Page 109 of Bombshells
“Okay,” I say, my voice unsteady. “I’m ready.”
Maman, if you’ve got any pull at all in heaven, please don’t let me have a concussion.
S’il vous plaît.
Thirty-Six
This is the Guy?
ANTON
We’re at the Tavern on Hicks. And by “we,” I mean a whole lot of people. It’s like a vigil for Sylvie. Her teammates are here, huddled in that circular booth they always take, talking in hushed voices. They officially won their game, even though the Bombshells looked shaken during those last ten minutes. Scarlet allowed a goal, unfortunately, so it’s not a shutout anymore.
Sylvie is going to hate that so much.
If she’s conscious.
Please let her be conscious.
I’m basically drowning here on my barstool, worrying about her. We all are.
Eric is sitting beside me in quiet solidarity. I ordered us each a twelve-year-old Macallan. He didn’t even blink when I asked for something that wasn’t a light beer.
The scotch isn’t helping, though. I need to see Sylvie. I need to know that she’s okay. My texts to her have gone unanswered.
Bryce is a couple seats down the bar. He’s hunched over his phone, too. “She answer your text?” I ask, even though I know I sound way too invested right now.
“No, but now I try her father.” He looks up. “Petra, could I have another beer?”
“Later,” she grumbles. “I’m busy worrying about other people who matter more than you do.”
Wait, what? I glance up at the bartender who is, admittedly, always a little frosty. But she’s never actually rude.
Bryce seems not to have noticed, and Pete also looks unfazed. He does, however, grab Campeau’s glass and refill it without a word.
“More scotch?” he asks me. “Seems like a difficult night here.”
“No thanks.” I sigh. There’s no point in getting drunk. It won’t help. “But please send a round to the Bombshells on me.”
“Good man.”
“They’re on their way,” Campeau says suddenly.
“Yeah?” my voice breaks on the word. “She’s okay?”
“Fifty stitches and an inconclusive concussion result.”
“But they’re on their way here?” I clarify. If it’s true, it can only be good news. Nobody goes to a bar when they’re in mortal peril.
I feel the first small hint of relief. And when I glance at Eric, he’s grinning at me.
“What?”
“Hang in there. You’re going to be okay.”
“It’s not me who’s in trouble.”
He laughs. “So you say. This could be fun to watch.”
