by Sarina Bowen
“What kind?” I ask, fondling the phone like a lost lover.
“I think I’ll let you see for yourself.” He opens Nate and Rebecca’s garden gate and then gestures for me to go in first.
Two
In the Backyard of a Billionaire
The Puckrakers Blog: Preseason Trade Update
“What Brooklyn Needs is a Surly Dallas Player—Said No One Ever”
Bruisers fans are scratching their heads this week at the news that Mark “Tank” Tankiewicz was traded from Dallas to DUMBO. While the team could use some more experience on the blue line, Tankiewicz is an expensive choice.
There’s some wisdom in poaching a guy who helped cut off Brooklyn’s championship dreams a year ago. (And we’re told that he brings out the female ticketholders. Tankiewicz is famous for modeling the Jockers line of men’s briefs.)
But does Tank have the right temperament for the job? Last season he blew his stack so often on the ice that Dallas fans had a name for his frequent outbursts, dubbing each incident a “Tank Spank.”
And if the rumors are true, Tank spanked his own captain late in the season. A scuffle between Tankiewicz and Bart Palacio may have been the impetus for Tank’s sudden trade across country.
Time will tell whether this risky trade pays off for Brooklyn. But either way, it’s going to be interesting.
Tank
“Welcome to Brooklyn.” The team’s yoga instructor reaches out a hand for me to shake.
“Thank you so much. It’s a pleasure to be here.” I’ve said that ten times in the last ten minutes.
Ariana’s grin says she knows I’m a liar. “I’m sure you remember me from this morning’s class.”
“How could I forget? My hamstrings will never forgive you.” I paste a pleasant smile on my face for the pretty lady who’s trying so hard to be nice to me. It’s not her fault that I’m at a party I never wanted to attend in a city I never asked to return to.
“In addition to making you sweat three mornings a week, I’m also the team massage therapist. We should meet in the next few days to discuss any muscular issues you’re experiencing, and to go over any therapies you require.”
“Thank you. I’ll make an appointment.” And now we’ve run out of things to say to each other. “This is a great party. Do you always kick off the season like this?”
“Every year,” Ariana says with a smile. “If I had this lawn, I’d throw a lot of parties, too.”
“Right? It’s so nice.” And it is nice, I suppose. It’s a perfect September evening, and we’re standing in the midst of a sumptuous lawn, surrounded on three sides by high walls. Rose bushes and ivy climb every stone surface. The fourth side of the lawn borders the mansion, where my new team’s owner resides with her billionaire husband.
It’s beautiful here, but I just want to go home. Except I can’t, because I don’t have one anymore.
Three months ago I’d been standing in my own damn yard in Texas. The season had just ended after a disappointing loss to L.A. My most pressing engagements were a golf outing with my teammates and a haircut.
Then my wife had said, “I think you should move out.”
And the hits just kept coming when my agent called a few weeks later. “Mark, sit down. I have to tell you something. You’ve been traded to Brooklyn,” he’d said. “Now get up again and get your things together.”
Worst summer vacation ever.
Patrick O’Doul—the captain of my new team—steps up and slings an arm around Ariana. “Everything okay over here?”
“Of course,” she says. “But if you see another tray of those crab fritters go by, feel free to flag them down for me.”
“Will do.” O’Doul wraps his arm even more tightly around Ariana. It’s a gesture that makes a loud statement. Me Tarzan. You asshole. Get away from Jane.
I hold back a frustrated groan. Okay, dude, message received. I hadn’t known that the yoga teacher and the captain were an item, but I’m not the kind of asshole who’d hit on a team employee.
Obviously, O’Doul has already made his assumptions. My shitty reputation precedes me. There’ve been nasty articles about me. The hockey blogs are spasming with gossip about my life and my sudden trade to Brooklyn.
It doesn’t help that I was traded from Dallas—the team Brooklyn hates most. None of it should matter when I’m wearing a Brooklyn jersey. But I haven’t proved myself yet. And if tomorrow’s practice goes as poorly as today’s did, it’s hard to say when I’ll get the chance.
The last three months have been a nightmare that I’m not allowed to wake up from. I know I’m supposed to keep a smile pasted on my face and just try harder. But I’m really just fucking tired. I never wanted to be the new guy in the city. Although this city isn’t exactly new to me. I’d been twenty-three the first time I got off a plane at JFK. I’d been a rookie, joining a team just across the river. Another rival of Brooklyn’s. I’ve basically spent my entire career on the two teams they loathe most.
“Have you found an apartment?” Ariana asks pleasantly.
“No, ma’am.” I sigh. “I’m in a hotel at the moment. I wanted to focus on training camp before I had to worry about permanent housing. People tell me that Brooklyn real estate is tricky.”
“It is. Have you met Heidi Jo?” Ariana beckons to a pretty blonde woman who’s been buzzing around the party. “She works with the GM. But more importantly, she’s really good at solving problems. She’ll know which real estate agent to use. Heidi! We need you over here.”
“You rang?” Heidi says, darting toward us. She’s a pretty thing, and young. “Hey! Mark ‘the Tank’ Tankiewicz! We met a long time ago at some shindig of my father’s.”
Now that she mentions it, I do have a vague recollection of the league commissioner’s daughter. “You were a teenager,” I recall. “Mouth full of braces.”
“Okay, new rule.” Heidi rolls her eyes in a good-natured way. “How about you don’t mention my awkward teen years, and I don’t bring up your underwear modeling career?”
“It’s a deal,” I say quickly. I’ve only been in Brooklyn a couple of days, but I’ve already heard plenty of snickering about my photo campaigns for Jockers.
Heidi gives me another cheery smile. “Did I overhear that you need to find an apartment?”
“Yeah, just got in on Tuesday. I’m in a hotel. But eventually I’ll have to sort that out.”
Her eyes light up. “I love apartment hunting! If you’re very lucky, something will open up in the Million Dollar Dorm. That’s our condo building on Water Street. Some guys rent, but a few guys own their apartments. It’s a two-minute walk to the practice rink.”
“Sounds amazing.” Honestly, that’s the only thing that could make me feel better about moving to Brooklyn. A walking commute.
“That building is pretty tight, though. Silas’s girlfriend just bought out Dave Beringer. The only other unit I know about is a studio, unfortunately.” She puts a hand on O’Doul’s shoulder. “Our fearless captain is going to sell because Ariana has a house in Vinegar Hill. There’s another nice commute. Five minutes in the other direction.”
“I’m thinking of selling,” the captain rumbles. “Not sure yet. Might keep the place as an investment.”
As if it would kill him to sell to me. He thinks my trade was as big a mistake as I think it was. “I won’t keep my hopes up, then.” I don’t bother to keep the snark out of my tone. The dude needs to lighten up.
“Well, anyway,” Heidi says, hands on her hips. “The studio probably wouldn’t work for you and your wife. How’s Jordanna?”
“You have a terrific memory for names,” I say. It’s easily been five years since we all met. “But Jordanna won’t be needing any closet space in my apartment. She’s divorcing me.”
“Oh!” Heidi gasps. Then she claps a hand over her mouth. “Lord, I am so sorry. Holy cow, they’re going to take away my license to be a Southern girl after a faux pas like this.”
Everyone
smiles, including me. “I don’t see how you could have known. I didn’t even know myself until June.”
“Oh, Tank!” She flings her arms around me. “That’s terrible.”
“Hey, I’ll live.” I give her an awkward back pat, just as Jason Castro joins our little group, his eyes narrowed and focused on my proximity to Heidi Jo.
“Everything okay here?” he asks.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I step back from Castro’s girl and hold in another sigh.
“I am not okay!” Heidi complains. “I put my foot in my mouth. And I am shook.”
“Nothing a little cocktail won’t fix,” he says, handing her a drink. “They’re stronger than they look, though. Sip slowly.”
She takes the cocktail and takes a nice healthy gulp. “Ooh, tasty.”
“Honey…”
“I know.” She sighs. “I have the tolerance of a kitten.”
“We love you anyway,” Ariana says. “Now, who wants to play bocce?”
“Me!” Heidi’s hand shoots up.
“Are you as good at this as you are at darts?” Castro asks.
“We’ll find out.” She hooks one arm in mine and one arm in Castro’s. “Let’s raise the stakes. A dollar a point. Who wants to bet against me?”
“Why not?” Jason says. “Who needs money?”
Honestly, they make a cute couple. They’re both young, and probably in the early stages of their relationship. They don’t know yet how fleeting love is—those early years when you haven’t let each other down yet.
Jordanna and I had been that way once. We must have been, or I wouldn’t have gotten married in the first place.
Jordanna had been the first to admit our marriage was over, but I guess I’d known in my gut that we were doomed. Once the shock wore off, I began to feel some relief. I’m sad, but I no longer have to be that guy who’s always failing her.
So here I am in Brooklyn, allowing myself to be led over to the bocce court, which is a strip of sand cut into the manicured grass. The goal of bocce is tossing balls onto the court, trying to land them as close as possible to a target ball. It’s as good a way as any for a grump like me to pass a half an hour.
Another game is just finishing up. The winner is Dave Beringer. He’s a recently retired Brooklyn player—another guy who’s spent the past decade trying to break me in half. We’d gotten into a fight at the beginning of last season, after he’d made a dirty hit on one of my teammates. So I’d punched him in the face.
And if that’s not awkward enough, there’s this little matter of the fling I had with his sister nine years ago. Not that I’m ever telling him about it.
“Hey,” he says stiffly.
“Hey,” I reply, because nobody ever accused me of being a charmer.
Cue the awkward silence.
“Okay, listen up!” Heidi says with a clap of her hands. “The first round is Tank against Castro. Now I’m going to hand you your balls. Saying that never gets old.” Heidi giggles and places a set of heavy wooden balls in my hands. She hands a set to her boyfriend, too.
Castro throws out the pallino—the little target ball. His first toss comes within about a foot and a half of the target.
I know I can do better than that. So I let ‘em fly.
Thirty minutes later I’ve beaten every hockey player I’ve come up against. I should probably throw the game and let someone else win. But that’s lame. And cleaning up at bocce is more fun than making conversation.
Then Heidi steps up to the court. “Okay, big man. It’s time someone put you in your place.” She throws a ball that lands dead center, rolls two feet forward and stops an inch from the pallino.
“Nice!” I enthuse. “I’m gonna have to bring out the heat.”
“Bring it,” she growls. “I’m ready.”
I lob a ball at hers and push it a few crucial inches off the target.
“Fine, fine,” she says with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. “I’ll get you yet.” She makes another brilliant toss and pushes my ball out of the way.
“Yeah!” cheers the small crowd around us. “You go girl!”
As if there was any question who’d they’d back. I’d cheer for Heidi, too. She’s hilarious. But I can’t ease up now. Heidi is watching me with flashing eyes. She doesn’t want me to throw the game. So I toss out another winner, crowding her closest ball.
Dave Beringer steps onto the court to squint at our two balls. “Keep throwing, Heidi. He’s inside your toss by a half inch.”
“No problemo,” she says cheerfully. “I’m smooth with my balls.” She winks at her boyfriend before her third throw.
“Ooooooh!” The crowd sighs as her roll goes too far to the side.
She’s only got one more throw to repair the damage, and it’s a beauty. She puts the ball right up against the target again.
“Pressure!” someone yells. Because it won’t be easy for me to win now.
My first cautious toss falls short, and all the men snicker. “Yeah, yeah. I got one more.” I dust off my hands, and contemplate my strategy. I can only win this if I ease up to Heidi’s ball and nudge it aside. Hell.
I line up a careful shot, but just as I’m about to toss, I catch a flash of strawberry curls at my side. I turn for a better look, which is a mistake. As the ball leaves my hand, I’m not even looking at the target. Because Bess Beringer—a woman I haven’t seen for nine years—is standing right there, gaping at me.
The ball misses the target. Badly. Heidi lets out a whoop of victory and everyone laughs.
But I can’t stop staring at Bess. She’s a redhead, like her brother, but her hair color is only one of the striking things about her. She has pink cheeks and flashing bright blue eyes that always tell you just where you stand with her.
And right now they’re staring back at me with astonishment. It’s been almost a decade since we’ve come face to face. But, hell, it seems like no time has gone by at all, because it’s way too easy to picture her beneath me in bed, straining against me, reaching for what we both wanted and always found together—heady, sweet release.
She’s blinking at me, as if she can picture it all, too.
“Hey, Bess!” Heidi says, dusting off her hands. “Welcome back! How was your vacation?”
“Um…” She swallows. “Nice,” she says after a beat. “Great vacation.”
“Did you win the bet? Ten days without your phone?”
“Yup.” Bess’s head bobs up and down, but she’s still sneaking looks at me.
“Do you know Mark Tankiewicz?” Heidi asks. “Mark, you must know Bess Beringer, agent to the stars?”
I turn to face Bess, and our eyes lock again. Her surprise is so palpable that I have to hold back a chuckle. With the whole world standing here listening, I’m going to have to choose my words carefully.
Bess beats me to it. “Nice to meet you,” she says, thrusting out a hand.
Wait, what? That’s how she wants to play it?
It takes me a beat to respond. “Likewise,” I say, reaching out to shake. When her slender hand lands in mine, I can’t help myself. I stroke a finger along the underside of her wrist. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Now her cheeks are rapidly staining to a deep pink, and the sight stirs up some long-dormant feelings in my chest. Bess and I had some hot times together. Really hot. We’d both been young and new to New York City and so confident that the universe was going to hand us everything we asked of it. And maybe it did for Bess. I sure hope so, anyway.
No wedding ring, though, my asshole brain notices.
Bess pulls her hand out of mine and takes a step backward. “And you’re here in Brooklyn because…?”
“Traded,” I say gruffly.
“To Brooklyn.” Her low voice is so familiar that it gives me chills.
“Right,” I say, laughing darkly. “And when I found out, I had the same look of shock on my face that you’ve got right now.”
Everybody else laughs, too, and the sound
seems to pull Bess out of her stupor. She straightens her spine, and I’m struck by how familiar her body language is, too. I was always fascinated by Bess. Behind that sweet name and nymph-like body is a tough girl. She’s a study in sexy contrasts.
The first time we met, Bess had been a newbie agent, the youngest employee in Henry Kassman’s shop. After sharing a business dinner, I’d taken her to my hotel room, where we’d had the kind of up-all-night, energetic, soul-scorching sex that exuberant youngsters sometimes experience but rarely appreciate.
We’d had a friends-with-benefits arrangement that lasted for several months. It had been magic. I’d never hit it off with anyone quite so well as I had with her.
She’d ended it without really saying why, and I hadn’t had the good sense to be very upset. I’d missed her, and I’d sure as hell missed the sex, but I’d been riding the high of being a young, successful athlete in the big city. I didn’t lack for female attention.
But, man, our chemistry had been on another level. I hadn’t appreciated it while it lasted. And now she pretends not to recognize me? Ouch.
“Excuse me,” Bess says now. She turns her back on me, heading for the house, ducking into the crowd, her hips swaying.
Oh, hell no. She won’t get away from me that easily. I eye the boss’s mansion and wonder where she’ll head next.
“Who needs a drink?” Heidi asks, pulling my attention back to the party. “And who’s willing to play the new winner?”
“I’m very afraid,” Castro says. “But I’ll do it.”
“That’s my boy.” Heidi stands on her tiptoes and kisses him. “I’m going to grab us all a bucket of cold beer.”
“I’ll help you,” I offer. “I need a drink after that whipping you just gave me.”
There are a few good-natured chuckles. Losing to the team’s favorite assistant was probably a good move, even if I didn’t mean to do it.
I head for the bar with Heidi. As I help her tuck bottles of beer into an ice bucket, I feel eyes on me. I finish what I’m doing and glance up.
