Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(19)

It sure was fun, though. There’s no denying that.





Eight





Remember Me?





Tank: Hey Bess! I hope this is still the right number. Remember me? I’m the guy whose hotel room you snuck out of the other night. Hope your thirty-first year is off to a good start. —T

Bess: Who is this? You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t sneak out of hotel rooms. I walk gracefully, head held high, in my rumpled dress and wet sex hair.

Tank: My mistake. But I would have liked to say a proper goodbye. It’s not often that we’re in the same state.

Bess: You might be surprised. But I couldn’t take the risk of waking you up. After all, you got me naked about four minutes after arriving in your room. So I have no idea what “a proper goodbye” might mean to you. Restraints, probably. And a safe word.

Tank: That sounds about right. Next time, then.

Bess: There won’t be a next time. You know it’s not because I don’t want to. But I don’t do players.

Tank: Evidence suggests that sometimes you do. Especially this one.

Bess: No, really. Not for nine years. I took Pine’s advice and I never, ever have. You’re my one slip-up. Ever.

Tank: Damn, honey. I’m flattered.

Bess: You should be. You’re my kryptonite.

Tank: Hey, I am FAR more talented than a hunk of alien minerals. Did Superman scream my name in the shower? So there’s no reason not to do it again. Your number won’t even go up. You’ll still have only one career screwup. If you find yourself back in Brooklyn, I’m happy to be the mistake you can keep on making.

Bess: You really know how to sell a girl.

Tank: Where are you, anyway?

Bess: Detroit. I had to talk to a badly concussed rookie.

Tank: Ouch. Is he gonna be okay?

Bess: Yes, after a minor surgical procedure whereby I remove his head from his ass. This genius was not following treatment procedure because he wanted to play.

Tank: Aw. Poor kid. He wants to prove his worth.

Bess: He can’t prove his worth with brain damage. Enough about him. How are you? Settling in?

Tank: Just dandy. My new team hates me. So I just made it worse by beating them all at the golf tournament on Saturday. Now they want to drown me in a bucket. Someday this will all seem funny, right?

Bess: I’m sorry. Trades are so hard.

Tank: Don’t agent me, Bess. I’m a big boy. You don’t have to give me a pep talk. I’ll take a blowjob, though.

Bess: No can do. We’ve been over this. And all boys need agents. Even the biggest ones.

Tank. That’s what she said…

Bess: [Eyeroll.] You sound like a guy who needs a pep talk, though. Where’s Kassman? He should be delivering it himself. In person.

Tank: He emails every morning. He’s only working part time right now.

Bess: ????? Part time? Henry doesn’t even know those words. And WTF? Email? He should be finding you an apartment. That hotel where you’re staying is too far from the practice facility. You’re never going to bond with the guys if they’re keeping you downtown.

Tank: Sure I am. We’re having a sleepover later. And a pillow fight. Castro is going to braid my hair and Trevi is going to paint my toenails.

Bess: [Eyeroll emoji.]

Tank: But we could have a sleepover. You and me. We play Detroit next month. You and I could have a secret rendezvous.

Bess: Dream on, Tank.

Tank: Oh I will. Goodnight, sexy.

Bess: Goodnight





Nine





But You’re a Woman





Bess





October


“All the manicure stations are up front,” Rebecca says, sweeping her arm toward the shop’s windows. “This part is basically finished.”

“It’s gorgeous,” I say, taking in the long, L-shaped sofa with bright pillows. “That’s a cool painting, too.” Adjacent to the windows is a brick wall with colorful wings painted onto it.

“That’s for Instagram pics. The wine bar is going in over there.” Rebecca points to the opposite wall. “And the pedicure area is in back. We’ll have eight stations—four on each side. And a sliding divider, for private parties.”

“Private parties,” I echo. It would never occur to me to party at a nail salon.

Although maybe it should. Chapter Two of my five-year plan is titled “Nurturing Female Friendships.” It’s not just my love life that’s suffered as I poured all my energy into my business for the past years. There aren’t many women in sports management. I have friends, but they’re all dudes.

So when Rebecca and Georgia asked me to meet them for a cocktail and a peek at the half-finished nail salon, I agreed in a hot second.

“Who wants a margarita?” Georgia asks. She’s got tequila, lime juice, and sugar out on the salon’s new gleaming stone countertop, and she’s filling a shaker with ice from a bag.

“I do!” Becca’s hand shoots into the air.

“I’d love one,” I add. “A small one, though. I have a date at seven thirty, and I probably shouldn’t show up sloshed.”

Georgia sets the shaker down with a thump and lets out a little squeal. “A date with whom? This is so exciting.”