Overnight Sensation(17)

“All right. Thank you.” I sigh. “Could be a long night. I’m pretty sure he’ll be there.”

“Castro? The hottie in the photo? He’s a player, Heidi. I looked him up today.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s in a photo with my baby sister! Why, she asks.” Jana sniffs. “How did you get so drunk?”

“Tequila is the short answer. The longer answer is that Daddy was an ass and I wanted an adventure.”

“An adventure with Jason Castro?”

“Is that so wrong?”

My sister is quiet a moment. “No, I suppose not. But you’re not the one-night-stand type.”

“Who knows if I am or not?” I ask. “Daddy sent me to a college for women only because he obviously hates me. And every boy I ever dated was afraid of Daddy.”

“So? Every boy you ever dated treated you like gold,” my sister argues. “What’s so bad about that?”

Plenty. My high school boyfriend never took me to bed. His fear of my father ran that deeply. He was a hockey player, and therefore dazzled by my father’s pro and coaching careers. Then, while at Bryn Mawr, I dated a college hockey player from the next town over. He’s in awe of Daddy, too. And maybe it’s a coincidence, but when we finally did the deed it was…

Very polite. One might even say perfunctory.

It’s possible that sex isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. But I suspect there’s more to it. When I watch the Bruisers fight like animals for control of the puck, I can’t reconcile all that testosterone with quiet, missionary-style-only-on-Tuesdays lovemaking.

I want to experience that kind of brute power off the ice. My sister doesn’t understand the appeal. She never dated a single hockey player, nor watched a single game that Daddy wasn’t either playing or coaching.

“You’re very wise,” I tell my sister just to appease her. But if Jana can’t understand what I’m looking for in a man, I don’t think I can explain it. A lot of the words I’d need to use aren’t part of the Pepper family vocabulary.

“Nobody slipped anything into your drink last night, did they?”

“What? No! Why would you ask that?”

“Because it’s not like you to get drunk and stupid. Mama will be worried for your virtue.”

We both laugh at that. Because even if Jana and I don’t ever discuss sex, that doesn’t mean we don’t partake. Jana lost her virginity to Dwight Hawkins on prom night her junior year of high school. It took me a little longer.

But since we’re unmarried, my mother actually assumes we’re virgins. It’s probably a willful dismissal of the truth rather than sheer stupidity. My mother is smart. She got straight A’s at Bryn Mawr in Russian Literature. But then she married my father and never spent another hour of her life on Dostoevsky or Tolstoy.

That’s what my parents expect of me, too. A degree in a nice, quiet field. And then suburbs and children.

Is twenty too late to become rebellious?

“I drank tequila, Jana. It was fun so I drank a lot of it. I’m pretty sorry about the whole thing now. But it’s nobody’s fault but my own.”

“Glad to hear that,” she says with a sigh. “Get busy with the eyeliner. Skype me if you run into trouble.”

“Will do.”





Back in my little hotel room after the scrimmage, I spend a lot of time straightening my hair and babying my skin.

“There is no such thing as too much concealer,” I tell my reflection. Then I get to work.

Seventeen cosmetic products later, I look pretty darn good. My hair falls in golden layers around my face. I’m wearing a long, lean cocktail dress in a pale shade that shows off my summer tan. And sparkly shoes, because sparkly shoes make everything better.

Mission accomplished. I look different enough from the girl in that awful photograph that I can hold my head up high.

Tucking a tiny sparkly clutch under my arm, I leave the hotel room with my game face on. And I use my phone to summon a taxi to take me to the beach club where the party will be held.

It’s beautiful here, with manicured lawns and hedgerows as far as the eye can see. The air has a salty scent, and I can hear the distant crash of ocean waves on the beach.

A lovely breeze plays on my shoulders as I climb out of the cab. I hope the party is outside.

And it is—sort of. I follow the signs to a patio strung with fairy lights. I can’t see the beach, because there is a ten-foot hedge surrounding the patio. Hamptonites value their privacy.

“Do you have a ticket, miss?” asks a young man in a waiter’s vest.

“Oh, certainly!” I pop open my clutch and hand over the pass that Rebecca gave me earlier.

“Welcome,” he says. “Can I offer you a complimentary glass of champagne?”

My stomach raises a small objection, but I smile and take one anyway, just as an accessory. “Thank you.”

Dozens of guests are already clustered around the players. I feel a little sorry for our boys. If I’d played hockey all day, I don’t think I’d want to put on a tux and shake hands with season ticket holders.

I do a slow circuit of the patio. There are waiters carrying around silver trays of hors d’oeuvres. I see tiny bites of salmon tartare on rice crackers, and boeuf en cro?te.