Sure Shot

by Sarina Bowen

  Although everyone else seems to be. After our interlude last month, I couldn’t resist stalking the internet for news about his trade. I’d found a lot more than I bargained for. Tank punched his co-captain? Talk about a career-killer. If one of my athletes had done that, I would’ve flown down there and kicked his ass myself.

  I know better than to believe the gossip rags. So it’s impossible to guess what really happened. And speculating about it makes me feel guilty. Tank has only been good to me.

  The only way to stop thinking about him is to find a man who makes me feel as sexy as Tank does, but who’s also ready to settle down. Is that really too much to ask?

  “Ooh, this color goes great with your skin tone!” Georgia says, looking down at my rosy fingertips. “How come you’ll give Bess a pink polish, but you make me wear bright colors?”

  “This isn’t pink. It’s rosé. And it matches her blouse,” Becca says, capping the bottle. “You’re getting orange tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have a new orange polish, and you’re my favorite guinea pig. Sit down already and just take your beating.”

  “What are you calling this place, anyway?” Georgia grumbles. “The Nail Nazi?”

  “The Colorbox Bar, I think,” Becca says, ignoring the slight. “Or Sips and Tips. I haven’t decided. Input is welcome.”

  “You can have both,” I point out. “Colorbox can be your title, and Sips and Tips is your descriptive subtitle.”

  Becca looks up quickly. “You’re good at this.”

  “That’s my college degree talking. I did a double major in management and marketing.”

  “Handy.” Becca peeks at the clock on the wall. “Go stick your hands under the dryer, okay? It’s going to be time to meet your finance guy soon.” She waves Georgia into my vacant seat. “Now let’s see what I can do with you.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they send me on my way. “Don’t be late. But let us know if you need a rescue!”

  “Thank you both,” I say, waving my fingers like a maniac, trying to make sure the polish is sufficiently dry. “This was the pregame party that I never knew I needed. Do I look okay? Does this outfit say, ‘Fun, but not a pushover? Serious, but not too serious?’”

  “That outfit says ‘You’re lucky to date me.’” Georgia gives me a bright smile. “Now go have fun.”

  “I’ll try.”

  And I do try. Our date is at Cecconi’s, an upscale restaurant in a beautiful room with a view of the Manhattan Bridge out the window. I laugh at Brian’s jokes. And I ask him about himself, which turns out to be a good choice because Brian’s favorite topic is Brian.

  “I’ve been a derivatives trader for twelve years. Actually, my true function is originating debenture debt from triple-A rated GSEs.”

  “GSEs?” I ask, as if I understood any of the other words in that sentence.

  “Government Sponsored Entities. Like FreddieMac. I underwrite their debt, swapping their floating-rate borrowing needs into the fixed-rate callable debt which is more palatable to retail investors. We’re selling implied volatility and arbing the flat-yield curve.”

  I take a hearty gulp of my wine and try to admire the five o-clock shadow that defines Brian’s jaw. He’s a decently handsome man, as long as you can overlook the unibrow. “And what do you do for fun?” I’m hoping it’s something I’ll understand.

  “Go.”

  I blink. “Go where?”

  “Go is an ancient Chinese strategy game. It makes chess look as simple as tic-tac-toe. The number of legal possible board configurations has been estimated to be greater than the number of atoms in the universe.”

  “That sounds exciting. I mean, it’s no hockey game, but…” I wait for a laugh, but it doesn’t arrive.

  “Hockey?” He frowns. “Now there’s a gruesome sport. I don’t get the appeal at all.”

  Wait, what? “Did you happen to notice what I do for a living?”

  “Something to do with management?”

  “Sports management,” I clarify. “I’m an agent. For hockey players.”

  He cocks his head to the side, as if I’ve begun speaking Yiddish. “But you’re a woman.”

  I’m replaying his asinine statement in my head when two things happen in rapid succession. The first is that our food arrives. A plate of chicken marsala with cremini mushrooms and fettuccini lands on the table in front of me, and I’m really fucking happy to see it.

  The second thing is something I’m less happy about. When I look up again, Mark Tankiewicz is seated at a nearby table, handing off a menu to a waiter, and watching me.

  Ten

  99.9% Identical

  Bess

  Seriously? I don’t run into the guy for almost nine years, and now it’s twice in the space of two weeks?

  I look away, hoping that he’ll just disappear. But I’m not that lucky. The next time I happen to glance his way, a waitress is dropping off a glass of wine. I catch myself watching for his sexy smirk when he thanks her.

  Goddamn Tank and his goddamn smirk. I’m on this date specifically to forget about him. And now who’s drinking a glass of red wine and undressing me with his eyes?

  I’m so irritated I could spit.

  “How’s your food?” Brian asks.

  I look down and realize I’ve eaten several bites without even tasting it. “Wonderful. How is yours?”

  “Great,” he says, stabbing a piece of macaroni.

  I squint at it, because I can’t see any sauce or seasonings on it. “You ordered the…?”

  “Noodles with butter,” he says. “That’s my favorite. I’m a purist, I guess.” He chuckles.

  Yup. My date is officially the least interesting man in Brooklyn. Ten feet away sits a man wearing a tight T-shirt that shows off the hollow between his pecs, where my tongue recently traveled.

  I glance at Brian and try to imagine doing the same to him.

  Nope. Not happening.

  My phone buzzes with a text. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tank place his phone on the table.

  I’m not going to be that rude person who checks her phone. Not during dinner. I stay in the moment and make small talk with the dedication of a medal contender in the Small Talk Olympics. I even laugh at Brian’s jokes.

  I stay strong for a good fifteen minutes. But then Brian begins an extended conversation with the waiter about the qualities of the house-made vanilla ice cream, and I let myself sneak a peek at my phone.

  You look hot in that blouse. Unbutton one more button.

  I set the phone in my lap and quickly tap out a reply. What, are you my pimp now?

  Not for him, he replies immediately. This is for me.

  I glance up to find Tank’s gaze taking a slow, dirty stroll down my body. It’s the opposite of subtle. I pick up my wine glass and take a sip while casually giving him the finger.

  Brian is still deep in conversation about the vanilla ice cream. He doesn’t even notice.

  Tank laughs, his green eyes flashing. Then he starts tapping on his phone again. In Brooklyn again? And I don’t get a phone call?

  I guess he’s going to figure out my situation sooner or later. So I confess. Actually, I live here now. Sorry if I didn’t mention that before. And you KNOW why you’re not getting a phone call.

  First he responds with the eyes-wide emoji. And then he writes: You sneaky Pete! My change-of-address card must be lost in the mail. How odd that you didn’t mention it before. Oh well, I guess you were too busy moaning my name. So how’s your date going? Fun guy?

  Totally, I lie.

  Did he really order plain macaroni?

  My ego demands that I ignore his last text. And anyway, Brian has decided that the ice cream passes muster and orders it.

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” I tell the waiter, even though ice cream sounds good. I just really need to get out of here.

  Of course, Brian eats his ice cream very slowly. He offers me a bite, but I decline out of spite.
I polish off my wine and wish I were drunker than I am right now. Maybe this will all seem funnier on Monday morning when Eric asks how the date went.

  I sure hope so.

  Meanwhile, two tables away, Tank is putting away the New York strip steak, rare, with arugula and Parmigiano mashed potatoes. The muscles in his forearms flex whenever he cuts his meat. And every minute or two he looks up to give me a look so searing and sexual that it’s probably punishable by death in several distant nations.

  And I’m just so confused. How is it possible that I’m slobberingly attracted to one man, when the other one does nothing for me? Science insists that their DNA is 99.9 percent identical. But, man, that 0.1 percent is like the difference between a rare steak and plain macaroni. One makes my mouth water, while the other is just…

  I hold back a sigh and pray for my date to finish his ice cream.

  Finally, Brian calls for the check. When the waitress brings it over, I plop my credit card on top of the wallet right as Brian does the same.

  He lifts his bland eyes to me. “What’s this? I’m treating.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” I say, removing my card. Because I don’t want to fight about it.

  “I’m an old-fashioned man,” he says, passing the wallet and card to the waitress.

  “I noticed that when you expressed surprise at my career.” Oops. It just slipped out.

  He chuckles, as if I’ve said something cute. “I work in a man’s world. Sometimes I forget.”

  “You forget that women exist? Are there no women who…” I try to remember a single word he said about his job. “…do what you do?”

  “There’s one,” he says. “We used to have two, but she went off and had babies.” He shrugs, as if this was inevitable.

  He’s lucky the waitress has already removed my silverware, because I would have stabbed him with it. “You know, this has been fun, but I’ve got to go,” I say, pushing back my chair. “Thank you for the lovely evening.”

  “Will I see you again?” Brian asks, pushing back his chair to stand up, too.

  “Oh, I hope so,” I lie, offering my hand for a shake. “It was so nice to meet you.” I give him a big smile and then practically run out of the restaurant. When I hit the sidewalk, I take a deep, cleansing breath. Chin up, I coach myself. You can’t expect to meet Mr. Right on the first try.

  Except this wasn’t really the first try. Every few months I summon the courage to get out there and date, but I always get discouraged. The older I get, the thinner the talent pool.

  I’m starting to view single men like the NHL draft. All the best players get snapped up when they’re really young.

  New York was supposed to help me shake things up. There have to be more single men here than there were in my corner of Michigan. But what if they’re all like Brian?

  I take another breath and stroll up Water Street, grateful to put distance between me and that disaster of a date. My date might not have been romantic, but Brooklyn’s scenery is. The streets are cobblestone, and I’m walking past a Civil War-era warehouse with curved windows and giant shutters. It’s half a mile—a ten-minute walk—back to my apartment. I’d planned my getaway when I’d chosen the restaurant. This isn’t my first rodeo.

  “Bess,” Tank’s voice calls from behind me. “Wait up.”

  Except I didn’t count on him. I don’t slow my roll, but I’m not going to be able to outrun an athlete, especially while wearing strappy little sandals. “I can’t believe I dressed up for Brian,” I grumble to myself. It’s just a denim skirt and a silk top. But still.

  Tank falls in step with me. “Who was that guy?” he asks. As if it’s any of his business.

  “Just a guy. I’d tell you what he does for a living, but I didn’t understand a word of it.”

  “Bummer. Where’d you meet him?”

  “Tinder,” I grunt. Using the dating apps embarrasses me. But when you’re in a new city and you’ve sworn off dating the men you meet at work, there’s really no other way. “When I told him my job, he said, ‘But you’re a woman.’”

  Tank stops suddenly. “No he fucking did not.” He turns right around and heads back toward the restaurant.

  “Tank!” I chase after him. “What are you doing?”

  He stops again. “I need to teach him a lesson.”

  “No, dumbass!” I squeak. “Your agent would kill you.”

  “Easy, Bess.” He reaches out, giving my forearm a squeeze. I’m instantly annoyed by how nice his touch feels. “I didn’t mean I was going to punch the man. I need to tell him he’s an idiot, because he pissed off a woman with access to the best seats in hockey.”

  “He doesn’t like hockey.”

  “Oh. Shit.” Tank shakes his head. “There’s no use spending any time on a guy who hates hockey. Shouldn’t you ask that question first? It’s a good way to weed out the losers.”

  “This knife cuts both ways,” I point out. “I can’t advertise my access to the best seats in hockey.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because then I’ll just attract guys who aren’t looking to date me. It’s bad enough that half the men on Tinder are just after sex.”

  “Is that really so wrong?”

  I make the mistake of glancing at Tank. He gives me a heated smile. And my ovaries stand up in their stadium seats and cheer.

  Oh boy. Nothing good can come of this.

  Wait. That’s not true. Nothing lasting can come of this. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be good.

  “I have a five-year plan.” I say it aloud more for my benefit than his. It’s me who needs the reminder.

  “Sorry?”

  “There’s no page for you in my five-year plan, Tank. I’m trying to meet someone who wants a relationship. And we both know you’re not that guy.”

  “Yeah, well.” We stop at the curb, because the light turns red. “You’re right. I’m not that guy. I’m never getting married again. But I’m still a good time.”

  “Is that why you’re following me home?”

  “A nice guy always walks the single girl home.”

  “Are you a nice guy?”

  “Once in a while.”

  I snort. The light changes again, and we cross the street, drawing closer to my front door. The point of no return is near. And it’s just so easy to rationalize this. He’s lonely. I’m lonely. Who does it hurt?

  Me, that’s who. I shouldn’t do this. And yet every step brings us closer to my apartment building. “Did you really punch your co-captain in Dallas?” I ask suddenly.

  “Been reading the hockey blogs, huh?” He sounds angry.

  “It’s literally my job, Tank.”

  “Yeah, I punched him. But don’t ask me why, because I’m not going to tell you.”

  “Okay.” Now I feel like a heel for asking. It’s none of my business. I’d picked a fight with him, maybe because I was hoping he’d give up on walking me home.

  I’ve failed to scare him off. He’s still here, matching my stride. We cross under the bridge, and now we’re in the home stretch. “Just in case you’re lost,” I tell him, pointing back the way we came, “your hotel is in the opposite direction.”

  “I’m not lost. I’m following you home.”

  “Why?”

  “Why,” he scoffs. “Because neither one of us can stop thinking about it.” He stops, and when I stop, too, his piercing eyes take in my low-cut top and the flush on my neck. “You know you’ve been thinking about me. And I sure as hell can’t stop thinking about you.”

  Oh. Wow. Those are the magic words. Can’t stop thinking about you. My little Cinderella heart swoons against the soot-covered hearthstones, even though Tank is no Prince Charming. He isn’t even trying to be. He’s raw and hungry. He takes what he wants. He makes no promises, and he tells me no lies.

  It doesn’t matter. I march up to the front door of my building and pull out my key. “In you go,” I grumble, pulling the door open.

  “Heck, I didn
’t know it would be this easy. You’re inviting me up?”

  “We can’t very well stand here and discuss it.” I put my keys away. “Half the team lives in that building across the street.” I hook a thumb toward the Million Dollar Dorm, as we like to call it. Or, in my brother’s case, the three million dollar dorm. He’d owned one of the bigger apartments in the building.

  Tank glances across the street, and the look on his face is almost wistful. But then he follows me into my building, pausing in front of the door to my office. “Bess Beringer and Associates. Nice.”

  “It’s small. But I have the best commute in New York.” I start up the stairs.

  “Yeah, you do.” Tank laughs, and then follows me.

  When we reach my fourth-floor abode, I’m cursing my little strappy sandals. Tank could do four more flights without breathing hard. I’m not surprised. If I didn’t have first-hand experience with his stamina, I probably wouldn’t be breaking all my rules again right now.

  He follows me into the apartment, and I flip on a lamp and glance around. It’s tidy, but small. The only living room furniture is a very plain khaki sofa, because I haven’t taken Becca up on her shopping offer yet.

  Tank does a quick circuit of the living room. “It’s quiet,” he says. “Nice.”

  I burst out laughing. “That’s all you could think of to say, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” He gives me a smirk. “I’m just not sure why you chose this place, when your brother was selling a sweet pad across the street.”

  “This is a rental,” I point out. “It’s cheap, and I didn’t have to commit to more than a year. And then there’s the commute.”

  He nods, then sits down on my sofa.

  I offer him a beer, but before I can fetch it, my phone chimes. I pull it out of my pocket and find that my dinner date has messaged me, proposing a second evening together. “Oh lord. Let me unmatch this guy or he’s going to keep texting me.”

  I plop down next to Tank and open the app. Thank you for a lovely meal, but I’m not sure we’re a great match. Be well. —Bess. Then I unmatch him.

  “You’re awfully polite,” Tank says, reading shamelessly over my shoulder.