Page 118 of Bombshells
Thirty-Nine
Hiberdating
Nashville, June
SYLVIE
I’m wearing a wide-brimmed, floppy sunhat. I keep my head down and my phone pressed to my ear as I roll my suitcase into the hotel lobby.
“Okay, I’m in,” I say, scanning the wide-open space from behind a pair of big sunglasses. “Oh, crap!”
“What’s the matter?” Anton gasps in my ear. “Have you been seen?”
I duck to the right, where there’s a seating area, and plop down in a chair beside a giant plant.
“No,” I whisper. “But it was close.” I wait, my back turned to Coach Worthington, who’s crossing the lobby toward the elevator bank. I can track his reflection in the plate-glass window.
“Shit,” Anton whispers in my ear. “Maybe this was a bad idea. Just more of my bad judgement.”
“Are you kidding?” I whisper back. “I live for your bad judgement. Besides, I’ve got this. I like a challenge.”
“Okay, okay. You’re right. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.”
“That’s my boy.” I glance over my shoulder to see the coach waiting for an elevator.
Tonight is game number six in the Stanley Cup championship. The Bruisers really did it—they made it all the way to the finals again. And they’re currently winning three games to two. But the Nashville fans want this badly, almost as much as their home team. And anything could happen.
I’m not supposed to be here right now. The team decided to hunker down together in this hotel for games five and six. No wives, girlfriends, or other distractions. Like soldiers before battle.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Anton had said. “Even Tank and Bess are staying apart.”
Of course I’d understood. I’d been holed up across town at another hotel with my friends, until an hour ago, when Anton had called me three times in sixty minutes. Instead of resting before the game, he was full of nervous energy.
“Honey, do you need me to come over there?” I’d finally asked.
“Yes,” he’d answered immediately. “Bring your suitcase. And some junk food. I’m going insane here by myself.”
One Uber ride later, here I am, hiding from the authorities beside a potted palm. “All right,” I whisper after the coach disappears. “It’s go time. Where am I headed?”
“You have to pick up the key I left you. The elevator won’t open on the twelfth floor without it.”
“Okay.” I glance discreetly around the lobby. “The front desk is wide open, though. Someone will see me.”
“I thought of that, baby. So the key is with the friendly cashier in the gift shop. Her nametag says Loretta.”
“Ooh, sneaky!”
“Once a bad boy, always a bad boy. You’ll find her just past the entrance to the cafe.”
“Got it.” I rise and quickly make my way through the lobby, shoulders back, phone to my ear, as if I belong here. One of the Brooklyn athletic trainers is leaning against the check-in desk, but he’s too deep in conversation to notice me.
When I wheel my bag into the little gift shop, it’s blissfully empty. The woman behind the cash register—Loretta—looks up and smiles. “Can I help you, hon?”
“Well, I hope so. I was told you’re holding a room key for me?”
“Yes, dear. But I’ll need your name.”
“Right! Of course. It’s Sylvie.”
