Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(80)

My heart starts to break for him all over again, but then I notice one more thing about this family. Mom and dad are white. And their child isn’t.

Another tiny, invisible lightbulb goes off over my head.

I must be staring, because the mom smiles at me. “He usually has a normal bedtime. We aren’t terrible parents, I swear. Once a year we get hockey tickets, and a hotel room for after.”

“Fun,” I say quickly. But I can’t take my eyes off her beautiful, sleeping child. “Could I…” I stop myself and try to figure out how to phrase the question. “Would it be terribly rude if I asked if he’s adopted?”

Her eyes widen and then warm. “He is. We adopted him in China when he was almost two. Traveling there to bring him home was the most amazing experience I’ve ever had.”

Now I have goosebumps all over my body. “Was it difficult to be placed with a child?”

“Yes and no,” she says. “You need lots of patience, because adoption is slow. There’s so much red tape, and it’s wildly expensive. So you have to be ready for all that. But I really liked the agency we worked with. Would you like their name?”

“I would,” I say slowly. Then I hand my notebook to the woman, along with my pen. She takes it and starts scribbling.

When he was almost two. My chills double down as it hits me. I became motherless at the same age, and then I’d grown up with people who hadn’t really wanted me. Aside from my brother, I’d been nothing but a burden on everyone in my life.

Maybe there’s a child out there somewhere who doesn’t have even that much. A child who’s in an even worse situation.

A child who needs me.

“Here you go.” She hands back my notebook. “My name is Clara, by the way.”

“Thank you, Clara. I’m Bess.”

“I also wrote down my phone number. If you need to talk it through, you call me some night after eight, okay? I’m happy to tell you what I learned.”

“Really?” My voice cracks. “I’d like to do that.”

She smiles at me. “It’s a difficult, wonderful experience. Think it over.”

“There’s no doubt that I will.”

When her husband comes back with room keys a few minutes later, I watch him pick the sleeping boy up off his mother’s lap and tuck him against his chest.

Something clicks into place inside me. Something big.

I pull out a notebook, flip to the first clean page, and start scribbling.





Thirty-Three





Room 412





Tank





“Oh God,” Georgia Trevi says, staring at her phone. “I can’t believe he did that.”

I’m shoving a chip covered in queso into my mouth, so it’s Trevi who has to ask, “What’s the matter, honey?” He looks over her shoulder. “Bart Palacio doesn’t have anything better to do than yap on Twitter?”

“He says: Actually, we won that game. With better referees, and no bad penalty calls, it was 1-0 in our favor.” She groans. “He’s the Donald Trump of hockey.”

“Don’t waste another minute on him,” I say. “He’s not worth it.”

“Tank has a point, baby,” Leo agrees. “Come play darts with me. Looks like Heidi just beat Castro.”

Of course she did.

I shove another chip into my mouth and scan the party. There are throngs of jubilant hockey players and a few wives and girlfriends. But I don’t spot any shockingly red hair anywhere, and I don’t have any messages from Bess on my phone.

That’s strange. I didn’t dream her, did I?

“Hey!” Anton Bayer claps a hand onto my shoulder. “You’re just the man I was looking for.”

“How’s that?”

“I got a song I need to sing for you.”

“A song?” That’s a frightening idea. The man is wearing a guitar, though, so I guess he’s serious. “What did I do to deserve this honor?”

“You beat Dallas, man!” Castro says. “We live for this. You took Palacio down in front of the whole fucking world.”

“Baby Bayer likes to write songs to show his appreciation,” O’Doul explains. “Just roll with it.”

“Okay?” I glance around one more time, hoping to spot Bess, but she’s nowhere in view.

Anton starts strumming an intro. And since I lived in Dallas all those years, I know the song immediately. It’s Deep In the Heart of Texas. But when he starts to sing, I realize he’s changed all the lyrics. “The stars at night are not very bright!”

Right on cue, Castro, Trevi, O’Doul and some others let out the series of four fast claps that come with this iconic song.

“Deep in this parrrrrt of Texas,” sings Anton.

I groan, and everyone else cracks up.

“The locker room has a strange perfume…” Clap clap clap clap. “Deep in this part of Texas.”

“You really shouldn’t have,” I chuckle.

But he keeps on singing.

“They skate too slow and their slapshots blow…” Clap clap clap clap. “Deep in this part of Texas.”