Page 55 of Bombshells
When she’s finished, the jet takes off. I feel the plane lift and then bank toward the south.
As we climb, I close my eyes and try to relax. But the first thing that comes to mind is Sylvie. The taste of her, the softness of her hair between my fingers. The heat of her skin…
My eyes fly open. What the fuck had I been thinking? Now I’m that guy—the one who fucked a teammate’s… Well, she’s not his girlfriend. But they’re complicated.
And I just made it worse. I tug at the knot in my tie, loosening it so I can breathe.
“Thank you,” Bryce says, dropping his phone into the seat-back pocket.
“For what?” I say, nearly choking on the words.
“Last night I made Sylvie unhappy. She walk away from me mad. Then I worry she won’t be able to get a taxi home from that place. And somebody said you took her home to Water Street. She got home okay, no?”
My skin flashes cold and then hot as he speaks. Of course someone saw us leave together. I wasn’t exactly subtle. Christ almighty. “She got home okay,” I mutter.
“Good.” He sighs.
“But I don’t get it,” I hear myself say, even though I know I should just shut up. “She came to the party last night looking for you. Why didn’t you take her home?”
In the silence that follows my question, I can actually picture it, like a movie in my head. Sylvie putting on that dress, thinking of him. And Campeau taking one look at her and leading her out onto the dance floor. It would have been his ass in that cab on the way back to DUMBO. And it could have been him in Sylvie’s bed.
I feel sick just picturing it.
I have never ever been so confused.
“Let me tell you a story,” he says.
“Okay.”
“I don’t know my father at all. And my mother dies when I am seventeen years old. The last thing she say to me is, ‘Buy me some cigarettes you worthless piece of shit.’”
“Jesus.” I don’t even try to cover my shock. Campeau doesn’t open up much, even to his friends.
“Last year, Sylvie’s mother dies, too. The last time I see her was during the season—we all have dinner together when we play against Toronto. At dinner, I’m worried about our game. And Marie says to me, ‘I am forever proud of you, mon grand. No matter what.’”
“Oh,” I say stupidly.
“Sylvie is not just any girl,” he continues quietly. “She is the daughter of my trusted coach and of the mother of my heart. She is like family.”
“So…you don’t find her attractive?” I guess that’s probably just wishful thinking.
He snorts. “I would have to be a dead man not to find her attractive. But I cannot treat her like a hookup.” The word sounds different in his accent. “There is no tryout contract for Sylvie Hansen. There is no walking away. If I say yes to her, I say yes to her forever.”
The flight attendant stops beside us. “Coffee and a bagel, gentlemen?”
“Yes, please,” I croak, and Campeau also nods.
After she’s passed over our provisions, I butter my bagel and try to push Sylvie out of my mind. It’s hard to sort myself out when I’m sitting next to Campeau.
But apparently some kind of dam has broken with him, and he can’t shut up now. “I don’t even know my own father. But Sylvie’s father taught me all the best things I know. In hockey and life. I would do anything for that man.”
I realize the pickle he’s in now. It’s not just his relationship with Sylvie that’s at risk. It’s his relationship to his own past, and to a man he respects. “You think Mr. Hansen would be upset if you were a couple?”
Campeau shrugs. “Maybe not. But I do know that Sylvie is still grieving. She doesn’t know what she wants. And I will not toy with her. Christ, she’s probably a virgin.”
All my circulation stops. And the bagel turns to glue in my throat.
Nineteen
