Good Boy (WAGs #1)(34)

My brother enters the kitchen, shrugging out of his fall jacket as he says, “Oh good, you started dinner. I’m famished.” He glances over. “Hey, man, what’re you doing here? Wes said there was some team PR meeting after practice.”

Blake nods. “It’s only for the guys who are playing in the charity tourney.”

“Oh, you’re not doing that? I thought you were.”

“Trainers didn’t want me to take any chances. You know, ’cause of my bum knee. It’d be stupid to risk reinjuring it for a game that doesn’t count for standings.”

“Truth.”

As the two of them continue to chat, I keep my gaze on the onion I’m dicing and force my heartbeat to regulate. Thank God Jamie came home when he did. Five seconds later and I would’ve been bent over this counter, presenting myself to Blake like a dog in heat.

Jesus. Imagine if my brother had walked in on that? I’d never hear the end of it.





14 Bitch, I’m Canadian





Jess


“Wow. You got a special favor from Nurse Hailey?” Violet peers at me over the lip of her pint glass, her nose scrunched up.

“Not so special,” I say, hating my defensive tone. “She said it wasn’t a big deal that I hadn’t turned in my observations that same minute. She was happy to have them before class today.”

I’d sweated it for forty-eight hours, though, thinking she was going to give me a lecture about turning assignments in on time. Instead she’d said, “I’m glad to see you feeling more upbeat today. That ward always gets to me, too.”

“Um…” Nurse Hailey’s sympathetic look had surprised me. “I’m sure I can get used to it.”

“You will,” she’d said. “But not because you’ll be hardened to it. But rather because your work in nursing will become a real balance between the good and the sad. Once you’re sure you’re making a contribution, the scary stuff gets easier to take.”

I don’t share this wisdom with Violet, because I am not in the mood to hear her sour opinion on it. Or on anything else. We’ve been at the bar for ten minutes, and I’m already certain it’s a mistake. Not only do Violet and I have nothing in common, she keeps blatantly showing off all the knowledge she’s socked away in her frontal, parietal, occipital and temporal lobes.

There’s an anatomy quiz tomorrow on the central nervous system. I think I’m finally ready. It’s the first time I’ve felt confident about classwork this year.

“Today Ashleigh and I read ahead in the anatomy textbook,” she announces.

Of course they did. Ashleigh is one of Violet’s nerd friends.

“The circulatory system is going to be a real bitch. All those veins and arteries? It’s, like, ten times harder than the quiz we’re taking tomorrow. And—God—Ashleigh actually confused veins and capillaries today. I mean, I’m sure she’ll pull it together before the test, but can you believe it?” She gives a little shake of disgust at the idea, while I make a mental note to Google capillaries later.

My confidence dissipates like the foam on top of my beer. I’d ordered the least expensive draft they had. The one flaw in Blake’s plan to go out drinking with Violet is the fact that the team’s favorite bar—Sticks & Stones—isn’t cheap.

Speaking of Blake, I crane my neck, wondering when he’s going to show up.

“So who’s your friend, anyway?”

“Blake Riley? Oh, he’s my brother’s neighbor. You wouldn’t know him. Hockey player. Not exactly up on his anatomy.” Wait—that wasn’t strictly true. Blake is very well-versed in the reproductive organs, and, well, my nervous system. Whenever he touches me, all my synapses short out…

I catch a funny look on Violet’s face. “What?” I ask. “Something wrong?”

She uses a low, hushed voice I’ve never heard before. “You can’t be serious. Not that Blake Riley. Not the Toronto forward.” Her eyes become saucer-like.

Uh-oh. Have I fucked up yet again? “What? You don’t like hockey?”

She gulps. “Bitch, I’m Canadian. Of course I like hockey. I love hockey. You can’t tell me you know Blake Riley.”

I shrug. “Of course I do. All my Toronto friends are on the hockey team.”

“All. Your. Friends,” she repeats slowly.

“What, like that’s weird?”

Slowly, Violet’s wide eyes track upwards, over my head. “Oh God.” She puts both hands to the sides of her face and gasps.

A deafening sound booms down from above. “Yo! J-Babe! What are we drinking?”

Blake has arrived. But I can’t take my eyes off Violet, because something is very wrong with her. She’s holding on to her face, and her mouth has flopped open. She’s doing Edvard Munch’s Scream, basically. It’s so unusual that I’m instantly uneasy.

“Hey, are you okay?” Why would she hold on to her face? Is there weakness there? “Are you…stroking out?”

Shit! What are the signs of stroke? Facial drooping, difficulty speaking! Check and check!

But then she thrusts a hand out. “Blake Riley! I’m a huge fan of your work. That overtime goal against Pittsburg in the playoffs was seminal to my existence.”