Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(74)

I don’t do it. But that familiar voice is right there, at the front of my consciousness. I wonder if Bess will do the same math, too. If she’ll come to bed naked on the fourteenth night, feeling hopeful.

She wouldn’t bring it up, of course. She knows the drill, and she wouldn’t willingly put me in that position. But it’s easy to imagine a scenario where we’re both secretly hoping for a happy little surprise.

I mean—what if it just happened? Then Bess would never have to make any sacrifices for me. What if—just once—my swimmers made contact the same way that other guys’ do every flipping day. What if Bess is one of those women who gets pregnant on the first try, never miscarries, and never even gets morning sickness?

What if. What if. What if.

I could drive myself crazy like this. No, it’s worse than that. I could drive us both crazy.

Closing my eyes, I force myself to take a slow breath. My happiness feels more tenuous than it did an hour ago. We’re not doing this, I remind myself. Yet I don’t know how to silence that little voice in my head that whispers: Wouldn’t it be funny if Bess got pregnant?

That little voice isn’t going anywhere. But that doesn’t mean I have to listen to it. That’s my new job, isn’t it? Shutting off that voice and being happy with what I have.

She’s sleeping now. She’s unbothered by getting her period. This is not a tragedy. It’s just a Thursday. I need to keep telling myself that.

There’s a book pregnant women read called What to Expect. My ex-wife bought a copy about ten minutes after her first ill-fated positive pregnancy test. That book is probably on a shelf somewhere in my old house in Dallas. We never really needed it.

Instead, I need a book called How to Stop Expecting.

I wish the apartment I was buying only had one bedroom in it. It’s like I’m saving the other one for a ghost.





Thirty





Big Ideas





Bess





January


The Dallas game is three days away, and the team has already left town. They’re playing Colorado first, but everyone in my life is focused on Dallas. And I mean everyone.

Jason Castro is blowing up my phone to ask if I have an opinion about which brand of strawberry jam is the luckiest one in Texas. And my brother won’t stop texting, asking how practice has been going.

“Do you think the Dallas offense looked a little shaky in last night’s game?” Eric asks me as I close my laptop on my desk.

“Definitely,” I lie, just to make him feel better. I need to get out of the office for a few minutes and think about something else. “Where’s that Ringborn contract? I’m going to make a post office run and pick up some coffee.”

“Oh, awesome. Can I have a double espresso and a cookie?” He hands me an express envelope and a five-dollar bill.

“You can have a single espresso, because you’re already jumpy. Stop watching videos of Dallas and proofread the Chickie’s contract.”

Eric grunts. “There’s no reason to restrict my caffeine intake while I’m combing through the fine print. That’s a bad strategy.”

“Fine. I’ll bring you a triple espresso if you stop talking about the Dallas game for the rest of the day.”

“Deal.” He opens the contract file.

“I’ll be about an hour, though,” I warn. “I’m meeting the girls for coffee.”

His head snaps up. “You mean Rebecca? Does she have any news about—”

I hold up a hand. “What did we just talk about?”

Eric clamps his jaws together and waves me out of the room. “Go already. Come back with coffee. And some news.”

“Can’t guarantee the news. But I will bring you that cookie.”

He gives me a smile and turns back to his work.

I head outside, pulling my coat tightly around me as the Water Street breeze hits me full force. It’s January, and the wind off the river is icy.

When I pull out my phone to check the time, I see that my brother has called again. He’s also sent a text. How are things looking for the Dallas game?

Not you, too! After I let out a groan, though, I realize I need to talk to Dave. So I tap on his name and return his call.

“Hey, Bessie!” he says after picking up on the first ring. “How’s business? Do you think my boys are ready?”

“I’m sure they are. But don’t ask, okay? There are eighty-two games this season, but everyone is wound a little too tightly about this one.”

“But how is practice going?” he asks.

“Great,” I promise him. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about, though.”

“Yeah? Do you have some intel on the Dallas injuries?”

“No, blockhead. It’s not about hockey.”

“Oh,” he says, and I can hear him wondering what could possibly matter more than hockey. “What, then?”

I take a deep breath and then let it out. “I’m dating someone.”

“Dating someone,” he echoes. And then he’s silent for a moment. “Nice. Can I meet him? I promise not to punch whoever it is. But I might need to threaten him just a little bit, so he understands that I’m lethal if he’s not good to you.”