Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(43)

Finally Delilah reaches a volume whereby we can hear it faintly outside the booth, and Silas waves with two hands to tell her.

“Wow,” the singer says, opening the door. “I thought I was going to break my eardrums before you could hear it.”

“Now play it out here,” Georgia demands. “Please?”

“I thought we were headed to the wine bar?” Delilah says. “I promised to buy drinks.”

“One song,” Bayer demands.

“Okay, but I don’t want to piss off the neighbors on the first day.” She turns the volume down on her amp.

“But we are the neighbors,” Castro reminds her. “I’d rather hear you play it live, then listen to Silas sing it in the shower.”

“I’m still gonna sing it,” the young goalie says. “Extra loud for you, homeboy.” And then he beams as his girlfriend plays the opening chords to a song I don’t know.

When I sneak a glance at Bess, she’s smiling at the two of them with a look of pure delight on her face. And for a split second, I forget about all the bullshit in my life. My creaky heart warms up at the sight of Bess’s smile.

She’s under my skin, I realize with a start. Not that it’s a welcome feeling. My shitty marriage had me feeling like I got dumped off a cliff. But Bess makes me want to get up and hike back to the top of the mountain.

If only Bess would let me.

Delilah starts singing. And it’s a love song. She’s got a handful of rapt hockey players tapping their feet and smiling.

Even I am not immune to its joys.





Eighteen





They Don’t Call Him the Tank for Nothing





Bess





I shouldn’t have come out to the wine bar. I’m not much of a drinker, but here I am on a barstool in the midst of happy couples, two glasses of chardonnay in and feeling pleasantly tipsy.

Tank was right. It’s not easy to ignore him. One glass of wine made it tricky. Two makes it impossible. He’s at the other end of the bar, talking to Eric, looking sexy as hell.

That settles it. I shouldn’t drink when he and I are in the same zip code. It’s hard enough to stay away from him when I’m sober.

“Bess, don’t you think my face would look good in a shaving ad?” Anton Bayer asks, stroking his jaw. He yells down the bar to his cousin. “Hey, Eric! Why haven’t you gotten me any endorsements, yet?”

Eric stops talking to Tank only long enough to fire back with: “Why haven’t you scored any goals this year yet?”

Anton scowls and turns to me. “Bess, my agent is a hard-ass. I don’t think he should be Employee of the Month anymore.”

“I pay him extra for being a hard-ass,” I say as I swirl the pretty wine in my glass. Wine is my best friend. If wine could get me pregnant, I’d marry it.

“Why don’t hockey players get that many endorsements?” Castro asks. “Serious question. I mean—look at all the money they pay golfers and basketball stars. Hockey players are, like, so much hotter than that.”

Inevitably, my eyes flick down the bar toward Tank, because Castro speaks the truth. But he’s also missing the point. Even when I’m tipsy, I still know my sports business. “Hotness doesn’t sell shoes, Castro. A kid can watch LeBron James win a game in his Nikes. And then he can wear those same shoes to school the next day. I don’t see anyone walking around high school in skates.”

“You would in Canada,” Anton argues. “Totally normal.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, because we all have our own version of normal. “And how large is the population of Canada relative to the US?”

“Half the size?” he guesses.

“Eleven percent,” I say, bursting his bubble. “That also explains the basketball phenomenon.”

“But how do you explain golf?” Castro asks. “It’s the least sexy sport in the world. And nobody wears golf shoes to high school.”

“There are sixty million golfers around the world,” I point out. “They buy five billion dollars’ worth of equipment every year. Golf enthusiasts are four times as wealthy as average earners. And golf is growing by double digits in places like India and China.”

“But golf doesn’t have this face,” Anton argues. He frames his admittedly handsome mug with his hands. “Maybe I should take up golf. Golf needs me.”

“They do, buddy.” I take another gulp of wine and wonder what Eric and Tank are discussing down there. And then Eric catches my eye and beckons.

Okay. I’ll bite. Like I even need a reason to move closer to Tank. I’m so predictable. “S’cuse me, guys,” I say, sliding off the barstool. I must look a little wobbly because Castro catches me and then straightens the angle of my wine glass. “Easy there, Bessie.”

“I’m good,” I insist, and then walk carefully towards Eric and the man with whom I’m trying not to have a fraught and confusing sexual relationship. “Hi, guys. What’s shaking?”

Eric folds his arms across his chest and glances at the man next to him. The one who always makes my panties fall off. “Tank is seeking new representation.”

“I’d heard that,” I say slowly.