Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(24)

Oh. Wow. Those are the magic words. Can’t stop thinking about you. My little Cinderella heart swoons against the soot-covered hearthstones, even though Tank is no Prince Charming. He isn’t even trying to be. He’s raw and hungry. He takes what he wants. He makes no promises, and he tells me no lies.

It doesn’t matter. I march up to the front door of my building and pull out my key. “In you go,” I grumble, pulling the door open.

“Heck, I didn’t know it would be this easy. You’re inviting me up?”

“We can’t very well stand here and discuss it.” I put my keys away. “Half the team lives in that building across the street.” I hook a thumb toward the Million Dollar Dorm, as we like to call it. Or, in my brother’s case, the three million dollar dorm. He’d owned one of the bigger apartments in the building.

Tank glances across the street, and the look on his face is almost wistful. But then he follows me into my building, pausing in front of the door to my office. “Bess Beringer and Associates. Nice.”

“It’s small. But I have the best commute in New York.” I start up the stairs.

“Yeah, you do.” Tank laughs, and then follows me.

When we reach my fourth-floor abode, I’m cursing my little strappy sandals. Tank could do four more flights without breathing hard. I’m not surprised. If I didn’t have first-hand experience with his stamina, I probably wouldn’t be breaking all my rules again right now.

He follows me into the apartment, and I flip on a lamp and glance around. It’s tidy, but small. The only living room furniture is a very plain khaki sofa, because I haven’t taken Becca up on her shopping offer yet.

Tank does a quick circuit of the living room. “It’s quiet,” he says. “Nice.”

I burst out laughing. “That’s all you could think of to say, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.” He gives me a smirk. “I’m just not sure why you chose this place, when your brother was selling a sweet pad across the street.”

“This is a rental,” I point out. “It’s cheap, and I didn’t have to commit to more than a year. And then there’s the commute.”

He nods, then sits down on my sofa.

I offer him a beer, but before I can fetch it, my phone chimes. I pull it out of my pocket and find that my dinner date has messaged me, proposing a second evening together. “Oh lord. Let me unmatch this guy or he’s going to keep texting me.”

I plop down next to Tank and open the app. Thank you for a lovely meal, but I’m not sure we’re a great match. Be well. —Bess. Then I unmatch him.

“You’re awfully polite,” Tank says, reading shamelessly over my shoulder.

“Usually,” I hedge. “Want to see something funny? I’m still not sure how to respond to this guy. He just sent me his picture today and asked for a dinner date.” I tap on the message and show the photo to Tank.

His eyes bulge. “That’s Blake Riley.”

“I realize,” I say with a sigh.

“But…Blake Riley plays for Toronto.”

“Yes, genius. That’s Fake Riley. Some dude stole his photo and is trying to pass it off as his own.”

“Holy shit.” Tank covers his mouth and laughs like a gossipy high school girl. And he looks unfairly handsome doing it. “People are insane. What does he think will happen when you turn up and find some ugly schmo?”

“I honestly have no idea. Maybe he looks a little bit like Riley? Or maybe he’s banking on me being too polite to call him out on it.”

He takes the phone out of my hand and starts tapping a reply. I’m really not sure how you’re going to fit in a New York dinner between practices in Toronto. “Can I send it?”

“Sure,” I grumble. I take the phone back after he sends it and then unmatch from Fake Riley, too. “You know he’ll just try it on someone else, though.”

Internet dating is the worst. Tank hasn’t figured it out yet, and he probably won’t have to. A single hockey player does not require technology to find companionship.

Popping off the couch, I head into the kitchen where I crack open two bottles of Brooklyn Lager. While I’m standing at the counter, it occurs to me that Dallas is playing its season opener against Boston tonight. So I open the league app to check the score. It’s 1-0 for Boston heading into the third period.

I tuck my phone away, grab the beers and go back into the living room.

Where I catch Tank checking the score on his phone. He glances up at me with a guilty face as I hand him the beer. “Sorry,” he says, shoving the phone in his back pocket.

“Don’t be. It’s one-zip at the start of the third.” I take a swig of my beer. “I checked, too. But I didn’t see who scored.”

We each take a sip of beer. And then we glance at each other. “You think…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Should we just check in?” My gaze jumps to the remote control sitting on the TV.

Tank stands up and grabs it. He tosses it to me, and I have the game pulled up on ESPN before you can say rabid hockey fans.

“Damn. Palacio is skating with Trane,” Tank says.

“Where’d they put Huizing?”

“I don’t know. Hang on.”