Good Boy

by Sarina Bowen

  That wasn’t exactly high praise, but just in case he was onto something, I memorized the lyrics to “They Can’t Take That Away From Me.”

  A week later I called Dyson back to tell him he’s a genius.

  “Well, obvs,” he said. “But what did I do this time?”

  “When I sing Ella, the oldsters will let me do anything. Came in handy on my first blood draw.”

  “Oh, honey. I’m sure that went smoothly.” He giggled.

  “The poor man gritted his dentures,” I confessed. “But when I sang about the way he wore his hat, he relaxed.”

  “Good girl. And this shit takes practice. You’ll be findin’ them veins in no time.”

  I hoped so. Even a couple of months in, I still wake up every morning with the feeling that I’m holding on by the skin of my teeth. My schedule is so crazy that I’ve barely seen my brother or Wes. Their schedules are nutty, too, now that their hockey seasons have really begun.

  But tonight, finally, I’m going to see Wes’s game with Jamie, who has a pair of comped season tickets. I missed the first one he invited me to because Violet convinced me that it would be a sacrilege to miss an evening lecture about medical ethics.

  I deserve a night out, damn it. So even though I have a paper to write this week, I meet Jamie at the stadium and follow him toward his seats. “We’re only a few rows up from the penalty box,” he says, pointing to two open seats in row E.

  My feet freeze on the staircase, though, because I see Mama Riley sitting in the third seat in. At six-feet-and-change, even from the back she’s easy to spot.

  “What’s the matter?” Jamie asks, waiting for me.

  “Um…” Shit! I haven’t spoken to Blake since the world’s most stressful baby shower. He hasn’t called or texted, and he didn’t turn up either of the nights I visited my brother. He might even be avoiding me. “Let’s get some food first,” I say quickly. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  He gives me his version of an irritated look—a flicker of disapproval and then a relaxed shrug.

  I drag him back into the crowds and into line at a mac-n-cheese stand that calls to me. “Okay, this is going to sound crazy.”

  “Yeah?” Jamie is reading the menu, unconcerned.

  “A couple of weeks ago I was Blake Riley’s date for a thing.”

  “A thing?”

  “A family party.” It’s the kind of story I would have told Jamie for giggles, except that Blake’s reason for needing a date was so awful I ended up keeping it to myself. “It’s a long story, but he told his family we’re dating.”

  Jamie snorts. “You and Blake Riley?”

  “I know, right?” My laughter has a tinge of hysteria in it. “It was a favor. He was supposed to tell his mom that we broke up later. But I don’t know if he did yet.”

  Jamie turns to me with laughing brown eyes. “So, the Rileys think you’re either his girlfriend or his ex, but you don’t know which.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, this will be entertaining.”

  It’s our turn, so Jamie steps up to the counter and orders mac-n-cheese with pulled pork for both of us, along with two beers.

  I pull out my wallet, but my little brother waves off my twenty. “My treat.”

  He and Wes are always treating me, damn it. This whole year is all about regressing. Back in the dorms again. Back to being broke. Fun times.

  “You know…” Jamie hands me our beers. “If you’re smart, you’ll string this fake relationship out another week.”

  “God, why?”

  “There’s a benefit thing. It’s black tie, which blows. But Hozier is playing.”

  The beer bottle stops halfway to my mouth. “Hozier is playing? Like, live?”

  “Like, yeah!” He snickers. “For three hundred guests at a thousand bucks a pop. All the players get a plus-one.”

  “Can I go with Wes?”

  “No fucking way,” Jamie retorts, lifting the tray off the counter. “I’m going with Wes. It’ll be the first big charity thing I attend with him. Didn’t I choose well?”

  “But…I like Hozier more than you do.”

  “Says who?”

  “Maybe Blake would bring me as payback.” Except he doesn’t owe me any favors now. Damn. It. My life is short on fun right now, and it’s definitely short on thousand-dollar concert tickets. I freaking love Hozier, though.

  “You get the inside seat,” Jamie says as we descend again toward row E.

  “What? No.”

  He chuckles. “Just save my eardrums this one time.”

  Reluctantly, I take my seat next to Mama Riley. “Hi there,” I say with false cheer.

  Her dark eyebrows lift in surprise. “JESSICA!”

  My God, she’s loud. “How have you been? Lovely party you threw. I’m still thinking about that brisket.”

  She beams. “Thank you! How come you’re sitting here?”

  Uh-oh. Does that mean Blake and I broke up? “Well, um, sorry. These are Jamie’s seats…”

  She slaps me on the back with a hand that’s shockingly large for a woman’s. “Thought you’d be in the WAGs box! Both of you!”

  “These are great seats,” Jamie says, helping me out. His smile is pure amusement. “The WAGs box is fun, too, though. But I’m always hung over the morning after hanging out in there. Right, Jess?”

  “Um…” I don’t even know what the WAGs box is.

  Luckily, the game is starting. We all rise to sing “O Canada,” which I really don’t know. But that’s okay because Mama Riley belts it loud enough for all of us. I’m approaching deafness by the last “WE STAND ON GUARD FOR THEEEEEEEEEE!”

  When I turn to my brother for a shared glance, something blue catches my eye. In his ear. Jamie is wearing one of those disposable earplugs.

  “Omigod, where did you get that?”

  “Hmmm?” he asks, passing me my dinner.

  The starting lineup is announced, and when Blake’s name booms from the loudspeaker, Mama Riley cheers so loudly that I almost spill my beer.

  Then the game starts, and the action is right in front of us. I’ve never seen an NHL game before, since I’m more of a football fan. But our seats are great and the fast-moving game is addictive. Blake is pretty incredible, too. He’s not as fast and slippery as Wes, but he’s just so forceful out there. I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to look up at two hundred and fifty pounds of Blake Riley charging you for the puck.

  I have an inappropriate shimmy near my goal crease just thinking about it.

  If I’m honest, Wes is on a team full of startlingly attractive players. Besides Blake, there’s Eriksson, who I wouldn’t kick out of bed. And of course there’s the pretty boy Will O’Connor.

  Naturally, Jamie and I cheer for Wes and Blake every time they get their sticks on the puck, but our enthusiasm is nothing compared to Mama Riley’s. Whenever her son sets foot on the ice she lets fly a litany of violent encouragement.

  “GET ’EM, BLAKEY! BEND HIS FENDERS! SINK HIS BATTLESHIP!”

  I nudge Jamie. “What does that mean?”

  He shakes his head, smiling. “I tune it out.”

  It looks like the first period will be scoreless. But when there’s only fifty seconds on the clock, both Blake and Wes vault over the wall for one more press. Right before the buzzer, Blake makes a risky pass to Wes, who snaps it right back to him. If I’d blinked, I’d have missed the whole exchange.

  Someone on the other team must have blinked, because Blake fires that puppy into the net at top speed. The lamp lights and the hometown crowd is on its feet and we are all THRILLED IN ROW E!

  I’m shrieking when Mama Riley picks me up clear off the floor, crushing me against her giant bosom and yelling, “GOOD BOY, BLAKEY! MAMA LOVES YOUUUUUU!”

  The announcer calls the goal for Blake and the assist for Wes.

  The intermission begins while I try to catch my breath. Seriously, I need to come to more of these. Cheering for my friends
beats the snot out of cramming for another anatomy quiz.

  “So, Jessica,” Mama Riley starts.

  “Mmh?” I’m sipping my beer and watching them set up for an intermission game down on the ice. It has something to do with T-shirt cannons and giant bullseyes.

  “I hope you’re on some sort of birth control.”

  The beer goes down the wrong pipe. I gag, my throat constricting. Then the hacking starts. I’m dying here, and Blake’s mom is still talking.

  “There are more options for a girl your age,” she says. “Better pills and IUDs. No reason not to be careful.”

  “Um…” I sputter. “I’m, um…”

  Beside me I can feel Jamie’s laughter without even having to look.

  “…a nursing student,” I finally manage. “I have, uh, lots of information about all of that.”

  “Good,” she says firmly. “Blake doesn’t need any distractions. Women have toyed with him before.”

  Even in my haze of embarrassment, this statement hits me a little wrong. I lock eyes with Mama Riley, and her expression is fierce. Maybe she’s the type to assume that every girl is a gold-digger. But I think not. Blake didn’t tell his family what happened, but mothers are damned intuitive.

  I think she knows.

  Jess: MAYDAY! Hope you see this before you see your mom. I sat next to her, and let’s just say a body cavity search would have been less probing.

  Jess: Also, nice goal!

  Blake: Shitballs. I’m sorry. Forgot J-Bomb’s seats were next to Mom. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

  Jess: Felt like a jerk lying to her :(

  Blake: I hate liars. And now I made you into one. My ex has got me all tipsy topsy.

  Jess: Topsy turvy.

  Blake: Whatever.

  Jess: So would now be a good time to ask you if you needed a +1 for Hozier? #Pleasesayyes #ILied2YourMom4U

  Blake: Wait. Is this a shakedown?

  Jess: No, because I’m being REALLY HONEST here about how deep in love I am with…Hozier.

  Blake: Fine, lady. But wear something sexy.

  Jess: REALLY? I can go?

  Blake: Yeah, it’s cool. Gotta go. I can hear Mom out in the hallway bellowing for me.

  Jess: Bye! You’re the best friend in the whole world! I owe you!

  Blake: Uh-huh. We’ll talk payment later. TTYTOTNDOW

  Jess: ?

  Blake: Talk to you tomorrow or the next day or whenever.

  19 Friends at Benefits

  Blake

  Houston, we have uno problemo.

  No, not just uno problemo. We have…whatever the Spanish word is for disaster.

  And it’s me. I’m the disaster. I’ve been a disaster for two weeks, and nobody has even noticed. Well, in their defense, they haven’t noticed because I’ve kept my mouth shut about it. Because what man goes around telling everyone that he’s a disaster?

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to me. I’m a big, tough hockey player who always knows what to do. And I liked my life just the way it was, fuck you very much. Playing pro hockey comes with a ton of perks. Babes. Free shit. Babes. Adoring fans. Oh, and babes.

  In fact, any chick would be fawning all over me right now, whipping her panties off and whispering in my ear all the filthy things she’ll do to me later for bringing her to such a cool-ass event.

  Any chick but Jess Canning, that is.

  She’s my problem. And I can hardly even form the words in my mind, they’re so awful.

  I’m falling for her.

  But does she notice? No, no and no. My date is too busy fawning over the Irish chump on the stage.

  “That accent,” Jess gushes, her brown eyes glued to the singer. “Oh my God, I’d listen to him recite the phone book for three days straight if it meant hearing that accent broguing in my ear.”

  “Broguing isn’t a real word,” I grumble.

  She snickers. “Hey, pot? I’m kettle. Half your vocabulary is made up, Blakey. Now shhh! I’m trying to listen!”

  But she’s the one who started talking in the first place! I swallow a growl and force myself to tune in to Hozier’s set. He’s got this whole acoustic setup going on, nice and intimate, and I might actually be enjoying it if Jess wasn’t eye-fucking the guy.

  How much does this dude weigh, anyway? A buck seventy? Eighty? Everyone knows you’re not a real man unless you weigh over two hundo.

  I watch Jess as she watches the show. She took my suggestion and wore something sexy tonight—a tight black dress that hugs her perfect tits and stops about mid-thigh. When she stood on her tiptoes earlier to hug Eriksson, the silky fabric rode so high I could see the swell of her ass cheeks. And she did something seriously fuckable to her hair. It’s big and trashy-in-a-good-way. I want to shove my fingers through it, angle her head back and kiss her until she’s breathless. And then buy her some dinner.

  Yup. Dinner.

  I don’t just want to fuck this girl. I want to feed her. I want to take her out to some fancy French place, maybe order chocolate-covered strawberries and sensually rub them on her lips, all Don Juan-style.

  Seriously, something’s wrong with me. It’s been wrong ever since I dropped her at home after the baby shower and almost blurted out, “Can I take you to a French place and feed you strawberries?” Thank fuck I reined in the crazy.

  “ENCORE!” the crowd shouts.

  I think Eriksson might be leading the chant. I turn toward him—yeah, he is. Never knew the Swedes had such a hard-on for the Irish. Were they allies during the war?

  “What war?” Jess asks in confusion.

  I said that aloud?

  “Sweden and Ireland,” I answer. “Were they allies in Double-you Double-you One and/or Two?”

  She stares at me. “You realize the W’s are just for writing purposes, right? To make it short-form? Saying them out loud makes the word longer.”

  “You make the word longer,” I mutter.

  Jess frowns. “What’s up with you tonight? You’ve been cranky since the moment we got here.”

  Guilty as charged. I’m Mr. Cranky-Pants. I just spent two weeks going out of my way to avoid this woman, and it did nothing to fix the problem. Isn’t time supposed to be the answer to everything? Give it enough time, and whatever stupid feelings you’re having will eventually fade. Anger? A good night’s sleep always cures it. Sadness? A night at a bar with friends always does the trick. I-think-I-might-really-like-Jessica-Canning? It’ll pass.

  Except it hasn’t passed. Seeing her tonight only opened up the floodgates again.

  “I didn’t have enough to eat,” I lie.

  “Um. You ate steak, lobster and about a million hors d’oeuvres, not to mention half my dinner.”

  “Then maybe I’m thirsty,” I say flippantly. “I’m hitting the bar—want anything?”

  “No, I'm good.” Her gaze shifts back to the stage, where Hozier is getting ready to play his encore.

  I leave Jess in the crowd and make my way to the bar, where I find Will O’Connor chatting up three skinny blondes with huge bazingas. One of them has her hand on his hip while another runs her palm up and down his arm. The newbie is loving the attention.

  “Riley!” He greets me with a big grin. “Enjoying the party?”

  I grunt, then ask the bartender for a whiskey neat.

  “What’s-a-matter?” O’Connor mocks. “Wesmie’s sis won’t put out?”

  “We’re just friends,” I answer. “And don’t say that shit around Wesley or he’ll kick your ass.”

  O’Connor rolls his eyes and turns back to his companions.

  I take my drink and wander off, but not back toward the stage area. Instead, I find a solitary corner and lean against the wall, sipping my drink. The ballroom is decorated in the same elegant style as every other charity fundraiser I’ve attended, only this one is for a dog rescue, so the pink wall hangings are covered with glittery silver paw prints, and the dessert I scarfed down and the name plates on the tables were also paw-shaped.

&nbs
p; I study the crowd. Jess is standing with Wes and J-Bomb, laughing at something her brother whispered to her. Then they cheer their lungs out as Hozier starts singing. Jess moves seductively to the music, her hips swaying and blonde head bopping.

  Man, she’s pretty. And smart. And funny. And about a million other things I can’t put into words.

  My mom called the other day and asked how the relationship was going. She even said to tell Jess hello for her, which, when it comes to Mom, is the equivalent of her giving the relationship her blessing.

  Usually, the “R” word makes me break out in hives. I’ve been a bachelor for five years and have no intention of changing up the status. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t think all women are lying, untrustworthy assholes. But why take the chance, you know? Better to keep shit casual. Keep it about the fucking and forget about the trusting.

  “There you are!” A breathless, flushed Jess flies up to me, her high heels clacking against the marble floor. “You missed the encore.”

  “I’ll watch it on YouTube later.”

  “You’re such a downer tonight.” She tugs the drink out of my hand, takes a sip, and then places the glass back in my hand. “Come on, party pooper, it’s time for the speech.”

  I follow her back to our table. The event organizer seated us with Wes, Jamie, and a few of my other teammates and their WAGS. Eriksson is the only solo gent at the table, and he slides closer to Jess as she sits down.

  “You ready to cry your eyes out, J-Babe?” he asks her.

  I bristle. What the fuck is he calling her J-Babe for? That’s our thing. I glare at Eriksson over Jess’s head, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Why would I cry?” she asks, puzzled.

  “You never been to a Broken Paws event before?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Oh man.” He reaches into his breast pocket and tugs out a handkerchief. “Canning, you’re about to experience something petrifying—a room full of grown men crying.”

  Jess glances at me. “I thought this was a benefit to raise money for animal shelters.”

  I nod. “It is.”

  “Then why…?”

  “Just wait,” Eriksson warns.

  “Just wait,” our team captain Luko echoes from the other side of the table. He’s already got his own handkerchief out.