Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(23)

Except this wasn’t really the first try. Every few months I summon the courage to get out there and date, but I always get discouraged. The older I get, the thinner the talent pool.

I’m starting to view single men like the NHL draft. All the best players get snapped up when they’re really young.

New York was supposed to help me shake things up. There have to be more single men here than there were in my corner of Michigan. But what if they’re all like Brian?

I take another breath and stroll up Water Street, grateful to put distance between me and that disaster of a date. My date might not have been romantic, but Brooklyn’s scenery is. The streets are cobblestone, and I’m walking past a Civil War-era warehouse with curved windows and giant shutters. It’s half a mile—a ten-minute walk—back to my apartment. I’d planned my getaway when I’d chosen the restaurant. This isn’t my first rodeo.

“Bess,” Tank’s voice calls from behind me. “Wait up.”

Except I didn’t count on him. I don’t slow my roll, but I’m not going to be able to outrun an athlete, especially while wearing strappy little sandals. “I can’t believe I dressed up for Brian,” I grumble to myself. It’s just a denim skirt and a silk top. But still.

Tank falls in step with me. “Who was that guy?” he asks. As if it’s any of his business.

“Just a guy. I’d tell you what he does for a living, but I didn’t understand a word of it.”

“Bummer. Where’d you meet him?”

“Tinder,” I grunt. Using the dating apps embarrasses me. But when you’re in a new city and you’ve sworn off dating the men you meet at work, there’s really no other way. “When I told him my job, he said, ‘But you’re a woman.’”

Tank stops suddenly. “No he fucking did not.” He turns right around and heads back toward the restaurant.

“Tank!” I chase after him. “What are you doing?”

He stops again. “I need to teach him a lesson.”

“No, dumbass!” I squeak. “Your agent would kill you.”

“Easy, Bess.” He reaches out, giving my forearm a squeeze. I’m instantly annoyed by how nice his touch feels. “I didn’t mean I was going to punch the man. I need to tell him he’s an idiot, because he pissed off a woman with access to the best seats in hockey.”

“He doesn’t like hockey.”

“Oh. Shit.” Tank shakes his head. “There’s no use spending any time on a guy who hates hockey. Shouldn’t you ask that question first? It’s a good way to weed out the losers.”

“This knife cuts both ways,” I point out. “I can’t advertise my access to the best seats in hockey.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’ll just attract guys who aren’t looking to date me. It’s bad enough that half the men on Tinder are just after sex.”

“Is that really so wrong?”

I make the mistake of glancing at Tank. He gives me a heated smile. And my ovaries stand up in their stadium seats and cheer.

Oh boy. Nothing good can come of this.

Wait. That’s not true. Nothing lasting can come of this. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be good.

“I have a five-year plan.” I say it aloud more for my benefit than his. It’s me who needs the reminder.

“Sorry?”

“There’s no page for you in my five-year plan, Tank. I’m trying to meet someone who wants a relationship. And we both know you’re not that guy.”

“Yeah, well.” We stop at the curb, because the light turns red. “You’re right. I’m not that guy. I’m never getting married again. But I’m still a good time.”

“Is that why you’re following me home?”

“A nice guy always walks the single girl home.”

“Are you a nice guy?”

“Once in a while.”

I snort. The light changes again, and we cross the street, drawing closer to my front door. The point of no return is near. And it’s just so easy to rationalize this. He’s lonely. I’m lonely. Who does it hurt?

Me, that’s who. I shouldn’t do this. And yet every step brings us closer to my apartment building. “Did you really punch your co-captain in Dallas?” I ask suddenly.

“Been reading the hockey blogs, huh?” He sounds angry.

“It’s literally my job, Tank.”

“Yeah, I punched him. But don’t ask me why, because I’m not going to tell you.”

“Okay.” Now I feel like a heel for asking. It’s none of my business. I’d picked a fight with him, maybe because I was hoping he’d give up on walking me home.

I’ve failed to scare him off. He’s still here, matching my stride. We cross under the bridge, and now we’re in the home stretch. “Just in case you’re lost,” I tell him, pointing back the way we came, “your hotel is in the opposite direction.”

“I’m not lost. I’m following you home.”

“Why?”

“Why,” he scoffs. “Because neither one of us can stop thinking about it.” He stops, and when I stop, too, his piercing eyes take in my low-cut top and the flush on my neck. “You know you’ve been thinking about me. And I sure as hell can’t stop thinking about you.”