by Sarina Bowen
That’s what I’m up against.
My conscience tugs at me even as I finish that thought. Oh poor me! The soul-grinding punishment of golf and expensive resort food… So I’m a whiner when I’m tired. Sue me.
Silas reappears with a giant cup of coffee in a stainless-steel travel mug. “This is for you,” he says. “You can drink it in the passenger seat while I drive us to the Hamptons.”
“Nice try,” I snort, and he laughs.
“Aw, come on! If I had a brand-new car like that, I’d let you drive it.”
“Would you really?”
He shrugs, and then gives me the lopsided, innocent grin that shows up on Instagram every other day. Chicks dig his innocent face.
I don’t have an innocent face. I just don’t. Ask my mother. And it’s just as well, since there’s nothing very innocent about me. Not anymore.
My new ride is a Tesla Model X in Pearl White Multi-coat, and she is beautiful. Zero to sixty in four-point-nine seconds, and a ride so quiet it’s like you’re shooting directly through the space-time continuum.
Or at least shooting along the Long Island Expressway, which is where we are right now.
Fact: it’s completely impractical for a man who lives in Brooklyn and walks to work to own this car. But that only made me want it more. I’m a single guy who earns almost a million a year. No wife. No responsibilities. This car is the first decadent thing I ever bought myself, unless top-shelf liquor counts.
My family doesn’t understand. When I told my dad I was thinking of buying a car, he suggested a Honda CR-V. “You can get a used one coming off a lease for under twenty grand,” he’d said.
When I spent a hundred large on the Tesla, he almost burst a vessel. But the point of the car is that it’s beautiful, not that it’s practical.
“Just listen to that quiet,” I say as I pass a Honda CR-V with the noiseless, instant acceleration that only a Tesla can manage.
“Can I listen to the silence with the radio on?” Silas asks.
“No, you cannot. Jesus. I get enough of Delilah Spark at home. She and I are on a first-name basis now, because we see so much of each other.”
“Are you, now?” Silas says in a low voice.
“Yeah. We’re going steady. Are you jealous?”
Silas doesn’t take the bait. He’s immune to our teasing at this point. Also, my phone is ringing. At least I think it’s mine. The billionaire—Nate Kattenberger—who owns the team, provides every player with the same model of phone, and sometimes we get confused.
“That’s yours,” Silas says. “How come you don’t have it linked to the car?”
“Didn’t get around to it yet.” I’m not that interested in gadgetry that doesn’t go ninety miles an hour. You can keep your apps and photos.
Mercifully, the phone stops bleating.
“I’m going to hook you up,” Silas announces, reaching for my phone.
“Oh, baby. You’re really not my type.”
Ignoring me, Silas reaches into my gym bag on the floor behind my seat, and retrieves my phone. Then he spends a few minutes tapping on the Tesla control screen.
“Unlock your phone for me,” he says, tagging my hand off the steering wheel so he can press my thumb to the screen.
“If you want to hold hands, all you have to do is ask,” I say as the phone beeps in recognition.
“Please,” Silas complains. “I don’t want your body, but I’d probably sleep with you anyway if it meant I could drive this car.”
That cracks us both up. We’re still laughing when the phone rings again. “Who keeps calling me at seven a.m.?”
“Uh-oh,” Silas says. “It’s Tommy.”
“The new publicist?”
“That’s the guy.”
“Don’t answer. We’ll see him in an hour, anyway. You told the travel team we weren’t gonna be on the bus, right?”
“Of course. All they said was ‘drive safe.’”
“Ready for some acceleration?” I ask as we gain on a slow-moving tractor trailer.
“Scare me,” Silas says. I barely have to touch the pedal and the car shoots forward. It’s like flying. The acceleration is so swift that it pushes me back against my seat.
“Jesus,” Silas says. “This car is everything. It’s better than sex.”
Are you sure you remember? The dig is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say it. I don’t even know what’s stopping me. With my teammates, pretty much anything is fair game at any time. But I get a lot of action, and it’s not nice to brag.
Besides—Silas doesn’t hook up. Ever. I don’t really know why. And I don’t want to make assumptions that might be wrong.
My phone chimes with a text. And then another one immediately follows.
“Uh-oh,” Silas says again.
“Tommy again?”
“Yeah. And…shit. There’s a picture of you on a sports blog.”
“So?”
“It’s you and Hot Pepper.”
I’m still not seeing the problem. “What, we’re playing darts?”
“No. You’re sort of…” He sighs. “Dragging her. It doesn’t look good. You’ll have to look at it to see what I mean.”
“Shit! Really?”
“Tommy is not a happy man. He says to call him right away.”
I steer my baby off the next exit and stop in a convenience store parking lot. “Show me this picture.”
Wearing a grim expression, Silas hands me my phone.
And it’s bad. Silas is right. The shot was taken just after we got out of the car in front of my apartment building. Right after I’d scooped Heidi up off the pavement where she’d tripped.
That should be no problem. The caption I’d have given this moment of my life is: Dude lifts woman who’s trying to nap on the ground. And images don’t lie, right?
Well, this one misleads. I guess it’s the violent expression on my face—I’ve seen it before in photos where I’m lunging for the puck. In this photo, I’m frowning like a grumpy beast while holding Heidi in my arms, and she looks blotto. The overall effect is somehow menacing. And the blogger writes, Bruisers are aggressive on and off the ice.
A sick feeling rolls through me. “That is so wrong.”
“Just call Tommy,” Silas suggests. “But do it from the road, or else we’ll be late.”
Fuck! Showing up late will only add to my difficulties. So I tap the control panel to open both the driver’s and the passenger’s doors. They lift like wings to let us out. “You drive.”
Silas makes a little noise of glee and climbs out of the car. We pass each other in front of the hood. “Hell, I’d have taken that picture myself if I knew it meant I could drive.”
“Not. Funny.” I glance at the picture one more time, hoping it won’t seem as bad the second time I see it. But, fuck. It does. “Christ almighty. Hulk hauls blond princess back to his lair. I’m so screwed.”
“She does look awfully helpless,” Silas concedes.
“She was helpless. And I helped her.” But we both know that some people will assume that I also helped myself to the goods.
Silas’s forehead wrinkles as he fastens his seatbelt. “The picture isn’t that bad, dude. It’s just a moment’s worth of gossip. The tricky part is that the commissioner is probably on the guest list for this shindig tonight. I’ll bet that’s what Tommy wants to tell you.”
“Fuck my life!” That hadn’t even occurred to me, although the commissioner had been at the event last year. Last fall was my first season as a full-fledged team member. I spent the two prior years getting bounced back and forth between Brooklyn and the minor-league team in Hartford.
Last year I was as happy as can be to play in the golf tournament and be one of the boys. I had a great season. All my dreams were coming true. Until a certain shot didn’t find the net during game seven.
And now this bullshit.
I press the button to return Tommy’s call. Might as well take my licking now, or else I’
ll have to endure it in a crowded changing room later.
“Jason,” Tommy says when he picks up. “What the hell is that picture?”
So I guess we’re skipping the small talk. I don’t know this new publicist at all, but already I don’t like him. “That photo was taken by a ride-share driver with a death wish. He’s getting a one-star review for sure,” I tell him. That’s the only possible explanation, unless there had been somebody else lurking across the street. “Heidi got toasted and fell down outside the cab. I picked her up.”
He’s quiet for a second. “The photo has multiple interpretations.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too, because I have eyes.” I leave off the end of that sentence which is, you dumbass. Because I’m nice like that.
“Hey—I’m on your side, here. Are you and Heidi Jo a couple?”
“No. And not that it’s anyone’s business, but Miss Pepper and I have never had, uh, an intimate encounter. Not last night, and not ever.”
I’m making that point awfully loudly. But now I have my hackles up. This is one of those situations where I can’t help but wonder if the publicist would ask different questions if it wasn’t the team’s only brown guy in that shot.
Am I paranoid about this? Maybe.
He sighs. “So that photo is just the office intern getting some assistance from a team member.”
“Right.”
“She’s the office intern, but she’s also drunk and underage.”
“Under…what?” I feel ill.
“She doesn’t turn twenty-one until next month.”
“Oh.” Phew. For a second there I thought he was saying she’s a minor. That would have stunned me, but I’ve been stunned before. “A twenty-year-old in a bar is not exactly a national scandal, Tommy. Girl gets drunk a month before her birthday. Film at eleven.”
“It doesn’t help to be flip,” the publicist growls. “Did you buy her the drinks?”
Well, fuck. “I bought a bottle of very good tequila and served it to everyone who was there last night. Don’t make my generosity into a plot point.”
“You’re the only two in the photo.”
“You think it would look so much better if there were seven guys hauling her drunk little butt off the pavement?”
Tommy actually laughs, giving me some hope that his sense of humor hasn’t been surgically amputated. “So you helped her off the pavement, and then what?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I am, you—” He doesn’t finish that thought. “Tell me, so I can help you craft your message.”
“There is no message. Hot Pepper didn’t want to go home to Manhattan and wouldn’t tell me her address. I took her up to our place, where she puked in our bathroom. Then I tucked her in and let her sleep it off.” I edit out the part where we shared a bed. “When I woke up she was gone. Probably embarrassed. Haven’t heard from her since.” A little prickle of worry hits me as I say those words. “She’s okay, right?”
“She’s fine. She’s on the bus with the team. It’s you I’m worried about. I don’t think the commissioner is going to like his baby’s picture on the blogs…”
...getting manhandled by a league player. He doesn’t even have to finish the sentence. I can hear how it ends.
“So what do I do?” I ask him. “I mean, I didn’t do anything wrong. So I can’t apologize.”
“No,” he agrees swiftly. “You can’t. It’s not that kind of situation. I just have to be ready to answer any questions that media outlets might ask. I’ve already got one newspaper guy asking me if she’s okay, and what does her father have to say about the photo.”
Ugh. I’m sorry I ever poured that girl a drink. I don’t need this headache. And neither does she. Hers is probably an actual headache, too. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” I grunt. “But I think staying the hell away from her is the best course of action.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself. No drinking with the ladies this weekend, okay? This party is going to be all nosy socialites and season ticket holders.”
“No kidding.” His little warning irritates me. “I was there last year.” Unlike you. “I’ll be a good boy.”
“Sounds like a plan. See you after practice for the team photos.”
I say goodbye and hang up the phone. We’re flying down the L.I.E. toward the Hamptons. “You having fun at least?” I grunt at Silas.
“You know it. Was Tommy pissed at you?”
“Not sure. I didn’t do a thing wrong.”
“I know that.” He casts a glance in my direction. “Then there’s nothing to worry about. Except for her dad making a scene.”
“That’s when I leave the party through the kitchen.”
“I’ll follow you out,” Silas says. “We’ll go for another joy ride.” Then—with obvious glee—he floors it.
5
Heidi
The bus ride from the team headquarters in Brooklyn to the golf resort is unending. I have a white-knuckle grip on the armrests of the luxury coach as we speed toward East Hampton. It’s three hours of torture. My head aches, and my stomach is foamy and hot. Little waves of nausea pass through me every few minutes, worsening each time the bus makes a turn.
I chose a seat near the back of the bus, just in case I needed to sprint toward the coach’s little bathroom. But now I realize this was a mistake. I feel claustrophobic back here where I can’t see the road. When I was a little girl who got carsick, Daddy always told me to look at the horizon to steady myself.
My stomach gives another angry lurch, and I start praying again. Dearest Lord above, I’ll never drink again if you could just make it stop. No more tequila. No more darts. No more climbing into hockey players’ laps in the backs of cars and begging them for sex.
That mortifying memory brings the taste of bile to my throat. I swallow hard, feeling sweaty. If I could just get off this bus, everything would be fine. I need to stand outside in the sunshine and breathe the fresh air.
I check the map on my phone for the tenth time. We’re still twenty minutes away from East Hampton. I’ve almost survived the trip, but these last miles are crawling by. If I don’t find some relief, I’ll lose my mind.
There’s a text from Castro, checking on me. I should answer the man, but I’m not feeling well enough to think of something pithy to say. How does a girl beg for forgiveness in this situation?
In charm school, I learned to write condolence notes and thank-you notes. But they didn’t prepare me for this situation. Dear Jason, I’m sorry I got senior-prom-drunk and then begged you for nookie.
Every time I remember the words I used, I want to die all over again. I thought I was living life out loud, and being true to myself. But I was only humiliating myself.
The dot on my phone’s map creeps forward too slowly. I need air.
Rising onto unsteady legs, I shoulder my handbag and then lurch toward the front of the coach. The only saving grace is that Jason Castro is not on this bus. Some players opted to drive to the Hamptons instead.
Thank you, Baby Jesus. I couldn’t face him right now.
I toddle forward. In the second row, there’s an empty seat beside Bayer, who’s dozing with his head against the window. I slip into the empty seat and fix my eyes on the road.
And it’s a little better up here. There’s less motion, and I can see out the giant front windows. I take a deep breath in and then exhale slowly.
“Hungover?” Bayer asks without opening his eyes.
“Seems so,” I grunt. It’s not the most ladylike response, but I can’t afford to be polite right at this moment. I can barely breathe through my misery.
There’s a chuckle from the seat beside me. “Have you eaten anything yet today?”
“Lord, no. Didn’t seem like a good idea.” Not to mention that I was pressed for time. I took a five a.m. subway ride back to Manhattan. I snuck into my father’s apartment, quiet as a mouse. After a hasty shower and some frantic packing, I snuck out ag
ain while my father was in the shower.
I barely made the team bus, saving myself the embarrassment of missing it. Although, if I barf everywhere before we arrive at our destination, the point will be moot.
Bayer rises in his seat and fishes a hand into the duffel bag at his feet. “Here.” He hands me a small bag of pretzels. “These are the perfect hangover remedy. I always have some handy.”
“You are a prince among men,” I gush, which makes him laugh.
I tear open the bag and put one of the pretzels in my mouth and chew. Even the first bite of salty, bland carbohydrates is restorative.
He reaches into the duffel again, then hands me an unopened bottle of water. “Now have some of this, with two of these.” He fishes out a bottle of ibuprofen and takes the cap off.
“That settles it,” I say gratefully. “I’ll name my firstborn after you.”
Bayer laughs. “Learning to cope with a hangover is just part of hockey. I have to keep up with these youngsters around me.”
“I hope you’re not sacrificing your best weapons for little old me.” Later today I will find a bag of pretzels and a bottle of water to replenish his stock.
“I’m good.” He chuckles. “I had just one shot last night. No need for the arsenal today.”
“If only I’d stopped at one.” I could have saved myself a full helping of mortification. I distinctly remember straddling Castro’s lap and asking him if he’d tie me up. And it’s possible that I said the word “clitoris” out loud at some point.
Even if the bus driver opened the door of the moving bus and tossed me out, I don’t think I could be any unhappier than I am right now. Every time I think about last night, I want to die all over again.
There should be a charm-school course on how to hold your liquor. Gather ‘round ladies, tonight we’re drinking tequila! The idea would be funny if I weren’t so distraught right now.
I fix my gaze on the highway as the miles roll by. I eat a few more pretzels, sip the water, and count down the minutes until our arrival.
At last the bus leaves the highway. We begin to roll past carefully manicured properties and tidy little shops. You know you’re in the Hamptons when everything is decorated with beachy paraphernalia and expensive landscaping.
