Busted. There’s Bess Beringer, watching me from the food table. She looks away quickly, embarrassed to be caught.
I don’t know why she pretended not to remember me, when it’s so very obvious she does.
Three
Creamed Spinach and a Proposition
Bess
It’s unlike me to panic. I love pressure. I’m an athlete, for goodness’ sake. In college, I scored goals seconds before the game-ending buzzer. And in my professional life, I’ve wrestled fat contracts out of managers who were determined not to pay up. I’ve removed the hands of grabby, drunk sportscasters from my body without breaking a sweat.
Tonight, though, I’d been unprepared to come face to face with Tank after so many years. I’d seized up completely. Those broody green eyes have always made me stupid.
Thirty-two looks good on Tank. His dark, arrogant smirk is the same, but he’s aged into a harder, less boyish version of the man I used to know. His body is less bulky, but more cut. The muscles in his forearms are defined, where they used to be just beefy.
I sneak another peek at him. He looks dangerous. In a good way. All he’s doing is standing in the grass holding a beer, and I still have the urge to scale him like a tree.
The universe is having a laugh at my expense tonight. My birthday looms, which means I’ve already thought of Tank several times today. He’s the man who’d made my twenty-first so special. It hadn’t been for just the one night, either. Our fling had a shelf life of three or four months. I’d put a halt to it when I realized my relationship with Tank could become a career-ending mistake.
At that point, I’d already landed my dream job as an assistant at Henry Kassman & Associates. Since I’d skipped a grade in middle school, I’d been a very young college graduate. Young and very naïve. My office nickname had been The Rookie.
By the time my birthday rolled around, all the hockey rookies were turning up for training camp. Since I was based in New York, I’d met a few of the young guys who were playing for New York and New Jersey.
Tank had been one of them.
And the night of my birthday, my boss had plans to entertain a few rookies at Sparks Steak House. “Spend your big night with us!” Henry Kassman had said, inviting me out to the dinner.
“You don’t need to buy me a steak for my birthday,” I’d insisted.
“Listen, Rookie, it’s not like that,” he’d said. “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 tonight, you’ll be doing me a favor.”
“Oh,” I’d said slowly, trying to decide whether or not to believe him.
“Do you like creamed spinach?”
“I really don’t know.” Twenty-one-year-old Bess hadn’t had much experience with fine dining.
“It’s so good. I promise. 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.”
So I’d gone, wearing a sleeveless silk top that I’d bought on sale at Bloomingdales on the way there. I’d tried the spinach, and it had been delicious. I’d eaten a filet mignon so tender that it seemed to melt on my tongue like butter. And I drank fine red wine for the first time in my life.
Every time I’d looked across the table, my gaze had locked with a hot twenty-three-year-old rookie from Washington state named Mark Tankiewicz. He’d been handsome and brash, with piercing green-gray eyes. He hadn’t been worried about which fork to use or how to pronounce Cabernet Sauvignon.
“My motto is simple,” he’d told the table, his wine glass practically disappearing into his big hand. “In any situation I just ask myself, what can I get away with? And then I do that.”
Everyone had laughed, but the idea had stuck with me. To this very day, I remind myself of his words when I feel intimidated. What can I get away with? It had been a powerful dose of wisdom for a young, clueless woman trying to make it in the testosterone-soaked world of professional sports.
Tank had been so comfortable in his own skin. As I’d gazed at him across the table, I’d relaxed for the first time since starting my job six weeks earlier. And when the meal ended, I’d been a little drunk and completely in love with my exciting New York City life.
I was also half in love with Tank, with his wavy brown hair and broody eyes.
Afterward, Henry Kassman had cars waiting outside to take everyone home, but one car had been running late. “You take this one, Mr. Kassman,” Tank had offered. “Age before beauty. I don’t need a car. Heck, I’ll share with Bess. She can drop me at the hotel on her way home.”
I’d felt jitters in my tummy at the sound of my name on his lips.
“Sounds like a plan, son, if Bess doesn’t object,” Henry had said. “Good night, everyone. Go home, get some rest, boys. You’re going to need it for the rest of training camp.”
I’d gotten into that car with Tank and given the driver the address of the tiny studio apartment I’d rented in a walkup building in the West fifties. “And there will be a first stop, at…” I’d turned to Tank for instructions.
He’d lifted my hand and kissed my palm, sending tingles through my body. “Let’s make it one stop, instead. Your birthday isn’t quite over yet, right? And I’m really good at celebrating.”
After I’d gotten over my shock, I’d stammered out my approval of this plan. Then Tank had placed a hand on my knee, given it a dirty squeeze, and told the driver to take us to the Marriott Marquis.
The man hadn’t been lying. He’d been exceptionally good at celebrating. Then, and for many nights afterward.
Fast forward nine years, and I’d shaken the man’s hand, pretending I didn’t remember any of it.
I sneak another look at Tank, wondering how to privately apologize. His gaze jumps right to mine. And then it darkens, sweeping down my body with a bold, possessive slowness.
Holy heck. My neck heats as I turn away. Even after all these years, it’s shockingly easy to remember running my hands over his chest, cataloging all the dips and valleys of his muscled torso. It’s not an exaggeration to say that everything I know about sex, I learned from him. He hadn’t been my first lover, but he’d been my first good one. My only good one, if we’re being honest.
Not that I should be allowing myself to have these thoughts. I know for a fact that he’s married. The day I’d found the wedding pictures on social media was the last day I’d allowed myself to look him up.
I scan the yard, looking for his wife. I’ve obviously never met her. But maybe I should. It might snap me out of my reverie.
There aren’t any unfamiliar women outside, though. She must be in the house. Meanwhile, I’d better get my apology speech ready. It’s only a matter of time until I bump into Tank at the team facility. I’m sorry your hotness temporarily scrambled my brain.
No, it’s bad form to blame the victim. I’m sorry that old memories briefly interrupted the brain function of this sex-starved woman in the throes of a midlife crisis.
That’s too pathetic to say out loud. Even if it’s true.
* * *
Avoiding Tank, I eat some excellent barbecue with my brother. When we’re finished, I carry our plates into the house. The enormous kitchen is buzzing with caterers, one of whom takes the plates from me. I’m walking toward the door when I spot my new business partner in the dining room, chatting with Rebecca Rowley-Kattenberger.
I duck in to say hello. “Hey guys! What are you plotting?”
“Bessie!” Eric says, waving me over. Rosie is strapped to his chest in a carrier, and when she spots me, she lets out a little squawk of greeting.
“Ooh! How’s my girl?” I croon.
“I’m just dandy, thanks for asking,” Rebecca jokes. Then she grabs me into a hug. “How are you? Are you settling into your new apartment? Is i
t great?”
“It’s getting there. I barely have any furniture, but I hate shopping.” Without asking for an invitation, I unclip the front of Eric’s baby carrier so I can hold Rosie.
“Well, I don’t hate shopping,” Becca says, clapping her hands. “Just say the word if you need a little company.”
“You don’t have time to help me pick out a coffee table.” I hug Rosie as she tries to grab fistfuls of my hair.
“Hey, I can make time,” Becca says. “Especially if there are rugs involved. And throw pillows. By the way—I love your dress. You must not hate shopping that much.”
“No, she really does,” Eric says. “And I’ve never seen her in a dress before. I didn’t even know she had knees.”
“Eric,” Becca squawks. “That’s no way to treat your boss.”
“Are you kidding? She teases me all day long,” he says. “This is just self-defense.”
I give him a poke in the elbow, and he snickers. Eric and I have known each other a long time. I was his agent for eight years, since Clove—Eric’s first agent—died in a car crash.
Clove had been a senior agent at Henry Kassman and Associates, and he’d had a lot of clients—both hockey and baseball, which was unusual. Some of Clove’s athletes left our firm after he died, and some of them got picked up by more senior agents. But Eric and a handful of others picked me.
“They know they’ll get a lot of your attention,” Henry Kassman had explained to me. “And they know I’ve got your back. So put on your game face and fight for your new clients, Bess. You’re going to do a great job.”
At the time, I’d been both gratified and terrified by the number of clients I’d picked up when Clove passed away. Within the space of a couple weeks, I’d gone from a third-stringer who’d mostly answered phones, to a busy agent in her own right.
I’d never looked back. Two years later I’d left Kassman to start my own business. There weren’t many agents in Detroit, and I knew I could pick up a bunch of athletes who wanted local representation.
That feels like a hundred years ago, though. And here I am starting over on the East Coast, because my priorities have shifted once again.
“Hey girls!” We’re joined by Georgia, Becca’s best friend and the team publicist. “Nice dress, Bess! You look amazing. Wow.”
Eric snickers, and I have to give him another poke in the elbow. But the surprise in Georgia’s voice is a wakeup call. “I guess I have a reputation for avoiding girly clothes.”
“I’m a proud tomboy myself,” Georgia insists. “Although Rebecca tries. Did you hear she just bought a Brooklyn nail salon?”
“Oh, neat,” I say, feigning enthusiasm.
At that, everyone laughs. Even the baby.
“When I reopen the place, will you let me treat you to a mani pedi?” Becca asks with a smile. “It’s fun. I promise.”
“It really is,” Georgia insists. “I don’t care much about nail polish, but I love a nice pedicure. It’s all about the foot rub and the gossip.”
“Okay, why not?” I say. “I’ll try anything once.”
“Excellent!” Georgia says, holding out her arms. “Now let me hold the baby. It’s my turn.”
“I suppose.” My reluctance to pass her over is genuine. I love babies in general and Rosie specifically.
“Could I leave her with you two for a minute?” Eric asks. “Gotta hit the little boys’ room, and then find her bottle.”
“Sure, Big Daddy,” Georgia says, taking Rosie from me. “We will do you the favor of snuggling this baby. Where’s Alex, anyway?”
Becca points toward the grand staircase. “She and Nate disappeared into his office to talk business.”
“On a Friday night?” Georgia scoffs, kissing Rosie’s cheek.
“Have you met Nate?” Becca asks. “I’d better greet some more guests. The new guy looks a little lonely out there. Later, peeps.” She excuses herself, and I resist the impulse to look out the window to check on Tank.
Lonely? That doesn’t sound like him.
Georgia bounces Rosie and gives me a smile. “What’s new? And what’s your brother doing in town this weekend?”
“Tomorrow night he’s taking me out to dinner. This afternoon he sold his condo to Delilah Spark, and tonight he’s out drinking with the guys.”
“Oh, great. Leo will probably come home bombed.”
“Probably,” I agree. “Tell me some gossip, girly. You know you want to.” And agents live for gossip. It’s how we find our clients.
“Let’s see. The new guy is Mark Tankiewicz. I’m sure you heard about the trade.”
“Right. From Dallas,” I say, sidestepping the fact that we know each other. “Your coach is hoping to deepen the experience on the bench after losing a couple of veterans.”
“Yep,” Georgia says cheerfully. “But the transition is looking rocky. The younger players aren’t quite ready to listen to a guy who stole the Cup away from them a year ago. The first two practices were…” She chooses her words carefully. “Not smooth.”
“Bummer,” I say, allowing myself a glance out the window at the veteran in question. He’s standing by a rose bush, looking grumpy. Trades are rough on a guy. They just are. Even if you’re a superstar.
Georgia drops her voice. “Leo was pretty testy last night. I guess Tank and Jason Castro had words. The new guy is a little prickly.”
I groan inwardly, because Castro is my client. And I really hope the rift is only superficial. “They’ll sort it out,” I say. They’d better.
“Oh, of course they will. Tank seems pretty angry about the trade, though. I don’t think he saw it coming.”
“It’s a big deal to have your life uprooted,” I say. “New teammates, new home. His wife probably had to quit her job, or at least say goodbye to her friends.”
Slowly, Georgia shakes her head. “The wife isn’t coming.”
“What?” The question flies out of my mouth. I forget to cushion it with indifference.
“It’s true. I always sit down with the new players to get a feel for their publicity needs. And the first thing I asked him was about his wife. He flat out told me that she filed for divorce a few weeks ago.”
I gasp. Because that’s just harsh.
“Isn’t it awful?” Georgia winces. “I guess she really didn’t want to move to New York.”
“That can’t really be why,” I whisper. “Can it?”
Georgia shakes her head. “Of course not. But it’s bad form to speculate. The blogs are inventing all kinds of reasons already. I heard he fought a teammate. You and I both know not to trust that stuff, but…” She breaks off, looking uncomfortable.
“That bad, huh?” My traitorous gaze goes right to the windows again. “That’s so sad,” I whisper. I’d just assumed he was happily married. Honestly, I always assume that anyone who’s married is happy about it.
Georgia kisses baby Rosie on the head. “Trades are hard enough when you have a partner by your side. I can’t imagine getting traded and divorced at the same time.”
“Georgia!” someone calls from another room. “Are you in here?”
“Coming!” she calls. “Sorry, if you’ll excuse me?”
“Go!” I insist, taking the baby back from her. Rosie smells like baby powder, and the scent is like a drug to me. I want to stick my nose on her little fuzzy head and inhale.
So I do. Because we’re alone in the dining room now, and nobody is around to see me. Rosie makes a soft coo, and then sticks her fist in her mouth, and I wonder if Eric has found that bottle yet. I walk closer to the leaded-glass windows, so we can both look outside.
My eyes find Tank immediately. Of course they do. He’s deep in conversation with Silas, the backup goalie. My brother sold his condo to Silas’s girlfriend this afternoon.
I wonder where Tank has been staying. At a hotel, probably. Trades are brutal. You get no warning. One phone call will uproot an entire family.
Or a marriage.
&nbs
p; And I just shook his hand and pretended I didn’t even recognize him.
Nice work, Bess. Real smooth.
Baby Rosie squints at me, as if trying to decide whether or not to yell at me. And I can’t say I blame her.
Four
People Will Write Anything on the Internet
Tank
I’m done with this party. As soon as I can shake our hostess’s hand, I’m out of here. There’s only one person in the yard who’s smiling at me. It’s Ivo, the other new trade. He’s a young Finnish kid who arrived only yesterday.
“Nice party, right?” I ask him.
He smiles.
“Did you try the brisket? It was almost as good as Texas barbecue. Almost.”
He smiles again.
“You have no idea what I’m saying right now, do you?”
He smiles one more time. “No English.”
“Poor kid.” I give him a friendly tap on the elbow. “Actually, they like you better than me already. Doesn’t matter if you speak the language. Hell, it’s probably easier that way.”
He smiles.
At last, Rebecca Rowley-Kattenberger finishes her conversation and turns to me. “Mark Tankiewicz! Do you have everything you need for the golf tournament this weekend?”
“I do, ma’am. And thank you for the party. Your home is amazing.” I hold out my hand to say goodbye.
“Isn’t it?” She hugs me instead of shaking my hand. “I didn’t have a thing to do with this place. And you don’t have to call me ma’am. Everyone else calls me Becca.”
“It’s just Texas manners,” I promise her. “I spent eight years there.”
“That’s a long time,” she says kindly. “But you grew up in Washington state?”
“That’s right. Good memory.”
She waves a hand around the yard. “It’s my job to know everyone’s business. Let me know if you have any trouble settling in,” she says. “If you don’t like the real estate broker we recommended, there are others.”
Sure Shot Page 3
