Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(66)

“Of course you will. They’d be lucky to snag you. Come on.” Who’s better than Delilah?

“You are very loyal. But I have a certain sound, and if it doesn’t match their vision, then they’ll call someone else. This is going to be really high profile and they can have their pick of female recording artists.”

“But you want this, right?” I’m already walking up Water Street, my building in view. Upstairs, I have to put a few more things in my suitcase and then call a car to the airport.

“I do want it. Not only does it get around Brett, but I’m excited for it. And I haven’t felt jazzed up about something in so long.”

I can hear it in her voice, too. “That is fantastic.” Come write those songs in Brooklyn. I manage not to say that out loud, of course. But it’s on my mind as I walk up three steps to my building.

Miguel—the concierge—holds the door. I give him a salute and march toward the elevators.

“Now tell the truth,” Delilah says as I push the button. “Is your coach still pissed at you?”

“Eh,” I say, unwilling to make it Delilah’s problem. “He’ll live.” Even though I’d carried through with my promise to skate for all the rookie sessions, and even though he’d already approved it, Coach Worthington still gave me a bunch of guilt over my trip to California.

But it was only a couple of days, and the man would soon forget all about this. Nobody was more dedicated than me. I always show up and work hard.

“I made a dinner reservation for tonight,” she says as I step into the elevator.

“Yeah? Where?”

“Roadie Joe’s.”

“Really?” I laugh. “Okay. Are we going to eat at the bar for old time’s sake? Or can we sit outside?”

“You can pick.”

“Okay. Can’t wait. I’d better go.”

“Bye! Don’t miss your flight.”

“Never.”

We hang up, and I’m smiling to myself as the elevator doors open on my floor.





Thirty minutes later, I’m basically ready. All I need is a carryon, because a trip to the beach doesn’t require many clothes. All the important things fit into a small space—phone charger, bathing suit. A nice shirt to wear while I’m taking my girl out to dinner. A new box of condoms.

One last thing needs folding. It’s a T-shirt I had made for Delilah. Okay—Heidi did the legwork to figure out where to have it printed. But it was my idea. It’s black, with a pink design on the front. Delilah and the Sparkle Puppies.

Jason looks over my shoulder and laughs. “That came out well. I hope your girl likes it. Because my girl is a genius.”

“Hey! I did the design myself. I drew the puppy freehand.”

“Yeah, if this hockey thing doesn’t work out, you can be her merch guy. Have a good trip, okay? I’m going for a run. I’ll see you at practice when you get back.”

“Thanks, man.” He lifts a hand, and we high-five.

In the kitchen, my phone starts ringing.

“Want me to grab that?” Jason offers. “It’s probably your driver.”

“Sure. Thanks.” I fold the T-shirt carefully and tuck it into my bag, then zip it up.

“Yeah, he’s here,” I hear Jason grunt. “Don’t get your panties in a wad.” He appears in front of me with a grumpy look on his face. He points at my phone and mouths, “Some asshole.”

I take the phone. “Hello?”

“Silas Kelly. Long time no speak.”

My pulse jumps at the sound of Brett Ferris’s voice. “How did you get this number?” is the first thing that comes out of my mouth.

“Really? That’s your question? If I were you, I would want to know why, not how. But that was always your failing. You always focus on the wrong things. And when you figure out what’s really important, it’s always too late.”

I’m standing in my own home, stunned and pissed off at once. “What are you playing at? Make this quick. I have a plane to catch.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. You’re not going to go to L.A.”

The smug sound of his voice fills me with rage. “Of course I am.” And how does he know my travel plans? Delilah must be right about her security team spying on her.

“You won’t want to go after you hear what I have to say.”

“Bullshit. Nothing you could say would make one difference to me.” I take a deep breath and remind my body how to feel calm. Oxygen into the lungs. Looseness in the limbs. We got this. I’m not the same freaked-out kid that I used to be.

“No? I’m not so sure about that.” He pauses, and I know manufactured drama when I hear it. “Delilah is at a crossroads right now,” he says. “She’s about to write her third album and launch her second.”

“Sure, but I’m not stopping her,” I argue.

“Yeah, you are,” he argues. “You’re a distraction. And I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it?” My voice sounds almost level. “She’s not a child. You don’t get to arrange her play dates.”

“You’re the child.” His voice is hard. “You have no idea what’s at stake for her. She can be a one-album wonder, or she can be great. But you and that pit bull of a manager need to back the fuck off.”