Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(45)

He smiles. “So you wouldn’t rather go outside and play ping pong?”

“I suck at ping pong. You?”

“Champion of the team league. I fucking love ping pong.” He rolls on top of me and kisses my neck. “But not today.”

“No?” I gasp as he takes my nipple against his tongue.

“Nope.” He hooks a hand under my knee. Then he lifts his chin and gazes right into my eyes as he slides his way home again. “I’m right where I need to be.”





We spend the whole afternoon in bed. Eventually we’re so spent that lying under the sheet watching the ceiling fan turn is all we have left.

“How’s the new manager?” he asks, his fingers combing through my hair.

“Nice. No—that’s the wrong word for her. She’s fierce. She has ideas for how I can move forward without Brett’s cooperation.”

“Yeah? Tell me all the news.”

My head rolls lazily to the side, resting on his magnificent chest. “My contract isn’t easy to break, but there are some odd loopholes. Get this—I can’t make another solo album until he publishes the one he’s sitting on. But I could, for example, make a new album that’s credited to a band.”

“You mean the new album could come from—” His deep voice vibrates beneath my ear. “—Delilah and the Sparkle Puppies?”

I lift my head. “Did you say sparkle puppies? What the fuck is that?”

“Puppies are a crowd-pleaser, Delilah. Everyone likes puppies.”

“You’re mocking my demographic,” I tease.

“Puppies are universally appealing,” he insists. “Wait. Are you a puppy hater? Have I bedded a monster?”

We both crack up. I feel so loose right now. I love the way he teases me. We’re discussing all the most stressful things in my life, and he’s got me laughing about it.

“I know.” He snaps his fingers. “You should call the new band Free Beer. Everyone loves free beer.”

I let out an unladylike snort. “You’re off the marketing team.”

“What? I’m a marketing genius. Obvs.”

“Obvs,” I repeat happily. My troubles seem smaller when I’m lying next to him. “I’ll run them both past my terrifying manager.”

“Does she really want you to start a band?”

“Only if she can’t find another way to force Brett to do the right thing. That’s our nuclear option. The thought of walking away from my finished album makes me sick. I honestly spend several hours of each day trying to think up an alternative solution. Those songs represent more than two years of my work, and I can’t imagine a future where they’re not out in the world.”

I need Brett to release that album. I need him to blink first. Some days it’s all I think about.

“Is there no way to release those songs as a band?” he asks. “Like, rerecord them?”

I shake my head. “He already accepted them as fulfillment of the second and last album on my current contract. I can’t retract them without handing over another ten songs.”

“But doesn’t he need this release, too? Isn’t he sitting on millions of dollars right now?”

“Yes. That’s what’s so maddening. But apparently I care more than he does, and he’s willing to take some pain to cause me even more pain. Which shouldn’t surprise me.” I roll over and look him in the eye. “I should have listened to you when you warned me about him. I should have asked you to tell me the whole story.”

Silas closes his eyes. “Shit,” he says. “I think you did ask. And I refused.”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t reflect well on me, either.” He turns to prop his head on one hand. “Brett wasn’t the only cheater. And I didn’t want you to know.”





Silas





Delilah blinks back at me. “What happened?”

“Well…” I haven’t told this story in a long time. Or even thought about it, really. It brings me too much pain. “Back in high school, hockey wasn’t my only sport. I also played—”

“Tennis,” Delilah says. “You told me that Brett didn’t like to lose.”

“Does he still play?” I hear myself ask. Because I never touched a racquet again. Not after what happened.

“Sometimes. But there are trophies in his parents’ beach house. I mean—that house is impeccably tasteful. It’s all wood and beiges and blues. But right there on the sideboard are like a dozen gold, gaudy tennis trophies. I always thought of it as the Shrine to Brett.”

“All trophies are ugly, but it doesn’t matter. You still want them. Never get between a man and his trophies.”

“Now, Ralph.” She squeezes my arm. “Do you have an apartment full of hockey trophies?”

“Nope. They’re in a box somewhere in my mother’s garage. But if my team ever gets a Stanley Cup, you can bet your cute little butt that I will have my photo taken in every possible combination with that thing. I will treasure it as non-ironically as I’ll treasure my vinyl edition of Delilah and the Sparkle Puppies’ first album.”