Page 60 of Bombshells
ANTON
At the conclusion of our week away, I’m at the front of the line to board the jet home. The rest of the team straggles along behind, looking weary. Road trips are always exhausting, but after three wins and a tie, much celebrating was done last night in Detroit.
But not by me.
In the aisle, I toss my carry-on into the overhead bin. Coach Worthington settles into the seat across from me and then dry-swallows two Advil. “I would offer you some. but you look twice as perky as any other man on this plane.”
“That’s because he went to bed early,” scoffs Drake, who nudges me out of the way so he can take the window seat beside me.
“Alone, I hope?” quips Danny, the publicist who’s traveling with us. “Or, at the very least, with someone who doesn’t know how to use the camera on her phone.”
“My ass is safe from further publicity,” I mumble even as my neck begins to burn at this familiar dig. I’m basically famous for that photo of me asleep in a bed with three women. And I won’t ever live it down, apparently, even though Danny knows that only one of those women was present when I had my fun.
Her friends had thought it would be hilarious to stage a photo to show they’d had some kind of orgy with the hockey team. They had thought nothing of embarrassing me, and I’d learned a very potent lesson.
That photo is still circulating on the internet. It doesn’t matter how many takedowns the reputation-management company serves—it will always be out there somewhere for people to see my sleeping face and my bare butt crack.
“At least she says you were good in bed?” Campeau had said at the time.
I hadn’t been flattered. The only good thing about the incident is that it served as a constant reminder that a man can sacrifice his credibility by stepping out of line.
I’d like to say that I no longer needed those reminders, but my behavior last weekend suggests that I still deserve my reputation.
Although I’m working on it.
More hungover hockey players shuffle past us. When the aisle clears, coach reaches across and briefly lays a weathered hand on my forearm. “Jokes aside, I see your seriousness,” he says. “You’ve had your head down this whole trip, thinking nothing but hockey. And I do note it.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
He picks up his news magazine, and I buckle my seatbelt. Drake is already dozing against the window on his travel pillow.
Coach is only half right, though. I have kept my head down on this trip. I turned up promptly for every meeting and every bus ride to the stadium. I made every team meal and even yesterday’s yoga class.
But he’s wrong to think that my mind has always been focused on hockey. I spent much of the week chastising myself for making such a terrible mistake with Sylvie.
It can’t happen again, no matter how badly I desire her. It’s too complicated for both of us. And I’m just going to have to live with that.
The problem is that I haven’t called her. She probably thinks I’m the kind of dick who forgets about a woman the moment I leave her bed.
I am a dick, but I’m the kind who never should have been with her in the first place and who can barely be trusted not to do it again.
* * *
Even when we get home, I still don’t call. Her phone number is burning a hole through my phone, and I’m right across the street, but I don’t text, and I don’t go over there.
Instead, I hit the gym with Drake and Campeau. When they ask if I want to get some beers at the Tavern later, I make vague noises and then fail to show up.
Sylvie might be there, and Lord knows we need to talk, but not at the bar in front of all our teammates. I stay on my couch and watch Dallas play L.A. This is what I need if I’m going to succeed—more focus and calm.
It’s easy enough until the following afternoon, when I’m due to show up at the pool for lifesaving class. And, yup—the moment I see her sitting on the edge of the pool, her long legs dipping into the water, smiling at one of our students, I feel my facade start to crumble.
It only gets worse when she turns her perfect chin and looks in my direction. Her expression grows serious as she stands up to cross the pool deck to meet me.
I feel so many things as she walks toward me in her bathing suit and a sporty little Bombshells coverup. Desire. Sorrow. Tenderness. Sylvie just disarms me. One look, and my heart shifts, my internal thoughts changing their rhythm.
All week I’ve been marching myself around, ruling my consciousness with words like focus, dedication, and resolve.
But now I look at her and all I can hear is yes, this, and more.
