His eyes widen. “Really? I hate that part.”
“Of course. That’s on page two of the instructions.” I get the paperwork out of my bag and set it on the coffee table. “Hey—I should check to see if the money Jason sent was picked up.” I pull out my laptop. “It’s for some lady in Minnesota. His family, maybe?”
Bayer shakes his head. “That kid is such a fucking martyr.”
“How’s that?”
“Well…” Bayer frowns, as if he’s not sure if he should say. “If he’s sending money to Minnesota, it’s for the dead girlfriend’s mother. She treats him like an ATM.”
“His dead…” I can’t bring myself to say it.
Bayer’s eyes widen. “You don’t know that story?” He shakes his head. “It’s not mine to tell. But it explains a lot about that boy. He’s only twenty-five, but he thinks it’s totally fine to be alone.” Bayer waves a hand around his apartment. “This is where he’ll be. Paying someone to bring him home from the hospital after his last knee surgery.”
“Hey! You’re not paying me.”
“Sure I am.”
“No way, dude.” He gives me that smile that so many people do—the one that implies I’ve said something cute. Usually it drives me crazy, but somehow I don’t mind when it comes from him. “I was never billing you for this. We’re friends, right?”
He tips his head to the side and considers me. “Yeah, we are. You’re a great friend, Heidi Jo Pepper. I just hope that dumbass Castro gets his head out of his ass and tells you how he really feels.”
I have no response, because I can’t imagine that Jason has anything to say to me on the subject. “I need to run now. You need anything, you text me.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Don’t take any risks with that knee, okay? I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Got it.” He salutes me. “Go forth and conquer the shops of Brooklyn.”
So I do. An hour later I’m standing in a tailoring shop in Brooklyn Heights, picking up a dress for Ariana, the team massage therapist. “You’re a lifesaver, Heidi!” she’d said when I confirmed her request.
Hey, maybe I’m not curing cancer, but at least I make busy people happy.
As I wait for the tailor to charge my credit card, I get a text message from my sister Jana. The blogs love Jason Castro. And he sure is nice to look at!
My heart ricochets. There can’t be another picture of Jason and me, can there?
I click on the link, and it takes me to a blog called Puckrakers. The first thing that loads is the headline, “Hockey’s Latin Lover Strikes Again.”
I roll my eyes. That’s so trite, and racist, too. But when the photo snaps into focus on the screen, I gasp for a completely different reason. My sister was right—it’s a very attractive photo of Jason. Except that he’s arm-in-arm with a gorgeous brunette. He’s smiling at her, while she eyes the camera with laughing eyes.
I want to punch her in the throat. No—scratch that. I want to punch Jason in the throat. Or maybe the nuts. Because according to the caption, this photo was taken on Sunday night, after the Chicago game.
A mere twenty-four hours after I handed him the remote control to my entertainment center.
“Um, miss?" The tailor’s assistant is staring at me, possibly because I’ve begun growling like an angry honey badger.
“Yes?” I snap.
The poor thing slides my credit-card slip across the counter with a wary expression. I sign it hastily, thank her, and leave the store.
Breathe, I coach myself as I step outside. The October air is cool and fresh, and I can see lower Manhattan in the distance across the river. Nothing has changed. It doesn’t matter.
This was inevitable, really. He warned me. I slept with him, anyway. I made that choice, and now I’ll have to live with it.
I don’t, however, have to like it.
21
Jason
To make it in professional sports, you have to drink your own Kool-Aid. You have to invent your winning narrative and never question it. That puck isn’t going into the net if I don’t believe it will. The game can’t be won unless I believe it’s possible.
In Denver, I believe.
And I’m en fuego. Now that I’m back to believing that the puck can find my stick and then the net, it does. Twice. I feel unstoppable in the third period. I run the opponent so ragged that Campeau gets his first goal of the season.
Tonight is Silas’s victory, too. Coach is putting him in goal more often and resting Beacon, our star goalie. To make it to the playoffs again, we’ll need depth everywhere.
And it all feels possible.
“Everything is right with the world,” I say to my roommate as we touch beer glasses in the hotel bar.
“It was a good night for Apartment 302,” Silas agrees. “I’m so tired, though. Can’t wait to go home tomorrow. The apartment will be clean, because Esme is back from Puerto Rico. And the groceries will be stocked, because Heidi is a goddess.”
“Mmm,” I say, picturing Heidi’s face for the millionth time. It’s been three days now and I still can’t stop thinking about her. The idea of her flitting around our apartment is surprisingly appealing.
I know I gave her a whole speech about one-and-done. But now that seems hasty. It doesn’t help that I’m full of post-game adrenaline. I’d like to exorcise this buzzy feeling in my veins by getting her very naked and demonstrating my appreciation.
I pull out my phone and text her. Thanks again for helping with my Western Union thing. The recipient got the cash and is happy. Also I forgot to tell you that my nephew loved the bear.
She doesn’t respond right away. A couple of women approach Silas and me, asking for autographs.
“Great game,” says the smiliest one. “Well done tonight.”
“Thanks,” I say, signing her cocktail napkin. “It was fun.”
I don’t invite her to sit down, though. Any other night I might have, but I’m waiting for a text from Heidi and nobody else will do.
It takes a while until I can check my phone for Heidi’s response. When I finally read it, I’m instantly disappointed. She wrote: Glad to hear it.
“Four words?” I yelp, staring at the screen.
“What’s the matter?” Silas says, waving down the bartender for a check.
“Nothing.” I shove the phone in my pocket. “Let’s call it a night. I’m so tired I can’t feel my legs.”
I can’t believe Heidi didn’t comment on our victory. Didn’t she tell me to beat Denver? And didn’t I just make Denver cry?
What is going on in that girl’s head? Maybe I’ll go upstairs and call her.
“You know it’s after one in the morning in Brooklyn,” Silas says as he slides off the barstool. I swear he reads my thoughts.
“Oh. Shit. And get out of my brain.”
He grins. “You are so goddamn entertaining. I should sell tickets.”
“Fuck you,” I say, and he laughs so hard I want to smack him.
We land Thursday at one p.m., and there’s a meeting with the offensive coordinator at three. So I only have time for lunch and for dropping my luggage off in my sparkling apartment.
Heidi isn’t there. But I leave her a note on the coffee table. We’re home! I’d love to catch up with you. Text me if you want to catch up later.
Hours pass, and I get no response. None.
I don’t make it home again until evening, because the guys drag me out for a fried-chicken dinner. I text Heidi to see if she wants to meet us at the restaurant.
Again—no response.
After the check is paid, the boys want to head over to the whiskey bar. “I’m beat,” I tell them, peeling off from the group.
“Night, weakling,” O’Doul says with a laugh.
I don’t even give him the finger. I just walk home by myself. When I open the apartment door, the living room is dark, and I only hear silence. My disappointment is swift and fierce.
But then I spot a glow of light coming from the open door to my bathroom. Hope springs up inside my chest so fast I can’t even believe it.