by Sarina Bowen
“I’m sure it looks completely different already.”
“You’d be right,” he says, waving me toward the elevator. “Go on up. The pizzas just got here.”
“Yesssss.” I give a fist pump and head for the shiny elevators.
When I reach the third floor, the hallway is full of cardboard moving boxes, plus Delilah’s bodyguard. “Hi, Avivit,” I say, giving her a wave. “I heard the pizza just got here.”
She nods and then steps aside so I can reach the apartment door. Avivit is a woman of few words.
“Should I bring you a slice?”
“No, thank you. I don’t eat when I’m on duty.” She gives me a tiny smile.
“You know there’s a dozen athletes literally standing between Delilah and trouble?” I pause, my hand on the door.
“That’s a lot of muscle,” she says. “But it’s what’s up here that counts.” She points at her head, as her dark eyes dance.
“You make a very good point.” And since my job is literally to prevent athletes from doing anything stupid, I should already know this.
When I step inside my brother’s old apartment, the place is hardly recognizable. The living room has been furnished with sofas and chairs in bright, stylish colors.
And when I glance into the second bedroom, the weight bench and treadmill are long gone. They’re being replaced by—
“Is that a giant telephone booth?” I ask the tangle of men who are trying to assemble it.
Several heads swivel in my direction. “It’s a recording booth.” Delilah pops out from behind a bright red panel. “It shipped in pieces.”
“Lots of pieces,” Castro says.
“Confusing pieces,” Silas adds.
“Guys, let’s eat pizza,” Delilah says. “Maybe this will seem simpler after you eat.”
Grumbling, the men lay down the various panels and boards they’re holding. And to my surprise, Tank is one of those men.
My mouth flops open. I wasn’t expecting to find him here, and I hadn’t really prepared myself for the inevitable moment when I’d run into him again.
He gives me a quick wink. It takes me a second to realize that I’m blocking his way out of the room. I make an awkward sideways hop so he can get to the pizza boxes in the kitchen.
The other hockey players file past me, but my focus stays on Tank. The way he’s pushed the sleeves of his long-sleeved T-shirt up onto his forearms. The way he tilts his head to listen to Georgia as she hands him a plate. And the way he fills out a pair of jeans.
All hockey players have great asses. Hockey butts are muscular. That’s why my clients all have to special-order their trousers.
Tank, though. One glance at him and I feel all stirred up inside. It’s not just the muscles, either. It’s the whole guy. And now it’s hitting me that if I want to represent him someday, I’ll have to wrestle everything I feel for him into submission and smother it with a pillow.
Or at least fake it really, really well.
And there’s nobody to blame. I have feelings for a guy who can’t return them. Lots of feelings. He’s that guy to me—the bright, shiny goal that’s just out of reach. The one that got away.
“Beer?” Delilah asks me. “Pizza?”
“Sure,” I say, dragging my attention away from Tank. “But first, this is for you. Welcome to Brooklyn.” I hand her my gift bag.
“Oh! You shouldn’t have.”
“Of course I should.” I give her a quick hug. Silas is my client, and I see these two lovebirds all the time. And I love Delilah. She’s literally a rock star, and yet she’s one of the most modest, normal people I’ve ever met. “Open it. You know you want to.”
She flashes me a smile and then pushes the tissue paper out of the way to pull a throw pillow out of the bag. “Oh, pretty! I love it! And now I won’t get lost.” She’s looking at the pillow’s front—it depicts a very tasteful map of Brooklyn.
“Turn it over.”
She flips the pillow and then laughs. Because the reverse says, Brooklyn: Fuggedaboutit. “This is priceless. Thank you!”
“It’s my pleasure.”
“I thought you hated shopping.”
“I hate it less when it’s for other people.”
Delilah smiles and shakes her head, like she can’t figure me out. But it’s true. Buying gifts for clients is easy. Shopping for myself always feels like a big commitment. It’s the same with giving out advice. Figuring out someone else’s bullshit is always easier than figuring out my own.
The rock star gives me another hug and then runs off to decide which of her new pieces of furniture deserves the pillow.
“Hey, boss. Want a slice?” Eric Bayer appears at my side.
“Maybe later,” I tell my business partner. “Did you just come in?”
“They sent me out to grab some more beer at the store.” He points at a stack of sixpacks. “Want one?”
“Sure,” I say with a sigh. “I’d love one.”
“Rough day?” He leads me to the windows and grabs a beer off one of the wide sills.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “The train was quiet. I got that proposal done. Anything happen while I was gone?”
He opens a beer and hands it to me. “I got a call that was a little weird. I was hoping you’d be here tonight so I could tell you about it.”
“A call?” I turn my body a few degrees so that I can’t possibly stare at Tank. “From who?”
“There’s this kid on a juniors team in Saskatchewan—a center with great foot speed and gaudy stats. He might go first round in the draft.”
“Saskatchewan.” I pull the name up from the depths of my memory. “Oistrok?”
“Damn.” Eric blinks. “Good memory. That’s the kid. He’s a client of Henry Kassman’s.”
My heart aches a little just at the mention of Henry’s name. “Yeah?”
“That’s the weird thing. This kid called to ask me to represent him. Furthermore, he said it was Kassman’s idea. What do you make of that?”
I can’t help it. My eyes fill immediately with tears.
“Whoa, boss.” Eric throws an arm around me. “What’s wrong?”
“Henry is ill.” I sniffle, swiping at my eyes. “It’s serious. And I’m afraid we’re going to get more of those calls. He’s slowly shutting down his shop.”
“Oh, hell.” Eric grabs a napkin from a nearby coffee table and hands it to me. “I’m sorry. I know you two are close.”
“I only found out this week.” I blow my nose into the napkin. “Eric, you’re going to get some clients. Be ready.”
“Christ.” He swigs his beer. “That’s not how I wanted to recruit players.”
“No kidding. But Henry feels strongly about his athletes having exactly the person they need. He wouldn’t send you anyone if he didn’t think it was a good fit.”
“I barely know Henry Kassman,” Eric points out. “I met him once before Clove died.”
“Oh, but he knows me.” I wave a dismissive hand. “And I talked you up the other day when I went to see him. I was so upset by how ill he looked that I couldn’t shut up. Besides, he loves gossip. So I was telling him all the news from Brooklyn.”
“Okay.” Eric frowns. “Of course I’ll help out this kid from Saskatoon.”
“Where did you leave it with him?”
“First, I just asked to hear his story. I thought if I got him talking, the call might make more sense. It didn’t, but I got to hear all about juniors hockey. The kid is smart. He’s not very well-spoken, but he has a mature view of his own game.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“Yeah, it’s a start. I said I’d call him back tomorrow.”
“Send him a contract in the morning. And then get right on a plane to go see him.”
“Wow, okay. Of course.” He sighs. “Have some pizza, Bess. Come on. Hang in there.”
But Tank is standing near all the pizza, and I’m not even hungry. I just feel wrecked inside. My
mentor is going to die before his time, and I’m hung up on a man I can’t have.
I don’t want Eric to know. I don’t want anyone to know. I’m starting to realize that it’s not really about my career. It’s about my heart. If nobody knows how I feel, it might hurt less while I struggle to get over him.
And I have to get over him. It’s the only thing to do.
Seventeen
We Tried
Tank
I bite into an excellent slice of pepperoni pizza and try not to stare at Bess. It isn’t easy. She’s giving me the brushoff this week, and I don’t like it.
It’s not like I don’t understand where she’s coming from. My life is a train wreck. If you look up “bitter man” in the dictionary, you’ll probably find my picture.
But something special happens when we spend time together. I forget to be that angry guy. At first I thought it was just the sex. And lord knows my rusty libido needed a kick-start.
There’s more to it, though. Bess is special. She has a lively energy that I didn’t appreciate when we were younger. Or maybe I did, even if I never managed to articulate it. I remember heading back to New York after a road trip, counting the minutes until the plane touched down so I could flag a taxi and sprint to her little studio apartment in Midtown. Those memories are faded with time, and probably tinged with nostalgia for a moment in my life when everything was still on an upward trajectory.
But thirty-year-old Bess is even more interesting to me. I watch her laughing with Delilah, and then chatting with Eric. And I want to cross the room and kiss her hello. I want to hear whatever she’s saying, because it’s probably something sharp and funny.
I feel the pull. It’s not just my libido that Bess has woken up. I feel her presence in the empty hollow in the center of my chest. Right where my heart is supposed to be.
As I watch, Bess’s face crumples, and Eric puts his arm around her. And just like that, my appetite is gone. Bess looks so sad that I have to fight the impulse to walk over there and pull her into my arms.
She wouldn’t want me to, though. Fuck.
I’m not the only one who notices. A worried frown crosses Castro’s face. A minute or two later, he sets down his pizza to walk over to Bess and give her a one-armed hug. She smiles at him and then wipes her eyes one more time.
“Who is it?” Castro asks loudly. Then he starts to shadow box like a goofball. “I’ll fuck him up, Bess. I mean, I lose every fight I’ve ever gotten into. But it’s the thought that counts, right?”
She laughs. “Don’t hurt your hands, fool. There’s nobody who needs an ass-kicking, anyway. Thank the lord.”
“You just let me know. I’ll show him who’s boss. I got the moves.” Castro lifts an arm, strikes a ridiculous pose, and flexes his biceps until Bess laughs again.
Well, fine. If the kid tries to cheer up Bess when she’s sad, I guess he can’t be that bad.
I pick up my slice of pizza and try to catch Bess’s eye. Does it make me an asshole to say I’m positive Bess is having as much trouble ignoring me as I am ignoring her?
“There’s more pizza,” Delilah says to me, opening another box. “Thanks for coming to help tonight. I’ve never furnished a home before. It’s fun, but it’s a lot of work.”
“No kidding,” I agree, dragging my attention off Bess. “If I ever find an apartment in Brooklyn, I’m going to hire somebody to buy everything for me.”
“There’s another solution,” Patrick O’Doul says, grabbing a slice out of the new box. “I bought my apartment from two guys—a married couple. They were starting over on the West Coast, so I bought all their stuff. All the coffee cups, the towels, the butter dish. Everything.”
“But they had excellent taste,” Delilah points out. “Like, Architectural Digest taste. That’s just lucky.”
O’Doul looks at me and shrugs, as if to say, I didn’t even notice.
I’m warming up to these guys, little by little. O’Doul seems like a solid enough captain. He teases his troops sometimes, but I haven’t heard him be cruel to anyone. Not like Palacio was.
I guess there’s one thing I don’t miss about Texas.
“What kinda beer is this, anyway?” O’Doul asks, inspecting the six-pack I’d brought.
“What do you mean? It’s Shiner Bock. Just one of the best beers in Texas.”
“Texas,” he says slowly, like the word doesn’t feel right in his mouth.
“Dude, I know you hate Dallas. But don’t hate on my excellent beer. Try one.” I pull a bottle out of the pack and thrust it at O’Doul.
“Thanks, man.” He gives me a serious nod. This is how I know I’m not one of the crew yet. He doesn’t tease me. Until they’re ragging on your taste in beer, the pattern on your tie, and your underwear-modeling career, you aren’t really one of the team.
When O’Doul looks at me, he still sees a fight we had in 2017. I’d bet any amount of money on it. I’ll bet I know which one, too—because he didn’t win. There’s no getting around it. I just have to ride out the awkwardness until these guys notice we’re wearing the same jersey now.
“Hey, Mark?” Georgia reaches past me and plucks a slice of pepperoni out of the box. “Can I have a minute of your time?”
“Of course.”
She beckons to me, and I follow her out of the kitchen area and into an alcove that has nothing in it except for some empty bookshelves hung on the brick walls.
“This building is killer,” I say, trying not to sound jealous.
“Isn’t it? Leo and I rent our place. But we love it here. Our apartment isn’t this big, though.” She wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Listen, I’m sorry to ask. But I’m getting a few questions from the media, and I wanted to check in with you.”
“Questions about… My shitty performance against Philly? Or my divorce?”
She flinches. “That second thing. And it’s only a couple more bloggers asking the same questions that Miranda did. We’d never comment on your marriage, unless you asked me to handle something. But I just wanted to ask you if there’s anything I should know.”
“So you want to know if any of the rumors are true?” It comes out sounding belligerent, which isn’t really fair. Unlike some of the other people prying into my life, it’s actually Georgia’s job to ask if I’m going to create drama for the team.
She studies me with kind eyes. “I’m sorry to even ask, Mark. But if you had anything to tell me, I would hold it in the strictest of confidences.”
“It’s true that I punched my teammate. But there won’t be any bombshells with regard to my divorce. It will be final soon, anyway. Before Halloween.”
“Thank you for telling me,” she says quietly. “That’s pretty fast. Isn’t it?” She winces. “I’m sorry. I don’t know much about divorce.”
“Me neither. But, yeah, I guess it is. My agent made me get a prenup all those years ago. So there’s nothing to haggle over.”
“And you don’t have kids,” she adds.
“Right,” I say a little too quickly. “We don’t even have a fucking dog.”
“Okay. I’m sorry to pry,” she says.
“No, I get it,” I grumble. “Who’s trying to kick up a story, anyway? And why now?”
“It’s, uh, some Dallas blog. Nobody important.”
I pull out my phone anyway. “Lone Star Hockey?”
“Tank.” She puts a hand over the screen of my phone. “Don’t read it.”
“Why not? What could they possibly say about me?”
“It’s not you they’re writing about,” she says quietly.
Wait. What? It takes a second until I understand. “They wrote something about Jordanna? Why?”
“It’s nothing. There’s photos of her dancing with someone at a team benefit.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Really? At a hockey event?” I’d assumed she’d be happy to be free of the team. Then again, she’s on the board of a children’s charity that does an annual event with the team in Septemb
er. “Whatever,” I grumble. “She went with a date to some party. It isn’t another player, right?”
Georgia shakes her head sadly. “Just some dude in a suit. They were speculating on who it was, and why she didn’t follow you to New York.”
I run my hands through my hair and sigh. “Yeah, okay. Thanks for telling me.”
“You need anything, you come and find me, okay?” she says.
“Thanks.” I stay in the alcove after she leaves. And I pull out my phone and head for that goddamn blog.
Sure enough, there’s Jordanna dancing with some guy in a bow tie. He’s looking at my ex-wife like he has big plans for her. But Jordanna looks mildly uncomfortable, if I’m honest. Like she can’t quite fake it, and she’s not sure she cares.
I squint for a few moments at a great photo of my ex-wife—her hand is on that guy’s shoulder, and she looks pretty in a violet-colored dress—and I feel…nothing. It’s as if every emotion I had for her got used up or dried out, until there was nothing left but dust.
And I’ll bet she’d say the same about me. If our marriage had a tombstone, it would read, We tried. And if Jordanna has the energy to put on a ball gown and dance with some guy, there’s really no reason why she shouldn’t.
I leave the alcove to hunt down another slice of pizza.
After we eat, the guys take another crack at putting together Delilah’s home recording studio. “Now that I’m actually reading the directions, I think we can figure this out,” Silas says.
“Didn’t I just suggest that a few minutes ago?” Bess asks, giving him a playful slap on the back of the head.
“Hush,” Castro says. “It’s hard for a man to admit he needs to read the instructions.”
“Especially when he’s naturally good with his hands,” Silas says, smirking.
“TMI,” Georgia says. “Somebody put me to work. Which piece goes on next?”
“All of them,” O’Doul says, reading over Silas’s shoulder. “But we need somebody inside this thing, applying pressure to the frame while we all screw in the panels.”
“I’ll do that,” I volunteer, stepping into the center of the frame. “You guys can trap me inside where I won’t be able to hear you mock my Texas beer.”
