Uh-oh. Have I fucked up yet again? “What? You don’t like hockey?”
She gulps. “Bitch, I’m Canadian. Of course I like hockey. I love hockey. You can’t tell me you know Blake Riley.”
I shrug. “Of course I do. All my Toronto friends are on the hockey team.”
“All. Your. Friends,” she repeats slowly.
“What, like that’s weird?”
Slowly, Violet’s wide eyes track upwards, over my head. “Oh God.” She puts both hands to the sides of her face and gasps.
A deafening sound booms down from above. “Yo! J-Babe! What are we drinking?”
Blake has arrived. But I can’t take my eyes off Violet, because something is very wrong with her. She’s holding on to her face, and her mouth has flopped open. She’s doing Edvard Munch’s Scream, basically. It’s so unusual that I’m instantly uneasy.
“Hey, are you okay?” Why would she hold on to her face? Is there weakness there? “Are you…stroking out?”
Shit! What are the signs of stroke? Facial drooping, difficulty speaking! Check and check!
But then she thrusts a hand out. “Blake Riley! I’m a huge fan of your work. That overtime goal against Pittsburg in the playoffs was seminal to my existence.”
I make a note to look up seminal later. That word must have two meanings. I only know one.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Blake says, reaching around me to shake hands with typical Blake-like enthusiasm.
I turn to greet him, and he’s so close behind me that we’re suddenly face to face. Big, green eyes blink into mine. And, damn it, a sizzle shoots through my chest, tingling through all the various veins and arteries. And maybe even my capillaries, if I knew where those were.
“Hi,” I say stupidly.
He winks. “How’s it hangin’, J-Babe?”
“Not bad. You?”
He makes a face and claps a hand on his thick neck. “Got a crick right here. It’s nothing a beer won’t fix.” He turns away, waving a hand. “Lisa! Une beer avec moi!”
“That’s not proper French,” I point out.
“Baby, I’m very proper when I French.” He grabs my ass on the bar stool, and I slap his hand away.
“Don’t squeeze the Charmin, dude.” I’m still watching Violet carefully, because she’s not quite back to normal.
Her eyes are still twice their usual size, although she’s talking now. “How on earth do you two know each other?”
“Well, Jess is fun people,” Blake explains, patting me on the back. “And I like to have fun. Also, her brother is married to my teammate.”
Violet grabs her chest, so now I’m thinking the trouble might be cardiac arrest. “Wait—do you mean Ryan Wesley? You’re…” Her eyes practically roll back in her head. “That kind of Canning? Your brother is one half of Wesmie?”
“Wesmie is a stupid name,” I insist, taking a slug of my beer.
And here I’d spent all this time thinking Violet was smart. But she’s been rendered speechless by the appearance of Blake Riley, who is now explaining that he’d coined the Wesmie term.
“Always knew I’d go viral some day,” he remarks, stroking his chin. “I thought it would probably be a sex tape, or for eating twenty saltines in way under thirty seconds. But you can’t choose the way you change popular culture. It chooses you. Je suis un elefant élégante.”
She gapes at him.
“Hey, Jessie!”
I turn and find Wes at my shoulder. With a smile, he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “I can only stay for one beer. Told Jamie I’d skate with his team at practice tonight. But I have a half-hour to spare.”
“Aw!” I hug Wes. “That’s so nice. Those kids will be pumped up.”
“Sure, ’til I make ’em do suicide sprints.” He gives an evil laugh. “Who needs a beer?”
Violet’s hand shoots into the air, stick straight, fingers tensed.
“Easy, Hermione,” I mutter. “Classes ended an hour ago.”
I regret the words as soon as they’re out, because Violet actually looks sheepish, which I didn’t think was possible on her know-it-all face. So I introduce her to Wes, who buys her a beer, and then to Lemming, who strolls up a few minutes later. Violet almost faints for the third time in ten minutes, but I’m over it now.
“We’re heading for Montreal next week for a preseason series,” Wes says, tossing cash onto the bar.
“Is that why Blake is pretending to speak French?”
“That would be my guess. Hey—check out evil roomie’s face.”
I steal a glance at Violet, who is rapt. Lemming is holding her hand in both of his, whispering to her. “Who knew?”
Blake enters the conversation with a snort. “It’s a basic law of chemistry. Every chick wants a hockey player.”
“Not hardly,” I argue. “And I did well in chemistry.”
“Kids,” Wes warns. “Play nice.”
I drink my beer. And then Blake offers me another one, which I accept because he’s rich and I’m a poor student who is nice enough to cook his dinner some nights.
“What are you drinking?” he asks. When I tell him, he makes a face. “Let’s upgrade you. Yo, Lisa!”