Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(41)

“So you want to know if any of the rumors are true?” It comes out sounding belligerent, which isn’t really fair. Unlike some of the other people prying into my life, it’s actually Georgia’s job to ask if I’m going to create drama for the team.

She studies me with kind eyes. “I’m sorry to even ask, Mark. But if you had anything to tell me, I would hold it in the strictest of confidences.”

“It’s true that I punched my teammate. But there won’t be any bombshells with regard to my divorce. It will be final soon, anyway. Before Halloween.”

“Thank you for telling me,” she says quietly. “That’s pretty fast. Isn’t it?” She winces. “I’m sorry. I don’t know much about divorce.”

“Me neither. But, yeah, I guess it is. My agent made me get a prenup all those years ago. So there’s nothing to haggle over.”

“And you don’t have kids,” she adds.

“Right,” I say a little too quickly. “We don’t even have a fucking dog.”

“Okay. I’m sorry to pry,” she says.

“No, I get it,” I grumble. “Who’s trying to kick up a story, anyway? And why now?”

“It’s, uh, some Dallas blog. Nobody important.”

I pull out my phone anyway. “Lone Star Hockey?”

“Tank.” She puts a hand over the screen of my phone. “Don’t read it.”

“Why not? What could they possibly say about me?”

“It’s not you they’re writing about,” she says quietly.

Wait. What? It takes a second until I understand. “They wrote something about Jordanna? Why?”

“It’s nothing. There’s photos of her dancing with someone at a team benefit.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “Really? At a hockey event?” I’d assumed she’d be happy to be free of the team. Then again, she’s on the board of a children’s charity that does an annual event with the team in September. “Whatever,” I grumble. “She went with a date to some party. It isn’t another player, right?”

Georgia shakes her head sadly. “Just some dude in a suit. They were speculating on who it was, and why she didn’t follow you to New York.”

I run my hands through my hair and sigh. “Yeah, okay. Thanks for telling me.”

“You need anything, you come and find me, okay?” she says.

“Thanks.” I stay in the alcove after she leaves. And I pull out my phone and head for that goddamn blog.

Sure enough, there’s Jordanna dancing with some guy in a bow tie. He’s looking at my ex-wife like he has big plans for her. But Jordanna looks mildly uncomfortable, if I’m honest. Like she can’t quite fake it, and she’s not sure she cares.

I squint for a few moments at a great photo of my ex-wife—her hand is on that guy’s shoulder, and she looks pretty in a violet-colored dress—and I feel…nothing. It’s as if every emotion I had for her got used up or dried out, until there was nothing left but dust.

And I’ll bet she’d say the same about me. If our marriage had a tombstone, it would read, We tried. And if Jordanna has the energy to put on a ball gown and dance with some guy, there’s really no reason why she shouldn’t.

I leave the alcove to hunt down another slice of pizza.





After we eat, the guys take another crack at putting together Delilah’s home recording studio. “Now that I’m actually reading the directions, I think we can figure this out,” Silas says.

“Didn’t I just suggest that a few minutes ago?” Bess asks, giving him a playful slap on the back of the head.

“Hush,” Castro says. “It’s hard for a man to admit he needs to read the instructions.”

“Especially when he’s naturally good with his hands,” Silas says, smirking.

“TMI,” Georgia says. “Somebody put me to work. Which piece goes on next?”

“All of them,” O’Doul says, reading over Silas’s shoulder. “But we need somebody inside this thing, applying pressure to the frame while we all screw in the panels.”

“I’ll do that,” I volunteer, stepping into the center of the frame. “You guys can trap me inside where I won’t be able to hear you mock my Texas beer.”

Silas laughs. “Fine. Actually, we need two people, one to lean on each side.”

“Bess will help,” I say before anyone else gets a chance to speak up. “She’s just standing there drinking a non-Texas beer.”

She gives me a grumpy look. But then she puts down her beer and steps into the sound booth with me.

“Maybe we need one of these for the office,” Bayer quips, a screwdriver in his hand. “Bess needs privacy for when she’s dropping the hammer on the GMs during contract renegotiations.”

“Good call.” Bess turns her back to me, while O’Doul and Castro each lift a panel into place.

“I’ll get the last one,” the rookie Anton says. “Bess, if you use your tuchus to brace the end-piece, you can use a hand for each panel.”

“Good idea,” she says. “This backside should be good for something.”

It’s a reflex when I open my mouth to make a joke. Because I have quite a few uses for Bess’s ass. But her glare silences me just in time.