Page 14 of Bombshells
“My pleasure.” Anton tosses the toilet seat—frisbee style—toward Bryce, who catches it. Then he hands me a small bag that contains four nine-volt batteries. “For your smoke detectors,” he says. “Safety first.” He gives me a wink that manages to mock Bryce and look sexy at the same time.
“Thank you,” I say. “You didn’t have to come all the way over. I could have gotten the batteries.”
“We live across the street in 220.” Anton lifts his chin toward the windows, where a luxury condo building is always in view. “Are we going to this meeting, or what?”
“Absolutely.” Fiona claps her hands like the team captain that she is. “We’ll leave in five minutes.” She gets up to gather her practice gear, since the Bombshells have practice after the meeting.
In the silence that follows, Charli and Drake eye each other warily. Anton ignores them both, taking a slow tour around our new living room, stopping in front of the prayer candles I’ve placed on the mantel. “Does this fireplace work?” he asks. “It’s pretty.”
“I doubt it,” I say.
He touches one finger to the blue glass candle holder and then turns around to look at me with those beautiful eyes. “How are you liking Brooklyn so far?”
“It’s gorgeous,” I say a little stupidly. My goodness, he must get a lot of attention from women.
“You’re from Toronto, right?”
“Montreal and then the Toronto suburbs. We left Quebec when I was a little girl. When my father retired. And you?”
“Pennsylvania. But then Colorado, where I played on a minor league team.”
“You ski?” I ask him. Colorado skiing is pretty great.
“Of course!” His eyes dance. “You too? Mont Tremblant? Did I just butcher that pronunciation?”
“Yes.” I try not to laugh.
“Tell me how to say it right.”
“Mont Tremblant. Use your nose.”
He braces his feet on the rug, spreads his arms, and tries again. “MONT… TREMBLANT.”
It’s better this time, but exaggerated, and I hear myself giggle. “We’ll work on it.”
“Awesome.”
* * *
At the meeting, I sit down between Fiona and Bryce. When our coach calls Fiona to the front of the room, Anton Bayer slides into her empty seat. I turn my chin to give him a polite smile of acknowledgement.
He gives me a smile so hot that I feel a little flushed as I return my attention to the meeting. Some men just radiate sex appeal, don’t they? I can’t even say why. Something about him just runs hotter than other men.
“Good afternoon!” Rebecca says from the front of the room. “This will be an unusual gathering. I’m well aware how busy you all are. The season will soon be in full swing, and you’ll be off on busses and planes having the season of a lifetime.”
“We all know who’s getting the bus,” Charli whispers from behind me. “And who’s on the jet.”
“So,” Rebecca says, “I wanted to have the rare opportunity to gather here just one time, as two teams with a common goal—to move Brooklyn hockey forward into a new era.”
We all clap. Even Charli, I think.
“Everyone here could be part of a history-making moment in sports. I mean that. I feel it, too.” Rebecca puts a hand to her heart, and every player in the room is completely quiet. She’s short, with a curvy build. She’s one of those tiny dynamo types. My mother would have said, she has unique energy. And everyone present has given her their complete attention.
I’m told that Rebecca used to be the GM’s assistant, before she was ever the girlfriend and then wife of the owner. And well before she owned the team herself. She used to pick up coffee and dry-cleaning for the men who ran this place.
“When I was a little girl,” she says, “I learned that girls take dancing or art classes. I didn’t have any friends who ran track or played hockey. Not one. And I need you all to hear that messaging matters. Everyone in this room heard a different message. Someone gave you the idea that you could be an athlete—maybe your parents or your siblings or a teacher. Even if you had this fire burning inside you from an early age, somewhere, some person showed you what was possible.”
I feel a little teary all of a sudden, thinking of my dad tying my first pair of skates onto my three-year-old feet.
