Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(75)

That’s more or less what I expected him to say, so I let out an uncomfortable chuckle. “It’s possible you punched him already at least once.”

“What?” Dave yelps. There’s a brief silence, and I can practically hear him doing the math. “You are not dating a hockey player. You can’t mean that. I haven’t really punched anyone, except Robbie Oswald in the fourth grade.”

“It’s not Robbie Oswald,” I say with a sigh. “Dave, I’m dating a perfectly nice hockey player here in Brooklyn.”

Dave actually moans. “I have to kill one of my teammates?”

“You don’t have to kill anyone. And he was never your teammate. It’s Mark Tankiewicz. The trade from—”

“Dallas?” Dave’s horror practically radiates through the phone. “Bess, nooooo.”

I sigh. This is exactly why I haven’t ever gotten around to telling him about Tank. Dave has a very fierce Big Brother Mode. When it kicks in, we’re eleven and fourteen again. I know Dave can’t really help his reaction. And Big Brother Mode saved my life at one point so I try not to get too irritated.

It doesn’t always work.

“You don’t know Tank,” I say as gently as I can. “But I’ve known him for almost ten years. We were briefly together when I worked for Henry Kassman.”

“How nice a guy could he be?” Dave grunts. “He’s from Dallas.”

“He’s from Washington state,” I correct. “By way of Dallas. And cut it out, because I like him very much. Also? I’m thirty years old. You don’t get a say.”

Dave falls into an unhappy silence, which means I can hear Zara in the background. “Are you getting on Bess’s case? Let me talk to her.”

“Tell Zara I’ll call her tonight,” I say, because I’m crossing under the Manhattan bridge, and both the post office and Brooklyn’s best cookie shop are in view. “I have a meeting in five minutes.”

“That’s why you dropped this bomb right now!” Dave says. “Because you have a meeting in five minutes.”

“Seems like a pretty good decision,” I say drily. “The only acceptable response to me telling you that I’m happy is for you to say, ‘That’s great, and I can’t wait to meet him.’”

Dave sighs. “That’s great,” he says woodenly. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

I laugh out loud. “Nice try. Maybe practice it in a mirror. Later, big brother.”

“Later. I love you,” he says, his voice sullen.

“Back at you.” I disconnect the call and shake my head. I run into the post office and drop off my express-mail envelope, and then hurry over to the coffee shop where the company is not quite so judgmental.

The moment I walk in the door, Becca beckons me toward a table in the corner. After I sit down, she says, “Bess, thank you for coming. I am taking on a big project, and I am going to need some of your wisdom.”

“Does it have to do with my nail color?” I ask, shedding my coat.

She shakes her head. “This is bigger than nail color. Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course!”

“Let the girl buy her coffee first!” Georgia hollers. “What if they sell out of ginger cookies?”

“I don’t mind,” I say. “Just as long as we don’t have to talk about the Dallas game.”

The women make matching faces. “That topic is strictly verboten,” Georgia agrees.

“Nate can’t shut up about it, either,” Becca says. “The players must be so stressed out. Especially Tank.”

“He’s…” I don’t even know what to say, because Tank seems stressed, too. On the one hand, he’s been loving and wonderful since our Come to Jesus conversation ten days ago. But he’s a little quiet, too. I can only hope that Dallas is the reason. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”

“Right,” Becca says, clutching a folder to her chest. “Let’s talk about my pet project, instead. It was actually you who gave me this idea, and I haven’t been able to let it go.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. And then my husband, who’s still trying to teach me to think like a billionaire. I must be getting better at it, because I’m about to bring professional women’s hockey to Brooklyn.”

I let out an honest-to-God fangirl shriek. “You’re kidding! Becca, don’t tease me.”

“Oh, I’m not. See?” She opens the folder and pushes it toward me. There’s a page full of sketches with various logos and team names. The Brooklyn Bottle Rockets. The Brooklyn Beasties. The Brooklyn Breakaway. “What do you think?”

“Wow,” I breathe. “This is everything! Are you buying out one of the women’s teams?” Women’s pro hockey is so small—just five teams—and every one of them is hanging on by their fingernails.

“Nope.” She shakes her head. “I want to fund a new one. It would be the first women’s team to enjoy the training staff and facilities of a men’s pro team. It won’t be a moneymaker, but that’s not even the point. Nate’s original goal was to bring excellent hockey to Brooklyn. And that’s what we’re doing, right?”