Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(32)

A thirty-year-old woman shouldn’t be as confused as I am right now.

But lately I see Tank wherever I turn. Today I was minding my own business, reading the sports headlines, and there was a photograph of a sweaty Tank taking off his helmet after this morning’s practice. “Rumors Circulate After Tankiewicz’s Departure From Dallas,” screamed the headline.

Some of the trashier blogs are still trying to tie his divorce to his trade. It’s just clickbait. My own curiosity shames me.

None of it has a thing to do with me, I remind myself as I trudge through Brooklyn. He’s not my client. And he isn’t my boyfriend. It doesn’t matter if I was half in love with him at twenty-one. It doesn’t matter if I still find him more exciting than any man on Tinder. There’s no fairy godmother who can wave all the obstacles away. I don’t really believe in those fairytales that I love so much.

I make my own luck, and always have.

Looking for a distraction, I pull out my phone to see if Eric had any late-day questions for me. And sure enough, there’s a text. You had a delivery. The courier didn’t say who this was from. But your name and our office address were on the card.

There’s a photo of a balloon bouquet. I’m your number one fan, each balloon reads.

Oh, Tank. You make it so hard to stay away from you.

I shove my phone in my bag and keep on walking.





The next day I sit down for a business meeting in Manhattan with a lip-balm company. Getting sponsorship deals for my clients is one of the ways I grow their paychecks. Last year I landed a lucrative wristwatch sponsorship for Jason Castro. I’ve also been talking to a menswear company about their hand-tailored trousers—the kind that fit over muscled hockey-player butts.

My job is pretty weird, in an awesome way.

Today’s meeting is about beeswax lip balm, the trendiness of organics, and the many faces of sport. The female executive is eyeing an eight-by-ten glossy photo of Silas. She lets out a contented little sigh. “He’ll do.”

“Right?” I say, clapping my hands. “He has a handsome face and a lovely personality. You’ll never regret working with the nicest goalie in sports.”

The fact that he’s dating a superstar goes unsaid, but it doesn’t hurt Silas’s appeal that his face has begun turning up on red carpets and in paparazzi shots. If the kid can earn an extra hundred grand stumping for organic lip balm, he should take it. Fame is mostly a pain in his ass.

“I’ll send you a contract tomorrow,” she says.

“Excellent. Can I bend your ear about one more thing?”

“Sure.” She folds her hands on the desktop. “Although we’ve found all the athletes we need at this point. We have a downhill skier, a marathoner, and now a hockey player.”

“I get that. But I saw on your website that you’re bringing out some tinted lip products this spring, so I thought you should see these ladies.” I grab another folder out of my bag and quickly place four photos on the desk.

“These aren’t professional headshots,” she says, looking them over.

“You’re right. Every one of these women is a professional hockey player. And here’s the thing—these women are the most underpaid professional athletes in the world. Their salaries are around fifteen thousand dollars a year. It doesn’t even cover their rent. You don’t know their faces, because women’s hockey is, like, the redheaded stepchild of the sports world.”

She looks up at me, frowning. “Fifteen thousand dollars? That’s criminal.”

“The league is struggling. But think about the demographics. Hockey for young girls is growing faster than boys’ hockey. And your products appeal to sporty girls, right? Besides—hiring these women for a single day’s photoshoot will elevate a sport that the world needs to see. And it makes you guys look like heroes for supporting women’s sports.”

“Interesting,” she says slowly.

“There’s so much misogyny in hockey,” I say. “But that will change. You could be a leader, and it won’t cost you much. A female athlete costs less than an Instagram influencer. Think about it.”

“I will,” she promises. “May I keep these shots?”

“Absolutely. I wrote their names on the back. And if you go to my website, you can see all the women I represent.”

I leave the meeting feeling pretty pleased with myself. Silas is getting his sponsorship, and I got to say my piece for women’s hockey.

On the corner of Sixth Avenue, I watch the tourists swarm Radio City and wonder what else I should do with my day. I pull out my phone and text Henry Kassman. Any chance we could grab a coffee? It’s been too long.

To my surprise, I get a response before I’ve walked a block. Come meet with me, Bess. We need to talk.

That sounds ominous. Henry and I usually communicate through hockey memes. But it’s not like I’m going to turn the man down. He sends me an address on East 61st street, and I head right over there. It turns out to be an apartment building, and the doorman sends me up to the penthouse suite.

I’ve never been to Henry’s home. I didn’t even know the man had one. He basically lives in the office. Odd that he’s here on a weekday afternoon.

When I knock on the door, it’s opened by a smiling young woman in a nurse’s uniform. “Come right this way. Henry!” she calls. “You have a visitor! Henry loves visitors.”