Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(58)

“Hot damn.” Zara punches the air with her fists, one at a time. “I’m good at this. Running other people’s lives is so exciting! I never knew.”

“Oh, you totally knew,” her brother Benito says, walking past our table. “You’ve been bossing me around since birth.”

“He had it coming,” she says without turning around. Then she gives me a huge smile. “What color is his hair?”

“What?” It takes me a second to realize she means Tank’s. “It’s brown, why?”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter, but I read an article about the genetics of red hair. Supposedly, globalization means that gingers will go extinct within a hundred years.”

“Shut the front door,” I say. “That’s ridiculous.”

Zara shrugs. “Apparently it isn’t. Redheads are only two percent of the population, and only four to five percent carry the gene. But I’m doing my share, Bess. I’m here to carry on the line with your brother.”

“My people are grateful.”

“Step up, Bess,” she says, teasing me. “Do your part.”

“I’ll try,” I promise.





Twenty-Four





I Want Tex-Mex





Tank





Come over at seven? We can order Indian Food.

Sitting on the weight bench in the gym, I pump my fist. I’ve been waiting for Bess’s text all day, and when it finally arrives, I’m elated. It’s been eight long days since I’ve seen her.

“Something happen? What did I miss?” Silas Kelly is watching me with a grin on his face. He crosses the room and drops down onto a mat to stretch.

“Aw, it’s nothing,” I say, tucking my phone under the bench and leaning back for another set of warm-up presses.

“I think I made that same face a half hour ago when Delilah said she’d be home tonight by eight.” Silas folds himself in half as he says this, because goalies are all made of rubber.

“Yeah,” I grunt. “It’s been a long road trip.”

“TV, takeout food, and sex,” Silas says. “That’s what everyone on the team will be doing tonight.”

“Not me,” Anton says, strutting into the room. “I’m too tired to find a playmate. I’m going to be face down on the sofa, watching reruns and shoving Doritos into my facehole.”

“Sexy,” Silas teases.

I do another light set of presses and then sit up again. I return Bess’s text. What if you leave the food to me? I want Tex-Mex. I’ll make it happen. And then I add, Can’t wait to see you. Because it’s a hundred percent true.

Rationally, I know it’s way too soon to jump into a relationship. When I told Bess I was never getting married again, I meant it.

But a few hours later I’m standing outside her apartment building at five minutes to seven, pressing the buzzer like a junkie who needs his next fix. And it’s hard to remember why I shouldn’t go all in with Bess. Spending time with her is the brightest part of my week.

The door latch releases, and I enter the building and jog up the stairs.

“You’re early!” she calls from the bedroom when I push open her apartment door.

“Sorry! Just a couple minutes.”

“Oh, I don’t care. I just like to bust your chops.” She appears in the doorway, wearing tight jeans and a Colorado Avalanche T-shirt, and my heart thumps a little harder.

“Missed you,” I blurt out.

Her expression softens. “Same here.”

“How was your trip to Vermont?”

“It was good. They always are. What did you bring?” She eyes my two large shopping bags—one in either hand. “How hungry are you, anyway?”

“Very hungry,” I drawl, giving her tight T-shirt a very appreciative glance. “I can’t decide what I want first.”

She gives me a shy smile. “Let me know when you figure it out.”

I carry my bags into her tiny kitchen and set them on the counter. It occurs to me that I should get the dinner started before I seduce and debauch her. I take out a rotisserie chicken, a bunch of tortillas, sauces, toppings and various cheeses. And then I take out the pan that I bought to cook in, because Bess doesn’t own pots and pans. It’s hilarious.

I’m preheating the oven when she comes in, her face full of questions. “What are you doing?”

“Making enchiladas. I can’t find any in New York that taste how I like.”

“Really? I’ll bet there’s authentic Mexican food somewhere in New York.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t want authentic Mexican,” I tell her. “I want Texas Tex-Mex, with gooey yellow cheese all over it.” My stomach rumbles at the thought. “Want to help?”

“Sure,” Bess says. “But I’m the kind of girl who helps by setting the table and keeping the beer cold. If you ask me to dice an onion, be prepared to provide detailed instructions.”

“We all have our strengths. Can you shred up this chicken meat?”

“I can probably manage that.” She grabs a breast and pulls off the skin. “How, uh, small should the pieces be? I don’t know what I’m doing.”