by Sarina Bowen
Lucky Shot
Lucky Shot
A Brooklyn Bruisers Story
Sarina Bowen
Tuxbury Publishing LLC
Copyright © 2020 by Sarina Bowen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
About Lucky Shot
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Also by Sarina Bowen
About Lucky Shot
This story—in three chapters—can be read all on its own. It also leads nicely into Sure Shot, which takes place nine years later.
Thank you for reading!
And if you prefer the audio version, it’s 39 minutes long, and narrated by Emma Wilder. You can grab it right here on soundwise.
Love,
Sarina
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Chapter One
“God, I’m sorry, Bessie,” my brother says. Then he sighs into the phone, which sounds like a hurricane. “I’ll make it up to you after training camp. I promise.”
“It’s really okay. My birthday isn’t that big a deal.” I trap the phone against my shoulder so I can take a bite of my sandwich. I’m eating lunch at my desk in Manhattan, while he’s out on Long Island with his team.
“Yeah, it is. I thought that when you moved to New York, we would see each other more.”
“We do,” I remind him. “We had lunch together last weekend.”
“Still. I didn’t know about this golf tournament. Hey—what if you could take the day off? You could come out here and—”
“No way.” I laugh. “Not happening.” I’ve only had my job at Kassman & Associates for a month. I’m still a little stunned to be working for a legendary sports agency. There’s no way I’d ask for a day off. “I can have a birthday without my big brother. I’ve done it before.”
“I know.” He sighs. “But still. After three years apart, I thought I’d get to take you someplace nice.”
He’s been playing for the Long Island team while I finished up my degree in Michigan. But now we’re only thirty miles apart. “You will see me. But not next week. Now go work on your slap shot and let me finish my lunch.” Someone chuckles in the doorway, and I look up, startled, to find my boss there. “Gotta jump. Later, big brother.” I hang up on Dave and meet my boss’s gaze. “Sorry.”
He shrugs. “You’re allowed to talk to your brother, Bess. But I didn’t know you were having a birthday.”
“Yup,” I say quickly. “I do that every year.”
He chuckles again. “Twenty-one, huh? How is that possible? When I look at you, I’m already thinking—adults are getting younger and younger these days. But you’re not even twenty-one?”
“I skipped eighth grade,” I explain. “So I graduated a year earlier than everyone else.” He doesn’t need to know the details, but skipping a year was simply a matter of survival. Dave and I were living with my grandparents, who didn’t really want us around. So I did what I could to shorten my stay, especially once I realized that Dave would go off to college and leave me there.
“Ah, that explains it, smarty-pants.” He hands me a sticky note. “After you finish your lunch, could you pull the most recent contracts for these four athletes?”
“No problem.” I place the note on my desk. “I’ll have them on your desk by the time you get back from your one o’clock meeting.”
“Amazing. Which day is it, anyway?”
“Today?” I blink. “Friday.”
“No—I mean your birthday. When is that?”
“Oh. Next Wednesday.”
“That’s the night I’m taking the rookies out to Sparks for dinner, right?”
“Yessir.” I’d added the dinner to his calendar this morning.
“Then you’ll join us,” he says. “Unless you make other plans.”
“Oh! You don’t need to buy me a steak for my birthday, Mr. Kassman.” Lord, I don’t want him to think of me as a mooch. “That’s really nice of you, though.”
“Listen, rookie, I’ve told you to call me Henry. When you say ‘Mr. Kassman,’ I just feel old. And after twenty years at this job, I don’t really need another steak dinner at Sparks. I’d rather go home and read a Patterson thriller until the book hits me in the face when I nod off. But this is the business. I gotta welcome some young punks to the city and show ’em a good time. If you come out to dinner, you’ll be doing me a favor.”
“Oh,” I say slowly, trying to decide whether or not to believe him.
“Do you like creamed spinach?”
“I really don’t know.” My idea of a fine meal is chicken fried rice from the Chinese place around the corner from my tiny apartment. (It’s really good rice, though.)
“The creamed spinach at Sparks is amazing. And the steak is to die for. Come out. Enjoy a glass of expensive birthday wine on me. Chat up some rookies. It’ll be great.”
“Sure. I’d love to. Thank you for inviting me.”
He beams. “Excellent! This meeting I’m off to might take awhile.”
“I’ll grab those contracts while you’re gone.”
“You’re a peach, Bessie. If I don’t see you later, have a great weekend.”
My weekend is quiet, because I don’t have any friends in Manhattan yet. But it’s August, and the weather is fine, and the city beckons. I wander through Central Park alone, getting my first glimpse of the zoo, and splurging on a hot pretzel.
Sunday night, I read three files that I brought home for the weekend—one each for the players we’ll be entertaining on Wednesday night.
Henry Kassman didn’t ask me to do this. But I can’t show up to a dinner party without knowing something about the players in attendance. What if they want to discuss business?
I’ll be meeting an American, a Czech player, and also a young Russian. They’re all attending the New York training camp, and hoping to make the team. If they do, they’ll be my brother’s rivals. So that’s fun.
If they don’t, they’ll be sent to the minors in Syracuse for a year or two, to see how they develop.
The American player seems to have the best chance at success. He won the Hobey Baker award in college, and his stats are incredible. Mark Tankiewicz. I turn the name over in my mind. Twenty bucks says his nickname is Tank.
He went to college in North Dakota, but he’s originally from Washington State. I don’t recognize the name of the town, so I Google it. Carter, WA has a population of just 1,200 people, and it’s surrounded by ranches.
Hmm. Now I’m picturing a young man who’s far from home. Maybe he’s just like me, struggling to adjust to the big city. Maybe he already made the mistake of getting on the downtown-bound subway when he needed to go uptown, and having to get off again to switch tracks.
We’re both rookies, I guess. This idea calms me down a fraction. Eventually I’ll figure the city out, right? And I’ll learn enough to be useful at my new job. Everything is so overwhelming right now. I feel lucky, but I’m just so intimidated. Every day is a struggle.
There’s a headshot in the Tankiewicz folder, too. I pull it out of its envelope, because a girl has to be able to match a name to a face, right?
And…jeez. This man is something else. He’s got a strong jaw and a serious, green-eyed stare. Thick hair. Long eyelashes. Wowzers. Wednesday’s dinner just became a whole lot more scenic. Happy Birthday to me.
Chapter Two
By Wednesday afternoon, I’m really looking forward to the occasion. I’m finally twenty-one years old, so I can have a glass of wine, and it won’t even be against the law.
Mr. Kassman asked me to meet him at Sparks at seven o’clock. I’m on schedule to finish all my work by five, though. What to do with those extra two hours?
These are my thoughts as I carefully punch a fax number into the machine. Then I hit the SEND button and listen to the phone dial the number. The machine at the other end picks up, and the first page of the document begins to draw through the scanner.
That’s when I happen to glance down at the other contract I’m holding. And I notice that the phone number on that contract matches the number I just dialed.
It takes a moment for all my synapses to catch up. Two professional athletes can’t have the same number. So that means the contract on the scanner is about to be sent to the wrong guy.
Holy shit!
I grab the remaining pages off the tray and then slap the CANCEL button. But the paper is still slowly moving through the machine. When I grab it, the machine holds on tightly. It stops the paper’s progress, but it doesn’t let go, either.
So, dropping all the papers in my hands, I reach over, pinch the connector of the data cable, and yank it out of the wall. The machine makes an unhappy sound and the word ERROR flashes on the display.
“Good lord. That was almost a total disaster,” I gasp.
“What was?” asks a clipped voice.
I whirl around and find Jane Pines—the only female agent at Kassman’s small company, and the agent who asked me to fax these contracts. She leans on the doorframe, staring at me.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “No problem. I’ve got it handled.”
Her eyes narrow. “Did you really almost fax a contract to the wrong player?”
“I caught it just in time.” I’m dying inside, but I still stand up for myself. I need this job.
“But that would be a huge—”
“—Breach of confidentiality,” I snap. “Believe me, I understand the problem.” It comes out too forcefully. I’m in so much trouble now.
But Pines doesn’t start to yell. In fact, my outburst has exactly the opposite effect. She looks me right in the eye for the first time ever. “Well. I’m glad you caught the error.”
“Just so you know?” I pluck the sticky note off the machine—the one that had been affixed to the cover page. “This phone number was stuck to the wrong contract.” That means the mistake is the fault of Pines herself or her personal assistant.
“I expected you to verify the number against the cover sheet.” She shrugs. “And I guess you did, at the last possible second. Carry on. And then please make a coffee run.”
She doesn’t wait for my response. She just walks away, and I’m left standing by the fax machine, my heart trying its best to pound its way out of my chest. I just stood up to the boss, and didn’t get fired. And she liked it, I think.
God, this business is weird. I think I can make it here, as long as I wake up every day feeling like a hungry tiger.
Carefully, I reboot the fax machine to erase its memory. And then I start all over again.
My adrenaline rush still isn’t over when I leave the office to walk across town. Killing time, I push through the revolving doors at Bloomingdale’s. I’ve never been here before, so it takes me a moment to look around. I see handbags in a million colors, and miles of cosmetics.
The whole store is out of my league. But I get on the escalator anyway. It glides past the makeup products that I can’t afford, and don’t know how to use, anyway.
As I float higher and higher through the perfume-scented fashion mothership, I realize that there isn’t one specific women’s department. There are several. I don’t know the difference between sportswear and casual wear. But I spot a sign reading SALE, so I get off the escalator to flip through the offerings.
What would Jane Pines wear to a business dinner? I ask myself.
But this question leads me nowhere, because I truly have no idea. I’m just a poor kid from the wrong part of Michigan.
I’d better pay closer attention from now on. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure to notice the details of Jane’s outfit. And her accessories. She probably wears makeup, too, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.
I flip through filmy little tops until I find a sleeveless silk blouse in turquoise blue. The fabric is so soft that it’s almost otherworldly. I’ve never owned anything that was actually silk. But this is marked down to $27.99.
In the dressing room, I study myself in the three-way mirror. It’s only a blouse, but I still look impossibly sophisticated.
“That’s beautiful with your coloring,” the saleslady says.
“I’m thinking of wearing it to a business dinner,” I tell her. “What do you think?”
“Perfect. If you want to wear it out, I’ll cut the tags for you.”
Chapter Three
Thirty minutes later, I’m approaching Sparks Steakhouse on East Forty-Sixth. I arrive exactly two minutes past seven. My new blouse feels like armor. I’m ready to play the role of the Girl Who Knows What She’s Doing.
“Reservation for Henry Kassman,” I say to the man in the bow tie at the entrance.
“Of course,” he says. “Henry has already arrived. Right this way.”
As we move through the dark interior, I’m glad I dressed up a little. This place is fancy, with white tablecloths and giant wine goblets under a rich red ceiling.
“Bess! Here she is, gentlemen.”
Three men stand up—my boss, as well as three young athletes. I shake hands with Ushakov and Bilka first. I’m saving Tankiewicz for last, I guess. But when I finally offer my hand, and look him in the eye, I feel a little stunned.
“Nice to meet you,” he says in a deep, rich voice, while he looks me over with an assessing green gaze. “My friends call me Tank.”
I smile suddenly, because I totally called that nickname. “I’m Bess.” I try not to sound breathy and weird. But, lord, the man is all that and a bag of chips. His broad shoulders are practically straining the seams of his crisp white shirt, which is open at the throat to reveal a strong neck and sun-kissed skin.
And those eyes. They smolder.
I suddenly realize the waiter is still standing beside me, with a chair pulled out. So I sit down quickly, and the man puts the napkin right in my lap for me.
Okay, that’s a little formal. He hands me a hand-printed menu and then darts off again.
“Bess is my newest hire.” Henry Kassman sips from his water glass. “She recently played left wing for the Michigan State women’s D1 team. They were the runners-up at the national championship tournament in March.”
There’s a murmur of approval all around the table, and three sets of eyes turn to me once again. And I swear these young men are looking at me with more interest than they did just a moment ago.
That’s interesting. And pretty amazing. Women’s hockey doesn’t get a lot of attention from anyone except the women who play it. I relax a little in my chair, because these are my people.
“Who beat ya?” Tankiewicz sits back in his chair and gives me a lazy grin.
“Lindenwood,” I grumble. “But they’re done winning.”
His grin widens. He picks up his menu. “What’s good here?”
“Everything,” Kassman says. “The steak au poivre is my personal favorite.”
What the heck is au poivre? I wonder silently.
“Care to translate that?” Tankiewicz asks. “I don’t speak snooty menu.”
“With pepper,” he says. “It’s a creamy peppercorn sauce. I’m sure my cardiologist would prefer me to avoid it, but it’s terrific. The creamed spinach is also amazing.”
Tankiewicz’s expression has some doubts about the spinach.
But it would match your eyes, I catch myself thinking. Luckily, I don’t say that out loud. I’m not that far gone.
Although it’s close.
When the waiter comes back to take our order, he starts with me, unfortunately. Because I’m self-conscious, I turn the question back around. “What would you recommend?”
“The filet mignon is our tenderest steak, but it’s on the smaller side,” he begins.
“That sounds lovely.” I hand him my menu, happy to have that decision made. And now I know how to pronounce filet mignon.
“Medium rare okay?” he asks.
“Perfect.”
This proves to be an excellent decision. The food is every bit as good as Henry promised. It’s an effort to eat the steak slowly. It’s so tender it practically melts against my tongue. This is easily the best meal I’ve ever had.
And Mr. Kassman ordered a selection of side dishes for the table, so there’s plenty of things to taste. He also ordered a red wine that had its twenty-first birthday a year before I did.
“I would have ordered your exact vintage,” Kassman crows. “Except that wasn’t a good year for Burgundies.”
“It wasn’t a good year for baby girls, either,” I say darkly, and every man at the table cracks up.
I was only half joking, though. My mother never meant to have a second child. And after I was born, she fell apart. She became addicted to drugs, and died of an overdose before my second birthday.
But none of that matters tonight, does it? I could have skipped reading those files over the weekend. Nothing more is expected of me than sipping red wine and appreciating the surprisingly good creamed spinach. Hockey players are always full of stories, and I’m the lucky girl who gets to sit here and listen.
