Page 26 of Bombshells
Petra glances at me. And I swear her eyes narrow a little bit. “Welcome,” she says stiffly. Then she carries that pitcher off without another word.
“See?” he says with a chuckle. “If you need a favor, ask Pete.”
“Got it.”
“If you don’t see your friends yet, there’s a few other things you should know about the Tavern.” He gives me a serious face.
“Yeah? Like what.” Anton is such a hoot.
“Hockey players carve their names into the paneling on the wall outside the men’s room. You all might need to start your own spot outside the ladies’.” He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Never order the turkey burger. The fries are great, though. And the nachos are so bad that they’re actually good. With that fake cheese that seems to soak up alcohol at three in the morning.”
“Ah. Never knew that stuff had magical properties.”
“Stick with me. I know things.” He squeezes my shoulder. “You see your friends anywhere?” He glances around, and the heat of his big hand disappears from my shoulder.
I miss it. We are becoming friends. He said so himself. I’m grateful. It was not an easy day.
Suddenly I see a hand waving at me from a back corner of the bar. “There they are. At that funny round table.” It’s a C-shaped booth, just the right size for five or six women who need to gossip about their first ten days as Bombshells.
“Bummer. That’s the worst table in the bar.”
“Why? It’s cozy. Nobody can come and bother you there.”
Anton laughs. “That’s it exactly. You’re all stuck with each other.”
“We could make room for you,” I offer.
He shakes his head. “I’m going to go sit with Drake.” He points at a barstool in front of a TV showing a baseball game. “You kids have fun.” He gives my shoulder another quick squeeze. “Thanks for coming out to dinner with me.”
“Oh, please. We both know who got the better end of that bargain.” I give him a grateful smile, and those turquoise eyes smile back at me.
The effect is pretty dazzling. So I give him an awkward wave and turn away, heading for my girls.
They all shift slightly around the circle to make a space for me. “Sylvie! Sit!” Fiona waves me in. Then she leans forward and drops her voice. “Did you just waltz in here with Anton Bayer? What’s up with that? Did I miss something?”
“What? No.” As if. “He watched me lose my mind at Bryce a couple hours ago. And then he invited me out as a kind of intervention. He probably assumed it was that, or I was going to hurt some unsuspecting Brooklyn native.”
“What did Bryce do?” Fiona asks, her eyes wide. “Did you guys have the big conversation?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s worse.”
“Yeah, that was some serious bullshit,” Scarlet says, swigging her beer. “That man was disrespectful, and whatever you said to him afterwards, he had coming.”
“It was the goalie practice,” I clarify. “He was there to shoot on us. And I was struggling, so he kept sending me easy shots.” When I say these words out loud, they sound stupid and whiny.
But the other women all gasp. “Oh no, he didn’t,” Fiona breathes.
“That total dick,” Charli growls.
“It really was that bad,” Scarlet says with a shrug. “If Bridger did that to me, I’d lose my mind.”
“Wait,” I stop her. “Is your husband a hockey player?”
“He was.” She smiles. “He was a terrific college player. And we all have shitty days in front of the net, Sylvie.”
I know she’s just trying to be nice, but my struggles are larger than one bad practice session.
Luckily, my dreary thoughts are interrupted by a pitcher landing on the table. “Evening, ladies,” says bartender Pete. “This pitcher of margaritas is a gift of those hooligans at the bar. Welcome to the Tavern, and welcome to Brooklyn.”
