by Sarina Bowen
“Didn’t I tell you to get lost?” Heidi asks, turning her regal chin away from me.
“Nobody drinks alone on her twenty-first birthday.” Heidi deserves better.
“Guys” I call. “We’re making a toast.” I snap my fingers in the air. “Silas, come here.”
Pete pushes a full glass toward Heidi and then pours a bunch of smaller portions for the rest of our crew. I pass them out, and Heidi watches with a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity.
“Ready, boys?” I lift my glass. “As Charles Dickens once said…” There are a few good-natured groans, which I ignore. “He said, ‘Fan the sinking flames of hilarity with friendship, and pass the rosy wine.’ We all know that Heidi gets high marks for friendship as well as hilarity…”
A shy smile creeps across her face, and she shakes her head.
“I predict that Heidi’s next year will be full of new challenges, new victories, and a few glasses of bubbly, rosy wine.” I raise my glass higher. “Here’s to Heidi.”
“Hear, hear!” O’Doul echoes, raising his own glass. “To Hot Pepper.”
“To Hot Pepper!” the whole bar shouts.
“Thank you,” she says, her face pink. I watch her take a very ladylike sip.
One by one, my teammates wish her a happy birthday, and she looks pleased by their attentions. I try not to notice how infectious her laugh is when Silas tells her a joke. Or the way her tits bounce.
Giving myself a mental slap, I look away. I really don’t know what to do with my attraction to Heidi. It’s not good for either of us. If I could just shut it off, I would.
Instead, I sit on the barstool beside her to welcome her twenty-second year on the planet. We drink our champagne slowly, and I apologize again for chasing that dude away from her. “That was a dick move.”
“And hypocritical,” she adds. “But thank you. We should go home. We both have open practice tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah? You working with Georgia on publicity?” Open practice is when the public is allowed to come and watch. It’s kind of a circus.
“Not exactly,” she says, sliding off her barstool. “Maintenance.”
“What does that entail?”
“I don’t even know.”
I hand Pete my credit card, and we have to wait a couple of minutes while he closes out my tab. “Sure hope next week is easier than this one.” That’s the thing about Heidi—I don’t feel like I have to be this perfect guy for her. She already knows I’m a moody, superstitious asshole. And she still puts up with me sometimes.
“You definitely had a rough week,” she agrees. “But it’s going to be okay, even if the strawberry jam isn’t really getting the job done right now.”
“Don’t mess with my sandwich,” I warn, just in case she’s got some big ideas for how to fix me. Everyone else seems to.
“I would never.” Heidi gives me frown. “How’d that get to be your pregame ritual, though? I guess it’s more sanitary than always wearing the same pair of ancient socks, like some guys.”
“The sandwich? A high school friend made it for me before my last game at home.” It was my high school girlfriend, actually. But I never talk about her. “We won that game five to nothing against our rivals. And the next day I got a call from the Harkness coach, inviting me to play for him.”
She whistles. “Nice timing.”
“Yeah. I’ve been eating that sandwich ever since.”
“Well then, let’s see…” She tucks her bag onto her shoulder as Pete hands me the slip to sign. “I’m not very superstitious myself. But sometimes you need a little mysticism in your life. Maybe you could jumpstart the magic. What if you call up the old friend and ask him to FedEx you another sandwich?”
I can’t, because she’s dead. “That’s not gonna work. I’ll just have to bring back the magic some other way. Here you go, Pete.” I hand back the check and wish him goodnight.
“Better luck on the road, kid,” Pete says. “I’ll be watching.”
“Thanks. I’ll try not to let you down.”
15
Heidi
Jason offers to get us a cab, but I want to walk back to the Million Dollar Dorm. It was raining earlier, and now the nighttime sidewalks look freshly washed, and the air is misty. As we walk down Front Street, I hear the low honk of a boat on the river.
The champagne has made me feel pleasantly buzzy. And—if I’m being honest—the eloquent toast Jason made in honor of my birthday didn’t hurt, either. I’m still annoyed with him that he’s friend-zoned me. And that he treats me as if I’m his kid sister he has to protect from Stranger Danger.
My crush on him knows no bounds. But sometimes I feel sure it goes both ways. He drools like a Doberman when I walk around his apartment in my sleep shorts and the see-through tank that I keep laundering so I can wear it every night.
And when he’d said those nice things about me tonight, I’m pretty sure he meant them.
“Feliz cumpleaños, as my father would say.” Jason touches my hand lightly. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. Do you speak Spanish?”
“Barely,” he says with a wince. “I did when I was little. But we lived in Canada and then Minnesota. The other kids in preschool didn’t speak Español. So I started always answering Papa in English. Kinda regret it now. What do you want for your birthday?” he asks suddenly.
We pass a couple who are holding hands and laughing, and I feel a twinge of jealousy. “Nothing you can wrap in a box. And we’ve been over this. You know exactly what I want from you.” To make my point, I reach over and give him a little pat on the bottom.
“Stop that,” he growls.
“Oh, please,” I complain. “The way you look at me is illegal in seven states. You’ll look, but you won’t touch?”
“That’s right,” he says primly.
“Why?”
“I’m a gentleman.”
I stop walking. “You are not a gentleman. Gentlemen don’t ogle.”
“Everybody ogles. I’m just honest enough not to be subtle about it.”
“Honesty, huh? That’s what you’re going with?”
He grins.
When I step into his personal space, that grin falls right off. “What else are you honest enough to admit?” I ask him. I’m wearing heels, which means we’re eye to eye. Okay—not quite. We’re eye to mouth. But it’s a nice mouth. “If I weren’t Tobias Pepper’s daughter, and if there were no stupid picture of us that everyone’s already forgotten, what would we be doing right now?”
“Nothing,” he says.
“You’re a liar.”
He tilts his head back and laughs. “Sometimes. Come on.” He hooks his arm in mine and steers me down the sidewalk again. “Look—you don’t want my grumpy ass.”
“You’re wrong.”
“In the first place, there aren’t any roundtrip tickets on the Castro train. No refills. No second helpings. No—”
“I get it! Jesus.” Our arms are still linked, and I wish the walk home were even longer. Arguing with Jason is more fun than it ought to be. “It’s awfully sexist of you to assume that I want to trap you into a relationship. Women are capable of wanting a hookup, too.”
“Sure they are,” he says. “But the women I hook up with aren’t spending the next night on my sofa bed. That is not enough of a post-bang distance. Even the most cynical girl would want another ride. It’s just the nature of the beast.”
“Oh my God!” My shout of laughter echoes against the empty sidewalk. “The ego on you! No wonder you need such a big apartment. Your head wouldn’t fit inside a smaller place.”
Jason just shrugs and gives me another maddening smile.
“You know, it could be a front,” I insist. “Maybe you won’t take me to bed because it would be a letdown.”
He snorts. “I see what you’re trying to do here. But it won’t work.”
“I understand that you have a reputation to uphold. You can’t have the intern walking around w
ith the knowledge that you can’t really deliver the goods. You’d have to kill me to keep me silent. And where could you hide the body?”
“You are—” He unhooks his arm from mine, but then reaches around behind me and hugs me against his side as we walk. “—such a pain in the rear.”
“But I’m your pain in the rear,” I tease. “And I’m sending your nephew a birthday present. I don’t know what you’d even do without me.”
“Eat Doritos,” he grumbles. “And walk around in my underwear again.”
“Feel free to do that anyway.” I tuck my head under his chin and he sighs.
“You didn’t say what you’re doing for your birthday. Silas and I could take you out for dinner.”
“And then a threesome?” I ask just to rib him.
He snorts, and drops his arm. Hello friend-zone. I’m back! We’re walking side by side again, and the apartment building is in view.
“Actually, I have birthday dinner plans,” I admit. “A nice boy has offered to take me out after work.”
“A nice boy?” Jason asks.
“My ex-boyfriend, if you must know.”
“The one who’s terrible in bed?” he asks.
“No comment. But I’m never drinking tequila again.”
Jason snickers as we step onto the red carpet that covers the entryway on Water Street. The late-night doorman opens the door.
We head for the elevator together. He doesn’t have to hold me up, and I don’t say anything embarrassing this time.
Inside the apartment, it’s quiet and dark. I go right over to the sofa bed and begin the work of setting it up for the night.
“Need help?” Jason asks. He is a gentleman, damn it. But only when I don’t want him to be.
“No, sir,” I grumble.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers. “You deserve a great year. I meant everything I said tonight when I made that toast.”
“I know you did. That’s why you’re so irritating.”
He chuckles as he disappears into his room.
Saturday morning I turn in a written report to Rebecca, detailing my experiences on every job so far. The apartment is totally quiet, since Jason and Silas are at the practice facility watching tape.
My phone beeps with continuous birthday wishes from my friends and family. I’ll admit that it’s nice to be remembered on my birthday. Although my father’s message says, Happy birthday, baby girl! Baby girl, really? Your mother sent you a gift. Why don’t you swing by tomorrow and pick it up? I know you have a dinner date tonight.
How does he know that? Eric must have called the condo, thinking he’d find me there.
Note that my father’s message does not say: Swing by and sign off on your inheritance. Today is the day when I’m eligible for the big disbursement, if Daddy approves it. The money that Grandpa set aside for me is just going to sit there until my father decides I’m adult enough to handle it.
It’s not like I deserve that money. I didn’t earn it myself. But the fact that he’s keeping it out of my hands just for spite? Infuriating.
My reply to him is terse. Thank you, Daddy. I don’t want to speak to that man, so I’m not calling him back. And I will not beg him to do the right thing.
Mama gets a phone call, though. My parents live apart for much of the year. When Daddy got the commissioner’s job, he bought a condo in New York and stays here most of the time. My mother doesn’t seem to mind, so long as she has the country club to keep her company.
“Hi, honey,” my mother greets me. “I hope you’re having a lovely spa treatment on your birthday.”
“Oh, I am,” I assure her. And it’s almost true. In the other room, I already have the hot water running into Jason’s kickass tub. I’m going to take the world’s longest bubble bath.
“Did you open my present?”
“Not yet! But I will. Can’t wait.” Mama loves wildly impractical gifts. The old Heidi wouldn’t have minded, but the new Heidi would just as soon have some birthday cash.
“You take care of yourself,” she tells me. “Get a deep-cleansing facial. Keep that New York smog out of your pores.”
“Absolutely.” Mama is easier to handle if you just agree with her all the time.
We chat for a few minutes, but I don’t tell her that I’m not staying in Daddy’s condo, and she doesn’t seem to know. My father probably assumes that my departure is like a temper tantrum—if he ignores me, it will blow over.
“Love you lots,” we tell each other before signing off. Then I run into Jason’s luxury bathroom, shed my clothes, and slip into the steaming water. His tub is the kind that’s separate from the glassed-in shower stall and sized for two people.
I’m couch surfing at the equivalent of a luxury hotel. This bath is my birthday gift to myself. I should probably feel guiltier for staying here. But they’re heading out on another road trip tomorrow, and they won’t give me another thought.
After a good soak, I straighten my hair the way Eric likes it. That takes forever, because my hair is a lot like me—it wants to take a walk on the wild side. But since Eric is going to treat his ex-girlfriend—the one who dumped him and moved away—to a dinner she can’t afford, I’ll show up with hair that’s straight and tame.
I carefully pack my favorite little black dress and heels in my bag and then put on jeans and a regulation Bruisers sweatshirt and jacket. Working in a different department every week means I have more costume changes than a showgirl in Vegas.
Today I’m part of the ice-maintenance team. But since this is a practice day and not a game, I’m half of the ice-maintenance crew. And when I show up at the rink, it’s clear to me that the guy in charge of the practice-facility ice is pretty happy to have a minion for the day.
“Here’s the ice drill,” he says, smiling at me from underneath a walrus-style mustache. “You know how to use it?”
“Of course,” I say, because a girl has her pride. I can already tell that he’s going to make me do all the work while he sits around eating some of the donuts they’ve brought in for the fans. But I won’t play stupid just because he’s lazy.
“Cleats are over there,” he says, pointing lazily at a table full of supplies.
I pull on a pair of ice claws over my boots—they’re metal spikes that will keep me from slipping on the rink. Cleats are for losers, but I’d rather wear them than face plant in front of the team and the crowd.
My hair is perfect, too. Can’t mess with that.
Walrus Mustache doesn’t even get up to see how I’m doing as I walk out onto the ice with the drill. He’s probably on donut number three as I kneel down in the goal crease and drill into the fresh sheet of ice where the net’s anchors will rest.
“Hot Pepper!” Silas exclaims from the patch of ice where he’s stretching his hamstrings. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? Getting my nails done, obvs.”
A bunch of the men roar, like I’ve said something funny. Whatever. When I have four perfectly placed holes, I set the drill aside and fetch the net from the edge of the rink.
The gathering crowd is watching me as carefully as if I were performing surgery in front of them. Honestly I don’t even understand why people are spending a perfectly good Saturday afternoon watching our boys run drills. I’ve been dragged to hockey practices since before I could walk.
Maybe it’s the free donuts.
I slide the net into position, which is a little cumbersome. Silas skates up to help me, and I let him because he’s a goalie and he’s probably set up nets his whole life. “Ice crew, huh?” he asks, dropping the pin into the hole I’ve made.
“Yeah. Could be worse, I guess.”
“True,” he says. “Better than cleaning more toilets.”
Knowing my dad, I’m not sure that’s off the table. “Have a good practice,” I tell him.
“Thanks, Hot Pepper.”
The other goalie—Beacon—helps me with the other side. And then practice
begins. I think about having a donut and then think better of the idea. And then I wait. And wait.
Holy cow, practices are long.
“Kinda rough out there,” Walrus Mustache says at one point. “Better get a shovel.” He takes another sip of his coffee and just waits.
So I get a rink shovel—that four-foot mini plow they use to clean up the surface—and patiently tidy up the edges between drills. Or I try to. Jason Castro is leaning over the wall chatting with Bayer, who’s on the bench. “Is it worse today?” he asks.
“Pretty bad,” Bayer says with a grimace. “Trainer’s gonna send me for another MRI.”
“Shit,” Jason says under his breath.
“Excuse me,” I say, clearing my throat. “Can you be a good, concerned friend from a slightly different location?” I have a job to do here.
Jason does a double-take. “What are you doing, Heidi?”
“Obviously, I’m just here to admire the view,” I say through a clenched jaw. Seriously—why do the players keep asking me that?
A beat goes by, and then Jason moves out of my way. “Sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Your hair looks different,” he says as I pass by.
“It’s supposed to.”
I should have eaten a donut, because practice lasts a long time, and Walrus Mustache keeps me busy doing his job.
At some point I scan the crowd and pick out a handsome man in a suit, sitting alone in the top row of the bleachers. It’s Eric. He’s waiting for me, and Eric isn’t a big fan of waiting.
“Are we almost done here?” I ask Walrus.
“Nearly,” he says. “After you do the resurfacing, you can go.” He tosses something toward me.
Startled, I catch it with only a tiny fumble. It’s a single key. And the key fob reads ZAMBONI.
No. Really?
“Really?” I demand. “I haven’t driven a Zamboni since high school.” And that time it was just joyriding on a dare. My father grounded me afterward.
“Like riding a bike,” he says. “Let’s have a refresher.”
