Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(10)

And that was such a Brett thing to do—homing in on her moment. Claiming it as his own.

It’s barely any consolation that she looks annoyed, too.

That’s when I have to tap out. I push off the wall and slip toward the back door, dodging bodies to get to the exit.

Outside, the breeze smells like the ocean. The door closes behind me, muting the sound of applause and laughter. I take a deep breath and head toward the beach. I need the sand and the fresh air. I need the sound of crashing waves to drown out the drum beat of my own rage.

Jogging toward the sound of the water, I have the strangest urge to howl at the sky. I don’t even know that girl. Not really. But I want to. And I can’t shake the feeling that the Bretts of the world get more and more of what’s good. While the Ralphs of the world serve them ice-cold champagne and light their cigars.

Delilah, though. She could go places. I hope like hell that someone other than Brett takes her there. I know nothing about the music industry. But I know in my gut that she could be a star.

I walk a long way on the beach. There are very few people out here with me, and none at all with their feet in the wet sand, trudging along alone.

The voicemail in my pocket mocks me. When I finally listen to it hours later, it says exactly what I expected it to.





June





Delilah





“Omigod, Delilah!” My publicist, Becky—and best friend—has to shout over the roar of the stadium crowd.

“What?” I’m not listening, though, because the players are whipping past us on the ice at breathtaking speed. And then they do that thing where they swap players really fast—two of them piling back through the little doorway while two others vault over the wall and skate toward the action. “How do they know when it’s their turn, anyway?”

“The coach gives them a signal. Like I’m trying to do right now.” Becky snaps her fingers. “Listen. A cute boy wants to go on a date with you. And Twitter is amused.”

“A cute boy? What is he, twelve? And you’re the one who tells me never to respond to the pervs on Twitter.”

“This time it’s different.”

“Uh-huh.” I tune her out again, because they’re fighting for the puck right in front of me. And it’s thrilling. “Hockey players have muscular asses. I guess that makes sense to me. But why do they all have beards? Is it, like, in their contract?”

“They don’t shave during the playoffs,” Becky says, still squinting at my phone. “You like beards?”

“So what if I do?” My ex was as clean shaven as a baby’s behind, to the point of being prissy about it. And he was the biggest mistake of my adult life, so obviously I need to branch out a little.

Although. I was once attracted to a bearded guy. A really nice one. And that went nowhere.

“You think hockey players are pretty cute, huh?” Becky says. There’s coyness in her voice.

“Cute isn’t the right word. They’re so…” I let out a sigh. “Rugged, I guess.” It’s not like I can easily see their faces, what with the helmets and the eye-shields. But I get glimpses of cut, masculine jaws and strong chins. Flashing eyes, bent on victory.

It’s very sexy. Although maybe I do need to get out more.

“You need to get out more,” Becky says, echoing my thoughts. “And what if I told you the guy who wants a date is a hockey player. Look.” Becky elbows me.

“This better be good,” I grumble as I lean over her phone. “I’m missing some serious hockey action right now.”

“First game, and you’re already a fan?” She laughs. “This is the guy asking you out on Twitter. He’s the one who had the jersey delivered to you.”

I look down at the black jersey I’m currently wearing. “Is he here?”

“No! That’s why he’s tweeted it. See?”

I finally read the tweet. If L.A. clinches before the buzzer, will you go on a date with me?

Okay, that’s kind of cute. “He’s asking me out, but it’s also a bet?”

“Basically. Yeah.” Becky is practically bouncing in her seat.

“Who is this guy?”

“He’s a goalie on the Brooklyn team that already got knocked out of the playoffs. Apparently he hates Dallas. I think Dallas beat them in the finals last season.”

That’s as good a reason to hold a grudge as any. But I’m not in the market for a date. Or anything else to do with men. Possibly forever. “Show me a photo,” I say anyway. Because I never was very smart.

Becky taps my phone for a couple seconds. “Oh, he’s cute!”

She turns the phone to show me, and I laugh. “Becky! How would you know? He’s wearing a full face mask!” When I look out across the ice at the L.A. goalie, I see the same thing—a cage over the guy’s face.

“That jaw, though. The part we can see is cute. Besides, look at how bendy goalies are.”

We both watch the on-ice action for a few contemplative moments as the goalie scissors his body to make one save and then another. And a couple months of celibacy are really screwing with my libido. The raw masculine power I’m witnessing tonight really speaks to my inner cavewoman.