Overnight Sensation(45)

My heart skips a beat. “Did you see who?”

“One of the forwards. Not Trevi.” He shrugs. “I think it was that Spanish guy. Castro?”

“He’s not Spanish,” I say without thinking. “His dad is half Brazilian and half Cuban American.” Okay, that’s too much information. Aren’t I the perfect little fan girl?

“Okay?” Eric just blinks at me. “Mighta been him.”

“I’m just going to powder my nose before dessert,” I say brightly. “Back in a jif!”

Eric stands up when I do, because he’s been taught how to treat a woman right.

As long as she has her clothes on.





16





Jason


Trevi, O’Doul, and I stay after practice. The two of them skate up and down the rink, sending me about a thousand passes, which I return as fast as possible. When we run out of pucks, we collect them all and start the whole thing over again.

“You know,” O’Doul starts. “I think you—”

I hold up a hand. “Let’s not talk about my failings for one whole afternoon. I just want to work out and feel my way through it.”

Maybe Hot Pepper was only blowing off steam when she said that everyone should shut up and wait for muscle memory to work its magic on me. Or maybe she’s some kind of fucking oracle, because if one more person tries to fix me, I won’t be responsible for my actions.

“Okay.” O’Doul suddenly shuts his trap and gets ready for another pass. And then another dozen. When I wear him out, Trevi steps in to play.

By the time we’re done, I’m exhausted and starving. “You guys are the best. Let’s shower and get some food. My treat.”

But the two of them go off to spend the evening with their womenfolk, so I end up treating Silas to takeout instead.

We’re sitting in the living room eating spicy chicken and watching our rivals lose to Tampa. Just like old times. Except I have this niggling feeling I can’t shake. Like something’s missing.

Or someone. Heidi isn’t here. She’s out on her date. I got a look at that guy who showed up in a suit to take her for dinner. Mr. Straight and Narrow, with his shiny penny loafers and his boring tie.

He’s bad in bed, I remind myself. Although it’s unclear why I care in the first place.

I shove some more noodles in my mouth and try not to wonder if she’s going home with him tonight. Lord knows it’s none of my business.

My phone vibrates with a text. From her. It’s like I conjured her up with my inappropriate speculation.

I just have one question, she writes.

Eight inches, I reply, just to be a tool.

OMG, stop. She adds an eye-roll emoji.

Aren’t you out on a date right now? I ask. I’ll bet charm school frowns on texting another man when you’re on a date.

Charm school can bite me, Heidi replies, and I let out a bark of laughter. Just answer my question. What time did you write down for the Zamboni pool?

Why? Does it matter?

It does to me.

Where are you right now? Are you coming home?

I can’t believe I went there.

I’m in the ladies’ room at Peter Luger, and I have to get back to my date. What did you bet?

14 minutes. If you coulda just been 27 seconds faster, I wouldn’t have lost my 20 bucks to the rookie.

“Who are you texting?” Silas asks from the other end of the couch. He takes a leg off the coffee table and swings it over to give my thigh a nudge, because only goalies are that flexible. “You’re smiling like a goober.”

Sorry about the money! I’ll make it up to you.

I put the phone down to save myself from asking how she’d like to make it up to me. And because Silas is giving me a smug look. “It’s Hot Pepper, right? You always look like a goober when you’re thinking about her.”

I rest my head back on the sofa’s back and close my eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what? State the obvious? Can you fall for a girl when she’s driving a Zamboni? No, wait—I think you fell for her when she was beating me and Bayer at darts.”

“News flash. I’m not falling for anybody.” I used to think of Silas as an easygoing roommate. I don’t anymore.

“You say that, but—” My phone rings in my hand. The phone number of the caller is blocked. Nonetheless I answer it so fast that Silas laughs. What if Heidi needs rescuing from her date? “Hello?”

“Jason.” The voice on the other end is slurred by both alcohol and tears. Fuck. It’s not Heidi, thank God. But it’s a call that I dread nonetheless. “Honey. How are you?” the older woman asks.

“I’m well, Jolene. And you?” I hold in my sigh, because I know what’s coming.

Her sob is loud and broken. “It’s that time of year again. When I feel so blue! It’s gonna be bad this time. I just know it.”

Fuck.

It is that time of year again. I always struggle in the fall, too. Although Jolene is the kind of person who leans into tragedy. The first moment I met her I knew she was trouble. Jolene—my high school girlfriend’s mother—is a hundred and two pounds of narcissism with a raging addiction to alcohol on the side.

“Me too, Jolene,” I say. I’ve learned that agreeing with her is the quickest path to freedom.