back in my chair, checking the score at the top of the screen before it goes to commercial break. At least Seattle is winning, so that’s something.
“Wait a second. Isn’t your last name Bowman?” Pattie’s eyes dart around, possibly checking for eavesdroppers. She leans in closer and lowers her voice. “Are you related to Rook Bowman?”
I don’t see the point in lying. We’ve been working together for close to a month, and they’ll find out eventually. And it will also tell me what camp they fit into. “He’s my brother.”
Pattie blinks a couple of times; her lack of reaction is fairly impressive. “Wow, so Joey isn’t always full of shit. Good to know.”
“You already knew?”
“To be fair, Joey isn’t the most reliable source of information. We take everything he says with a grain of salt, or more like a brick. Particularly the part where he keeps insisting you two are on a break while you adjust to living in Seattle,” Jules replies.
“Of course he said that.” I roll my eyes.
“It must be kind of annoying to have a brother who plays professional hockey, especially when it’s suddenly so freaking big here.” Jules shoves a loaded nacho chip in her mouth.
“It can be when people go all gaga over him.” I love the hell out of my brother, but it sure can be frustrating to be his solidly average sister.
“I can sort of relate. My brothers play college football, and women are constantly throwing themselves at them,” Pattie says.
“Sometimes they have stalkers.” Jules nods somberly. “Girls get crazy over athletes.”
“Right? It can be too much to handle.” I roll my eyes on a laugh.
“Remember that time Mike forgot he invited like three girls to the homecoming game, and they got into a brawl over him?” Jules says to Pattie, then turns to me. “It was insane. They leg
it had a mud-wrestling match on the field because it had rained that day. The whole thing was videoed and ended up all over social media.”
“Oh God. That would be horrible.” I can feel my cheeks heat with shared embarrassment.
“I can’t even imagine how it would be for you, though. The bunnies are the worst for posting stuff.” The way Pattie says it doesn’t sound like she’s fishing; it’s more like empathy.
I look around, checking to make sure no one is paying attention to us, and lower my voice. “I think the worst was the viral threesome video.”
Pattie makes a face and Jules cringes. “I remember that. People wouldn’t stop talking about it.”
“I was in high school.”
“Oh God.”
“Yeah. It was . . . not the best.” I remember that day so vividly. It set off a chain of events that made me avoid social media for the rest of the year. Even now, all my accounts are set to private, and I never use my last name. “I walked into class, and the teacher wasn’t there yet. Everyone was huddled over their phones, and they all went silent the moment I stepped into the room. I knew it had to be something with RJ. I mean, all of a sudden all these girls in the popular cliques wanted to hang out with me when he made the NHL—girls who wouldn’t have given me the time of day before that. But this was different . . . people started laughing and whispering. I ended up taking a week off school until the worst of it blew over. I really learned who my true friends were then.” The whole thing soured me on my brother’s fame. Any kinds of perks were suddenly eclipsed by the media backlash and the storm.
“I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine how hard that would’ve been. Having a brother who’s a college football star is bad enough; I can’t fathom what would happen if he made the pros.”
It feels good to be able to share stories with new friends who actually understand. We spend the rest of the evening talking about what it’s like to have brothers who play sports where women are constantly throwing themselves at them. Tonight I feel like I fit because I’m me and not because of my last name.
CHAPTER 7
OW
Bishop
I think I’m still in shock. I’m also in a lot of pain, and that’s with all the drugs they’ve pumped into my system.
The white sheet barely covers my junk—not that I care about modesty, since I’ve been prodded and inspected by half a dozen people in the past hour. The verdict is unanimous and shitty: I have a groin injury. On a scale of not bad to really fucking awful, I’m sitting on the really fucking awful side.
I look down at the inside of my thigh. The bruising spreads from my groin all the way down to my knee, and it’s already turned a horrible blackish-purple color.
“You’re going to need at least six weeks to recover,” the team doctor tells me.
“I can’t be out that long.”
“I’m sorry, Bishop, but this needs time to heal.” He motions to my crotch.
“Six weeks, though?” I look to Waters, who wears a grim expression. “The season starts in three. I gotta be on the ice for that.”
Waters runs a hand through his hair. “I understand that this is upsetting, Bishop, but if you push too fast, too soon, you’re going to do more damage, and then you’ll be on the bench for a hell of a lot longer than six weeks. We’ll start rehab as soon as the swelling goes down and the pain levels are tolerable.”
I know he’s right, but the gnawing panic takes hold. I’m already having problems with this back-and-forth between defense and forward, struggling to manage the shifting roles. And now I’m benched for six weeks after the first exhibition game. This is the opposite of ideal.
I’m given a prescription for painkillers and anti-inflammatories. I assure the doctors I don’t live alone and have someone to help me get to the bathroom and all the other bullshit. Thankfully, Kingston showed up at the clinic after the game, so I don’t have to rely on Waters for a ride home.
The only silver lining among a sky of dark clouds is the fact that I saved the goal, and we won the game as a result.
I dress gingerly, and Kingston wheels me to the side entrance. Instead of letting him bring the car around, I insist on crutching across the lot, because I’m a stubborn idiot.
By the time I get my ass into the passenger seat, I’m nauseous with the pain and there are black spots in my vision.
“I’m sorry, Bishop. I know it’s not a consolation, but Hessler got a five-minute penalty, and Bowman checked him pretty good in the third period.” Kingston pulls out of the parking lot and heads toward my place.
The penalty and Hessler getting checked don’t fix my problems, unfortunately. “How am I going to gel with the team if I can’t be on the ice with everyone?”
“You’ll still be at games and practice and training.”
“But I won’t be able to do anything.” I bang my head against the back of the seat, which is a bad idea, since I already have a headache to go with the groin pain.
“Maybe it’ll heal a lot faster than six weeks? It could look worse than it is.”
“Maybe.” Based on how it feels right now, I’m not sure that’s the case.
I doze on the ride home, wiped out from the pain and the medication. When we get to my building, Kingston offers to come up with me and make sure I’m settled. I assure him I can deal with an elevator ride and that my brother will be home to manage the rest.
Mostly I just want to be alone with my shitty mood and my bad luck.
The pain is brain-meltingly awful as I crutch inside and across the foyer to the elevators. Kingston’s car is still idling in front of the building, likely to make sure I don’t do a face-plant. I swipe my card over the sensor, grateful when the doors slide open and I can hobble in before I pass out. Blinking through the spots in my vision, I swipe my key card again and give Kingston a thumbs-up before the doors slide closed.
I lean against the rail as I speed toward the penthouse floor, willing the meal I had several hours ago to stay where it is. I imagine there isn’t much in my stomach, but vomiting would be more than I can handle. All I want is to lie down and not move for twenty-four hours, give or take a day.
I must nod off briefly, because between one long blink and the next I’m looking at the penthouse foyer. I’m woozy as I leave the elevator, and in my uncoordinated state I manage to lodge the end of my crutch in the stupid gap in the floor. I yank on it, which sends a violent shock of pain through my body, shorting out my brain and turning my vision into the Milky Way.
I groan a few expletives, and the crutch pulls free, causing me to stumble forward. I go down, because my brain and my body aren’t able to handle the level of pain I’m still in, despite the excessive amount of medication they pumped into me before sending me home—which should definitely tell me something about the severity of my injury.
My entire body breaks out in a cold sweat, and my stomach roils. I heave a couple of times but manage not to throw up. I lie in a heap on the floor for a few long seconds. I know it’s no longer than that because the elevator doors are still open.
My key card is lying on the ground, right over that stupid gap between the elevator doors. As they begin to slide closed, I roll over and try to grab the card. That movement causes another vicious spike of pain to shoot through my groin. I feel like my balls are going to rupture and explode. Through a haze of black and stars I can make out the edge of my key card. I catch it with the tips of my fingers and drag it toward me. The doors hit my hand, and I lose my grip. And my freaking key card drops down the narrow gap.
I don’t have to look down the hole to know my card is gone. I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, my body covered in sweat, and breathe through the nausea.
This really isn’t my day. For a moment I think about my neighbor and the state she was in the first time I caught her out here in the hallway, with her broke-down suitcase and disheveled, slightly manic expression. I imagine I must look a lot like she did.
Eventually I drag
myself into a sitting position. I arrange my crutches and slowly pull my body upright. Then I hobble pathetically over to my door. “Fuck,” I say to the sock hanging from the knob.
My brother has company, and this is his very sophisticated Bat-Signal. I rest my head against the door and knock. I’m unsurprised when he doesn’t answer. I also text but get no response. Usually on game nights I’m out pretty late, and I assume Nolan has decided to take advantage of that, despite my having talked to him about slowing down on the number of randoms he brings back here.
I need the key card to get in, and to obtain a new one I have to go back to the lobby. I don’t think I’m capable of making the trip at the moment, so I decide to wait out my brother’s company by taking a nap against the door.
CHAPTER 8
COUCH GUEST
Stevie
I don’t get back to my apartment until almost midnight. The dessert place we went to after the pub was licensed, so we drank spiked coffee and ate cake on the outdoor patio. I don’t have a client until ten tomorrow, so technically I can sleep in.
I’m greeted by an interesting sight when I reach the penthouse foyer. My jerkwad neighbor is propped against the door, a set of crutches lying next to him, head lolled awkwardly to the side. Maybe he lipped off to someone bigger than him and finally got the payback he deserves for being an ass. I smile at the thought.
The ding of the elevator doors doesn’t rouse him, so he must be out cold. I note the white tube sock dangling from the doorknob as I pass. In college, it was the universal symbol for Do Not Disturb. I thought he lived alone. Other than the endless stream of women, he’s the only person I’ve seen coming and going from his apartment.
I creep closer and grimace at the line of drool on his chin. I also notice what looks like a bruise on his left cheek. Maybe I’m right, and he did get into a fight. I consider leaving him out here, but if he has a concussion and dies as a result of a brain aneurysm, I’ll feel guilty. Also, I’ve never seen a dead body, and I don’t want to start now.
I knock on his door, hoping someone will hear me. No one answers after a full thirty seconds, so I try again, but still nothing. I kick Jerkwad’s foot, which in hindsight probably isn’t the best idea, considering the crutches.
A Favor for a Favor Page 5
