Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(79)

Thirty-Two





Another Epiphany





Bess





When the buzzer goes off at the end of the Dallas game, Tank looks gloriously, transcendently happy. I hadn’t known his face could smile that wide.

The final score is 4-1 in favor of Brooklyn. That asshole Palacio managed to flick one past Silas in the third period, but it was still a major victory, and everyone in the increasingly quiet stadium knew it.

“Let’s hustle,” Becca says, tugging on my arm after the buzzer. “We have a party to set up.”

“You’re not going to stay and give a statement?” I ask.

“Nah. Georgia is handling it. The press doesn’t need to hear any posturing from the owner tonight. Let Tank have the last word. Besides, someone has to make sure the cheese is hot and the beer is cold.”

“I like the way you think,” her husband says. “This way, ladies. The car is waiting.”





I’m whisked to the Ritz-Carlton bar by the Rowley-Kattenbergers. The hotel staff fall all over themselves to serve Rebecca, so it takes shockingly little effort on our part to set everything up.

“I can’t believe you ordered these!” I say, holding up a napkin. It says: Congratulations! We knew you could make Dallas cry. “What were you going to do if we lost?”

“Put ’em back on the jet for the March matchup.” Becca shrugs. “But I didn’t have to, did I? Excuse me!” She waves down the hospitality manager. “Could you bring out about four times as much queso dip as I asked you for? I bragged about it to my hockey players, and we can’t let them down.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says sweetly.

I finish laying out the napkins, while Becca inspects the bar setup. “Well.” She claps. “This will be fun. I might run up to my room and fix my lipstick. They could be another forty minutes.”

“Go for it,” I encourage. “I’m going to check my email. You never know who’s having a weeknight calamity.”

After she flits off, I sit down on one of the comfortable banquettes that line our roped-off portion of the bar. It’s supposed to be comfortable, anyway. The sexy, red, lacy thong I bought myself is abrading my ass. Sexy undies are another thing—like heels and makeup—that make me feel like I lost my copy of the Girl Manual. When I’d waltzed into a Brooklyn lingerie shop yesterday and asked for something splashy, I’d simply gone with the salesgirl’s suggestions.

Boy, am I sorry now. Holding a strip of lace between my ass cheeks had sounded like a bad idea at the time, but I’d hoped it was one of those things that would make more sense after I tried it. Like avocado toast or Uber.

But no. That perky little salesperson had steered me wrong. Not only am I uncomfortable, but every time the lace pokes me in the fanny, it reminds me of the other reason I’d come to Dallas. To seduce my man.

He’d looked so wonderful tonight—confident and radiant. Like he’s finally found his footing. I can’t wait to congratulate him. And I wouldn’t want to do anything to dent that big smile.

I shouldn’t have come. No—that’s too harsh. I shouldn’t follow through with my Day 14 seduction. It’s not right to expect something that he may not be able to deliver. It’s not fair. Even if he never suspects.

So I won’t do it. We won’t have sex. He may not like that but…

A tiny, invisible lightbulb goes off over my head. On the way in, I’d seen a store in the hotel lobby. I can buy some condoms, like any other girl who’s planning for a little fun in a hotel bed.

God, why do I make simple things so complicated?

I spring up off the banquette—my panties abrading me again—and head for the lobby store. Five minutes later I have a three-pack of Trojans in my purse, and I’m feeling so much better about myself that it isn’t even funny.

In the lobby, I plop down to check my messages. There’s nothing much there, thanks to Eric, so I use some of my spare time for people-watching.

A couple walks in through the revolving doors, and I watch them pause to take in their surroundings. The man is carrying a sleepy, preschool-aged child, and when he spots the check-in desk, he turns to his wife. They execute a complicated handoff, because the little boy is floppy and tired.

His mama speaks softly to him as she carries him over to the sofa across from mine and sits down. “There we go,” she says, stroking his hair as she settles against the cushions.

He rolls, curling up into a sleepy ball on her lap, adjusting his head as if her thigh were a pillow.

They’re so cute that I’m smiling like a fool. He has copper-colored skin, and lush, dark eyelashes that brush his round cheeks as he dozes. And—this is the kicker—he’s wearing a Dallas jersey over skinny black jeans.

And? The jersey says Tankiewicz.

My heart thumps a little faster, and I realize several things, one right after the other. First, there’s no joy greater than buying shrimpy clothing for shrimpy people. And shrimpy hockey jerseys are the ultimate item in my opinion.

Second, Tank must see little kids wearing the Tankiewicz jersey all the time. He’s probably been looking at them for years and wondering why he’s the only one in Dallas who doesn’t have a tiny Tankiewicz.