Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(51)

The door buzzer goes off, and I leap a foot into the air, because I’m standing right beside it.

“Sounds like your food is here,” Eric says. “Come on, boys. Let’s let the lady have breakfast.”

“Can I call you when you land?” I ask Castro. “We’ll talk about your photo op.”

“Sure,” he says quickly. “No problem.” He follows Eric and Anton down the stairs.

Tank emerges from my bedroom in workout clothes, just in time to tip the deliveryman. I close the door and lean against it like I’m trying to shut out the world.

“You okay?” Tank asks, pulling food items out of the paper bag and setting them on the coffee table that I finally purchased with Rebecca’s help.

“Yup,” I say quickly.

He looks up, studying me with those clear green eyes. “I’m sorry, Bess. I know you’re a private person.”

I sit down beside him on the sofa and sigh. “That’s a nice way of putting it. ‘Private person’ sounds better than ‘paranoid and prudish.’”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says.

“I know.” It’s true, even if my terrified heart doesn’t always believe it.

“Plus, I’m totally worth it.” He hands me a cup of coffee and then gives me a sexy smile.

“You really are,” I say quietly, and that feels even bigger than telling the whole world that Tank and I spend our free time together. I don’t usually tell Tank how I feel, because I’m afraid I won’t hear the same words back.

He sets his coffee down. “I’m gonna miss you when I’m gone, you know.”

My heart does a happy dance. “Same.”

“You’re off to Vermont tomorrow, right?”

“Eventually.” He pulls me in for a hug, and I sink luxuriously into it. “I guess I have to tell my brother that you and I have been hanging out. Because those boys are going to gossip. It’s only a matter of time.”

He chuckles, and I love the feel of his laughter against my chest. Making Tank laugh is basically my second favorite hobby. After stripping him naked. “Should I watch my back? Is Dave going to come for me?”

“Probably not.”

“Can you put better odds on it? I need to plan my month.” He kisses my forehead.

“Fifteen percent chance he kills you. Twenty percent of a maiming. Sixty percent chance you just get the stink eye for eternity.”

“And the remaining five percent?”

“Survey error.”

He laughs again. “Let’s eat these sandwiches while they’re still hot, okay? Might as well have a good meal before I die.”

“Good idea.”

“Did you happen to see who won the Caps game last night?” he asks.

“Philly. And Toronto took the Canes.”

“Really?” His eyes widen as he bites his sandwich.

I describe how the defense suffered, giving Toronto too many scoring opportunities, while he nods along. And I try not to fall any more in love than I already am.





Twenty-Two





Bad Juju





Tank





On the road, we have a morning off in Anaheim, so Coach puts an “optional” morning skate on the schedule.

If you’re me, that shit isn’t optional. The new guy who isn’t setting the world on fire yet can’t take the morning off. So I show up, skate hard, and then hit the weight room at the hotel where we’re staying.

Hotel workout rooms are a pretty mixed bag. Sometimes you find four pitiful stationary bikes and a handful of dumbbells. But this is California, where people care about fitness, and the place is equipped with two solid benches and two squat racks, both with a perfectly adequate number of plates.

I claim a squat rack and fish out my phone to put on some tunes. When you’re the first guy into the weight room, you get to pick the music. It’s one of those unwritten rules of the gym, along with wiping your sweat off the bench and replacing the weights on the rack when you’re done.

Moving my body feels good. I don’t think I could have made it through the last five months without skates, weights, and sweat. Today I’ve got “Aint No Man” by the Avett Brothers on the Bluetooth speakers, because that song always reminds me to keep my chin up.

So it doesn’t sit well with me when Anton—the young defenseman—starts trash-talking my music while we’re taking turns on the squat rack. “What is this…Texas music? I’m not sure we can have Texas music in the gym. It’s bad juju. We got that Dallas game coming up in January. We gotta stay sharp.”

I let out a beastly grunt as I rise out of my last squat, and then let the barbell drop onto the supports with a clang. “Fuck.” That set almost killed me, and it makes me feel old. “Pretty sure the Avett Brothers are from North Carolina. Which is nowhere near Texas.”

Anton towels off his hands and then shakes his head. “I hear a Texas twang. It’s a fact.”

“Uh-huh.” I roll my eyes.

“Say—you don’t have those little green underwear anymore, right?”

“Sorry?” I lean over to stretch out my quads.