by Sarina Bowen
Silas laughs. “Fine. Actually, we need two people, one to lean on each side.”
“Bess will help,” I say before anyone else gets a chance to speak up. “She’s just standing there drinking a non-Texas beer.”
She gives me a grumpy look. But then she puts down her beer and steps into the sound booth with me.
“Maybe we need one of these for the office,” Bayer quips, a screwdriver in his hand. “Bess needs privacy for when she’s dropping the hammer on the GMs during contract renegotiations.”
“Good call.” Bess turns her back to me, while O’Doul and Castro each lift a panel into place.
“I’ll get the last one,” the rookie Anton says. “Bess, if you use your tuchus to brace the end-piece, you can use a hand for each panel.”
“Good idea,” she says. “This backside should be good for something.”
It’s a reflex when I open my mouth to make a joke. Because I have quite a few uses for Bess’s ass. But her glare silences me just in time.
One by one, the other players lift all six panels into place. As Silas fits the last panel in snugly, I’m closed inside the space with Bess. And it is quiet. I can’t hear any voices outside.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi,” she whispers back.
“Do you think this thing is actually soundproof? Because it might be the only way I can get you to talk to me.”
“I’m sorry,” she says in a low voice. “I shouldn’t have come here tonight. You’re bonding with your teammates.”
“Don’t be silly. You can crash my party any day, sweetheart. But now I gotta know if they can hear us. Hey Castro!” I shout, because I can see him through the little window.
The young forward doesn’t look up from his screwdriver.
“All right,” I say. “We have privacy unless he’s faking. Quick—tell me some team secrets.”
Bess smiles in spite of herself. “Fine. On the night you get your first goal for Brooklyn, don’t let them convince you that everyone celebrates by getting the Brooklyn Bridge tattooed on his ass.”
I snort. “Like anyone would fall for that.”
“I think Anton got one.” Then she raises her voice. “But it’s okay, you sweet summer child!” She waves at the young D-man through the window. “Chicks dig tattoos!”
Anton waves back, looking unconcerned.
“So this is soundproof,” I say. “You can talk to me for real now. I know I’m your dirty little secret. But I’m fine with that. Because at least I like dirty secrets.”
“Tank,” she says with a sigh. “We can’t be each other’s dirty secret. I would never date a client.”
“This again?” I argue, bracing one of the panels a little more firmly as someone screws it into the stud. “I didn’t understand the deal I was making when I asked you to be my agent. I need to renegotiate our contract.”
“No.” She lifts her chin defiantly.
“But I’m your Kryptonite,” I point out. “You should be fainting right now. I could carry you out of here and back to my hotel room.”
Bess lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “That’s not happening, stud. And I hope nobody can read lips.”
“Let’s see if they can.” I turn my face a couple of degrees, so that I’m framed in the window. “Let’s get naked again and have lots and lots of sex.”
Since Bess’s hands are busy bracing the panels, she has to resort to kicking me gently in the shin. “Stop that. It won’t work, anyway.”
“It’s not nice to kick your client.”
“That wasn’t a real kick,” she says, her bright eyes full of fire. “If I kicked you for real, you’d be crying right now.”
“Uh-huh.” My face cracks into a smile, which is something that only happens when Bess is nearby. I don’t think I smiled for three months before she turned up. “But what are you going to do about it?”
“About what?” she asks.
“About us.” I give her a hot glance. “You think you can just ignore me forever? I don’t think I’m that good an actor.”
“Tank,” she says gently. “We’re in a different place in life, you and me. I can’t be your rebound girl. The sex is great—”
“Amazing is the word I’d choose,” I break in. “And please don’t feel guilty about us just because I’m a player. If you feel guilty, then I’ll have to feel guilty. And I don’t want to feel guilty because I really like spending time with you.”
“It’s not just the professional issues.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what to think about the little…habit we’re developing. You’re on the rebound. You aren’t thinking with your brain, Tank. Hell—you don’t even use condoms.”
Oh Jesus. Bess must think I’m an idiot. “Okay. Hold up. I’m really sorry about the condom thing.”
“I’m covered, Tank. I am not going to get pregnant. But you’re not in a place to—”
That’s when Silas suddenly opens the door to the booth. “You kids okay in here?” he asks. “I think we’ve got it pretty tight now.”
“Uh, great,” I mumble, stepping out of the booth. Bess follows me, her eyes full of unresolved tension.
We need to finish our conversation, but obviously we’ll need to do it somewhere else.
“Wow, I can’t believe it’s done!” Delilah cries, taking in the finished booth. “It looks amazing!”
“Take it for a trial run, honey,” Silas says. “Grab your electric guitar and let ’er rip.”
Delilah runs out of the room, coming back a few moments later with a guitar and a little amp. “I’m going to keep turning up the volume. Can you wave at me when you can hear the guitar?”
“Sure, babe.” Silas plugs in her amp and then leaves the booth, closing her in there.
Delilah’s smile shines through the window as she tunes up her guitar. Can you hear this? she mouths.
We all shake our heads. She’s playing the guitar in earnest now.
“This is the worst concert ever,” Georgia complains. “She’s right there and I can’t hear a thing.”
Finally Delilah reaches a volume whereby we can hear it faintly outside the booth, and Silas waves with two hands to tell her.
“Wow,” the singer says, opening the door. “I thought I was going to break my eardrums before you could hear it.”
“Now play it out here,” Georgia demands. “Please?”
“I thought we were headed to the wine bar?” Delilah says. “I promised to buy drinks.”
“One song,” Bayer demands.
“Okay, but I don’t want to piss off the neighbors on the first day.” She turns the volume down on her amp.
“But we are the neighbors,” Castro reminds her. “I’d rather hear you play it live, then listen to Silas sing it in the shower.”
“I’m still gonna sing it,” the young goalie says. “Extra loud for you, homeboy.” And then he beams as his girlfriend plays the opening chords to a song I don’t know.
When I sneak a glance at Bess, she’s smiling at the two of them with a look of pure delight on her face. And for a split second, I forget about all the bullshit in my life. My creaky heart warms up at the sight of Bess’s smile.
She’s under my skin, I realize with a start. Not that it’s a welcome feeling. My shitty marriage had me feeling like I got dumped off a cliff. But Bess makes me want to get up and hike back to the top of the mountain.
If only Bess would let me.
Delilah starts singing. And it’s a love song. She’s got a handful of rapt hockey players tapping their feet and smiling.
Even I am not immune to its joys.
Eighteen
They Don’t Call Him the Tank for Nothing
Bess
I shouldn’t have come out to the wine bar. I’m not much of a drinker, but here I am on a barstool in the midst of happy couples, two glasses of chardonnay in and feeling pleasantly tipsy.
Tank was right. It’s not easy to ignore him. One glass of wine made it tricky. Two makes it
impossible. He’s at the other end of the bar, talking to Eric, looking sexy as hell.
That settles it. I shouldn’t drink when he and I are in the same zip code. It’s hard enough to stay away from him when I’m sober.
“Bess, don’t you think my face would look good in a shaving ad?” Anton Bayer asks, stroking his jaw. He yells down the bar to his cousin. “Hey, Eric! Why haven’t you gotten me any endorsements, yet?”
Eric stops talking to Tank only long enough to fire back with: “Why haven’t you scored any goals this year yet?”
Anton scowls and turns to me. “Bess, my agent is a hard-ass. I don’t think he should be Employee of the Month anymore.”
“I pay him extra for being a hard-ass,” I say as I swirl the pretty wine in my glass. Wine is my best friend. If wine could get me pregnant, I’d marry it.
“Why don’t hockey players get that many endorsements?” Castro asks. “Serious question. I mean—look at all the money they pay golfers and basketball stars. Hockey players are, like, so much hotter than that.”
Inevitably, my eyes flick down the bar toward Tank, because Castro speaks the truth. But he’s also missing the point. Even when I’m tipsy, I still know my sports business. “Hotness doesn’t sell shoes, Castro. A kid can watch LeBron James win a game in his Nikes. And then he can wear those same shoes to school the next day. I don’t see anyone walking around high school in skates.”
“You would in Canada,” Anton argues. “Totally normal.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, because we all have our own version of normal. “And how large is the population of Canada relative to the US?”
“Half the size?” he guesses.
“Eleven percent,” I say, bursting his bubble. “That also explains the basketball phenomenon.”
“But how do you explain golf?” Castro asks. “It’s the least sexy sport in the world. And nobody wears golf shoes to high school.”
“There are sixty million golfers around the world,” I point out. “They buy five billion dollars’ worth of equipment every year. Golf enthusiasts are four times as wealthy as average earners. And golf is growing by double digits in places like India and China.”
“But golf doesn’t have this face,” Anton argues. He frames his admittedly handsome mug with his hands. “Maybe I should take up golf. Golf needs me.”
“They do, buddy.” I take another gulp of wine and wonder what Eric and Tank are discussing down there. And then Eric catches my eye and beckons.
Okay. I’ll bite. Like I even need a reason to move closer to Tank. I’m so predictable. “S’cuse me, guys,” I say, sliding off the barstool. I must look a little wobbly because Castro catches me and then straightens the angle of my wine glass. “Easy there, Bessie.”
“I’m good,” I insist, and then walk carefully towards Eric and the man with whom I’m trying not to have a fraught and confusing sexual relationship. “Hi, guys. What’s shaking?”
Eric folds his arms across his chest and glances at the man next to him. The one who always makes my panties fall off. “Tank is seeking new representation.”
“I’d heard that,” I say slowly.
“He wants, uh…” Eric looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “He’s asked me to represent him. Eventually. When Henry is no longer able.”
“Really.” I glare at Tank, because this is a conversation we ought to be having in private. At least he has the good sense to look sheepish. “Can I speak to you for a moment, Mr. Tankiewicz?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
“Outside,” I snap. I hand my wine glass to Eric and leave the bar. Anger makes me feel less tipsy. I have no trouble marching outside where I round the corner of the building to find a small vacant lot. I wait. Fuming.
Tank follows me, because he’s not a stupid man.
Immediately, I light into him. “What the hell, Tank? Are you trying to do an end-run around me? That’s some heavy-handed bullshit right there. I’m not twenty-one anymore. You can’t manipulate me with a few kisses.”
“Manipulate you?” he roars. “That’s the pot calling out the kettle. You’re the one who agreed to represent me just so you didn’t have to make any tough choices about this thing we have.” He waves a hand in the air between us.
“This thing?” I snort.
“Maybe you don’t like my terminology.” He puts one of his delicious arms up on the brick wall and looks me up and down, a possessive glint in his eye. And goddamn it why does that light me up? “But you sure as hell like me.”
And then, just to prove the point, the asshole kisses me. It’s a hot, angry kiss that curls my toes.
“Even if you’re not willing to say so,” he says at close range. “Even if it’s unexpected.” He kisses me again. “And even if it fucks up your five-year plan.”
“Do not roll your eyes at my five-year plan.” I put a hand on his chest and push. They don’t call him the Tank for nothing. He doesn’t budge.
“Yeah, guess what? Life grabbed my five-year plan, ripped it right down the center, threw both halves in my face. Then I went to a party in Brooklyn and found you. And you could barely string two sentences together because you were too busy remembering how amazing it is when we’re alone together.”
The next kiss doesn’t even surprise me. He takes my mouth with arrogance and confidence and proves his point so well that I feel short on oxygen.
“You make me feel alive. You always did. You’re the best thing about Brooklyn, Bess. The only thing I care about here. And I’ll be damned if I let a little thing like agency representation stand in the way.”
“But—” I pant. My brain is foggy. “You’re—” I bite off my words, because I’m not ready to tell him the whole truth. You’re so dangerous to me. Dangerous not just to my job, but to my stupid heart.
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “I’m not that good at explaining it, either. But what we have is rare. The timing sucks. It’s inconvenient. But I won’t let you pretend like it’s nothing. If you really can’t stomach the idea of seeing me, at least have the guts to tell me to my face. Is it because you think I’m a cheater? You believe the gossip?”
“No.” I give my head a firm shake. “Not that you ever set anyone straight on the gossip front.”
“The world is not entitled to an accounting of my pain. And you don’t owe the world an explanation, either. Are you ducking us because of your job? You think credibility is going to be a big problem?”
“Yes.” Among other things.
“Well, how’s that working for you?” He kisses me again. And the answer is obvious when I grip his shirt so that he won’t stop. “Yeah, I thought so. That’s why we need Eric as a buffer. Admit it. It’s a great idea.”
I growl instead. “You could have discussed it with me first.”
“True.” He shrugs. “But I wanted to run it past him first, in case he hates me, too.”
“He wouldn’t,” I admit. Grudgingly.
“Well, good. Because I need you in my life. I want the whole Bess package, okay? You’re the best in the business. So that means Eric will be, too. And I can’t stay away from you. I don’t even want to try. Maybe you’re embarrassed to be seen with a bitter, rebounding hockey player with anger issues and a shitty reputation. You probably deserve better. But I’m a greedy asshole. And I meant it when I said you’re the best thing to happen to me in a long time.”
Oh dear. That little speech makes my inner Cinderella dust off her rags and preen. She really likes the sound of that.
And just as I’m trying to shove her back into the cupboard, a certain hot, ripped, irritating hockey player kisses me again. He steps into my space and pushes me up against the brick wall. All my senses are assaulted by the firm press of his body against mine, and by the taste of rich red wine and hungry man. He weaves his fingers into my hair and tilts my head to seal the deal.
Damn him. It’s the best kind of kiss—breath-stealing and frustrating in a hundred wonderful ways. I can’t stay away from
you, he’d said. I don’t even want to try.
We have that in common, then. Because I’m clinging to his shirt now and kissing him back.
Until someone clears his throat. Loudly.
We try to break apart, but it takes a moment, because neither of us is ready. Tank’s kisses have melted my brain. And it’s not like I really want to step back and squint at Eric, who is standing on the sidewalk looking amused.
“Eric…” I try. Words fail me. Some boss I am.
He waves a hand like I shouldn’t bother. “I get it. Cone of silence. Your employee of the month already spotted you guys in a taxi together after Nate and Becca’s party. You’re not that stealthy. But Castro and Silas are inside wondering why you stormed out looking mad. So I promised I’d check on you.”
Eric knew? For some reason that makes my face redden even more. “Thank you. I, uh, don’t really date players.”
“Except one,” Tank says unhelpfully. Then he laughs.
“One mistake in nine years,” I correct.
“At this point does it really still count as one?” he asks.
I just sigh.
“You kids figure it out,” Eric says, turning back toward the corner of the building.
“Bess,” Tank asks. “Will you let Eric represent me?”
Eric pauses to hear my answer.
“Yes.” I sigh. “Sure. It’s the right idea.” Because my way was never going to work.
Someday Tank is going to break my heart, and if Eric is his agent, I won’t have to sit across a conference room table and discuss contract clauses and pretend I’m not dying inside. He’ll be Eric’s problem instead. And I’ll still get a cut.
“Awesome!” Tank pumps his fist. “I’m your second client after Baby Bayer, right?”
“Depends who signs first—you or the kid from Saskatchewan.” Eric winks. “I’m gonna go finish my wine now, and also invent some reason why you two need to stand out here in a vacant lot.” He’s gone a second later.
