Page 93 of Bombshells
The Bombshells game is already over. They lost, which I know because Sylvie texted me a frowny face about an hour ago. 2-4 she wrote.
Who had a bad night? I’d asked.
Everybody. And I had to watch.
Sorry, babe. Come to the tavern and I’ll buy you a drink.
She hadn’t replied. But eventually the door opens and I spy one of her teammates. My heart gives a kick as I wait to see her face.
And then she’s right there, walking in with Charli. She doesn’t spot me right away. She’s laughing at something her teammate has said, her color high, her hair wavy from the shower.
All I can do is stand here like a fool and drink her in. I’d rather drop this pool cue and pull her into my arms. The urge is strong. I can’t, though. Because I’m the dumbass who hasn’t told Campeau that Sylvie and I are spending time together.
This is not entirely my fault. Until an hour ago, I hadn’t seen my teammate’s face in two weeks. Sure, I texted and called to check up on him after his injury. But, in typical Campeau style, he hasn’t shared much. Either that, or he’s been in a state of denial over how long they were going to bench him.
It sucks. It really does. I feel for the guy. I hadn’t wanted to visit his bruised, aching self on my way out of town on the jet to say, “Hey, I hope you feel better soon. And by the way I’m shagging Sylvie every chance we get. But don’t worry. She’s down.”
Yeah. No.
The women crowd around their favorite round booth, and Sylvie has to step aside for a second to wait for her turn to sit down. That’s when she spots me watching her like a hungry dog from the pool table.
She flashes me a quick smile before she disappears.
“Your shot, Baby Bayer,” Drake says.
“Fine.” I’ve about had it with pool, so I take care to make this a good one. I line up a combination and sink my two remaining balls. Then I hand the stick to Crikey. “Take out the eight ball and you can have my next game.”
“Dude,” Drake says, still staring at the table where my two balls have just disappeared. “Where were you during the battle of the sexes?”
“Drake wants a rematch.” Crikey chuckles. “He’s not over losing that thing. I swear, he thinks about that exhibition stunt more than he thinks about our actual games.”
I clamp a hand on Drake’s shoulder. “Next year, big man. You’ll have your revenge.”
Then I leave them to it and look around for Campeau. Has he left already? I’m not proud to admit it, but when I can’t seem to spot him, I’m relieved. I’m not in a hurry to tell him that I’m sleeping with the woman he feels he’s taken some kind of a blood oath to protect.
But wait. He’s still here. He’s at the far end of the bar, deep in conversation with Petra, the grumpy bartender. Campeau is the only one who can stand her.
So I guess this is it. Time for my big confession.
I thread my way through the crowded space, passing the Bombshells at their table. It’s so full tonight that they’re squished in like sardines. My gaze collides with Sylvie’s for a split second. I send her a look of longing.
She puts her chin in her hand and seems to make a point with her eyes. And that point is something like: I could climb over this table and kiss you right now. Except you’re the one who continues to let this be awkward.
Or maybe I’m projecting. But Sylvie’s eyes are really fucking expressive.
I am the one who’s making this awkward, so I head over to Campeau and sit down on the last empty barstool—the one nobody wants because it’s practically out the front door. “Hey man,” I say as soon as Petra moves on to pull a pint for someone. “Long time no see.”
“Yeah well. I see you every time I turn on the fucking TV.”
Uh-oh. Campeau is drunk. That’s unusual. “You okay? Anything the matter tonight?”
“What, besides everything?” he snarls. “I’m out two more games. Then I can attend practice, so long as it’s no contact.”
“Oh shit.” My man is in a bad way. “Bryce, listen to me. You’re coming back. Unless there’s something you’re keeping from me, this injury is an inconvenience. But it’s not a career ender.”
He snorts. “It’s a disaster. And I turned down my contract extension like a bone skull.”
“Bonehead,” I correct before I think better of it.
