Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(12)

“Really? Between us, we have fifty years of experience meeting boys. And not one nice boyfriend to show for it.”

“I had a very nice boyfriend,” she argues. “It’s just that he now also has a very nice boyfriend.”

“Well…” I have to admit that her ex is a good guy. “Whatever. There aren’t many. And you’re stalling. Hand over the Dallas jersey.”

“You’ll have to kill me first,” she says crisply. “One of us is going on a fun date, damn it.” She checks her phone.

“What did he say?” I find myself asking.

“Nothing at all.” She stashes her phone. “He’s glued to the game, I’ll bet. That’s why I want you to meet him. He’s interested in you, but he has his own life. Not like Ferris, the blood-sucking vampire.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about him tonight.”

“Fine. Two minutes,” Becky says, leaning forward in her seat. “The suspense is killing me.”

I have to admit it’s killing me, too. The puck is in the far corner now, with players fighting over it. I can almost feel the clock ticking down in my gut. Then L.A. flips it loose, and the chase is on.

“He replied!” Becky says, her phone in her hand again. “He says: Even if you wear the Dallas jersey, this is totally happening. You look pretty great in black, though. Just saying.”

It ought to seem a little creepy that he can see me when I can’t see him. But for some reason the compliment spreads warmth across my face, anyway.

“Aw! See how cute he is?” Becky gasps. “You two can tell this story to your children.”

“Oh stop.” My cheeks are on fire, and it makes no sense. Besides, there’s only ninety seconds on the clock now.

“Come on L.A.!” Becky hollers. “Let’s make some opportunities!”

The players’ speed is almost dizzying. I guess it would light a fire under my ass, too, if I knew this could head into infinite overtime. It’s a blur of black and green and sheer ambition. I lose track of the puck near the Dallas goal. “What’s happening?” I ask pointlessly.

“SHOOT!” Becky screams.

And then twenty thousand people stand up for a better look as the Dallas goalie dives.

I stop breathing. And then the crowd makes a deafening roar as the lamp lights behind the Dallas goal.

“OMG!” Becky squeaks. “L.A. scored!”

“There’s still another minute on the clock,” I say slowly.

She cackles. “What are the odds? I think you’re going on a date.”

I take the phone out of her hand. So, um, where do you live? I reply to the goalie.

It looks like I’m going to meet him after all.





Three Years Earlier





Delilah





My set at the Coconut Club sets off a flurry of meetings with record labels. For a few days, it’s wildly exciting. Although nobody offers me a contract.

“Yet,” Brett corrects me when I point this out after one of the meetings. His brand-new pair of mirrored sunglasses shine in the California sunlight, and he flashes me a smile full of perfectly whitened teeth.

I want to believe him so badly. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m just one more shiny thing in his life that he’ll discard when a newer model comes along.

“We’re not taking the first offer that comes, anyway,” he adds. “I’m going to play hardball.”

Brett is fond of using sports analogies. Just an hour ago he said that if nobody signs me he’ll throw a “Hail Mary pass” and record the album himself.

I had to Google it, because I don’t follow sportsball. But a Hail Mary pass is something you do in football if you’re running out of options.

This is life in the arts. You have these little moments of glory when the applause is loud, and it feels like you might finally take things to a whole new level. But then the glow wears off and you realize nothing has changed.

“I think I’ll go off in a corner somewhere and do some writing,” I tell him. “Get my mind off it.”

“You do that.” I get another blinding smile. He puts a possessive hand on the back of my neck and gives me an appreciative look.

It would be so easy right now to lean in and let him kiss me. I don’t do it. But I don’t hate that look he’s giving me—like I’m fascinating. Sometimes I make bad decisions when men look at me like that.

But not today. I ease back, disappointing him. He doesn’t force the issue, though, especially after the earful I gave him after that obnoxious kiss in front of the Coconut Club crowd.

“We are not a couple,” I’d reminded him. Not yet, anyway.

“I was just overwhelmed,” he’d said. “You were so amazing. I lost my head.”

He said it wouldn’t happen again. And it can’t. If I give in to this man, he’ll take me for granted. I need him to find me a record deal more than I need a man in my bed. Even if he is objectively attractive and successful.

“Chin up, girl,” he tells me now. “You have what it takes. I’m going to make sure everybody knows. There will be more meetings.”

“I know.” I plaster a smile on my face and make plans to meet him later. Then we part ways. I walk down Main Street, glancing into shop windows, taking my time.