Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(10)

I gasp. Because that’s just harsh.

“Isn’t it awful?” Georgia winces. “I guess she really didn’t want to move to New York.”

“That can’t really be why,” I whisper. “Can it?”

Georgia shakes her head. “Of course not. But it’s bad form to speculate. The blogs are inventing all kinds of reasons already. I heard he fought a teammate. You and I both know not to trust that stuff, but…” She breaks off, looking uncomfortable.

“That bad, huh?” My traitorous gaze goes right to the windows again. “That’s so sad,” I whisper. I’d just assumed he was happily married. Honestly, I always assume that anyone who’s married is happy about it.

Georgia kisses baby Rosie on the head. “Trades are hard enough when you have a partner by your side. I can’t imagine getting traded and divorced at the same time.”

“Georgia!” someone calls from another room. “Are you in here?”

“Coming!” she calls. “Sorry, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Go!” I insist, taking the baby back from her. Rosie smells like baby powder, and the scent is like a drug to me. I want to stick my nose on her little fuzzy head and inhale.

So I do. Because we’re alone in the dining room now, and nobody is around to see me. Rosie makes a soft coo, and then sticks her fist in her mouth, and I wonder if Eric has found that bottle yet. I walk closer to the leaded-glass windows, so we can both look outside.

My eyes find Tank immediately. Of course they do. He’s deep in conversation with Silas, the backup goalie. My brother sold his condo to Silas’s girlfriend this afternoon.

I wonder where Tank has been staying. At a hotel, probably. Trades are brutal. You get no warning. One phone call will uproot an entire family.

Or a marriage.

And I just shook his hand and pretended I didn’t even recognize him.

Nice work, Bess. Real smooth.

Baby Rosie squints at me, as if trying to decide whether or not to yell at me. And I can’t say I blame her.





Four





People Will Write Anything on the Internet





Tank





I’m done with this party. As soon as I can shake our hostess’s hand, I’m out of here. There’s only one person in the yard who’s smiling at me. It’s Ivo, the other new trade. He’s a young Finnish kid who arrived only yesterday.

“Nice party, right?” I ask him.

He smiles.

“Did you try the brisket? It was almost as good as Texas barbecue. Almost.”

He smiles again.

“You have no idea what I’m saying right now, do you?”

He smiles one more time. “No English.”

“Poor kid.” I give him a friendly tap on the elbow. “Actually, they like you better than me already. Doesn’t matter if you speak the language. Hell, it’s probably easier that way.”

He smiles.

At last, Rebecca Rowley-Kattenberger finishes her conversation and turns to me. “Mark Tankiewicz! Do you have everything you need for the golf tournament this weekend?”

“I do, ma’am. And thank you for the party. Your home is amazing.” I hold out my hand to say goodbye.

“Isn’t it?” She hugs me instead of shaking my hand. “I didn’t have a thing to do with this place. And you don’t have to call me ma’am. Everyone else calls me Becca.”

“It’s just Texas manners,” I promise her. “I spent eight years there.”

“That’s a long time,” she says kindly. “But you grew up in Washington state?”

“That’s right. Good memory.”

She waves a hand around the yard. “It’s my job to know everyone’s business. Let me know if you have any trouble settling in,” she says. “If you don’t like the real estate broker we recommended, there are others.”

“I haven’t even called them yet,” I admit. “I need to focus on hockey first and the chaos of my life later.”

“I can’t even imagine how you’re holding it together.” She squeezes my arm, her face full of sympathy. “I’m sure you’ve had easier months. Just let me know if there’s anything you need. And thanks for coming today.”

“My pleasure.” She gives me another warm smile, and I return it even though my neck feels hot.

Everyone knows about my divorce, giving me either dirty or pitying looks. They’re both a drag. I’ve already cycled through a wide range of feelings—shock, numbness, sadness—but I seem to have landed on embarrassment, instead of utter heartbreak.

If that’s not a sign, then I don’t know what is.

“Hey, Rebecca!” another player says, grabbing the owner’s attention. He’s not just any player. Eric Bayer is one of the veterans I was meant to replace. Bayer is only a year or two older than I am, but he retired last season after one too many knee surgeries. “Did you happen to see… Oh, there it is!” Bayer reaches under the caterer’s table and emerges with a tote bag. It’s covered in bright pink bunny rabbits. He pulls a baby’s bottle out of the sack and begins to shake it. “Just in time,” he says.