Page 95 of Bombshells
“Yup. Trip tomorrow. You know I like my beauty sleep.”
“Can’t believe you, man!” the birthday boy crows. “Our Baby Bayer’s got his shit together this year. Takin’ hockey by storm! Got your first sponsor. You’re livin’ the dream!”
Campeau glowers at me from his barstool, and I am officially done with this night. If this is what success looks like, it isn’t half as great as I’d hoped. “Happy birthday, man. See you tomorrow.”
I survive another bone-jarring back slap and head for the door.
Eric meets me there. “Hey, got a second? I’ll walk you home.”
“Sure, if you want.” I’m honestly not in the mood for more company, but Eric is not somebody I ever blow off. I’m lucky to know him, seeing as my asshole father burned bridges with his dad a long time ago.
We head outside together and turn right, toward my apartment. Which is actually his apartment. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just grumpy. Campeau’s pissed at me.”
“I saw that. He’s only pissed at himself, though, and taking it out on you.”
“Like that’s fair?”
Eric shakes his head. “Of course not. Campeau will probably snap out of it.”
“Probably,” I grumble, because the truth is that I’ve never seen him act like such a turd. “He’s been through a lot and handled it like a champ, right? And now this one injury turns him into a whiny little bitch?”
“You know, buddy.” Eric chuckles. “I got to hand it to you. Last spring was rough. And you didn’t take that shit out on anyone. Good on you for that.”
“Seein’ as I was the only one to blame, I wouldn’t, though.” We walk in silence for another moment. “Tell me this—how much do I owe team unity? Like, how much crap do I take from my teammates so we can achieve greatness together?”
“Is this about Sylvie?”
“What?” I ask, and I’m probably about fifty percent convincing in my surprise. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m not an idiot. Anyone with eyes can see you two circling each other.”
“Well, there’s been a lot of… circling,” I admit. “If that’s what we’re calling it.”
“You sly dog. And he doesn’t know?”
“Nope.”
“They’re not a couple, are they?”
“Hell no. Not now, not ever. But they have some kind of childhood pact to look after each other. Sometimes it feels like I’m trying to join a cult. Like I don’t know the secret handshake.”
“How serious is it?” he asks.
“It’s not,” I fire back. “I’m not a serious guy, remember?”
“Everyone is a serious guy when the right person comes along.”
“Not true,” I argue. Although I have to admit that Sylvie is the kind of woman who makes me wish I was the right kind of man.
The real reason I haven’t found a way to make my case to Campeau is brutally simple. I see the man’s point about me.
I really do.
Thirty-One
Make a Resolution
