Page 111 of Bombshells
My gaze collides with Sylvie’s, and we mirror confusion back at each other.
“Who would confide in you?” Petra continues. “You’re so judgmental! Guess what? You don’t get to decide what other people care about! You can waste your whole life trying to get your stats up! Go ahead. But don’t tell them how to live.”
Having said her piece, she turns around and stomps back over to the server’s station, where she begins to angrily toss rolls of silverware into a pile.
Campeau’s face is red. He’s wearing the same intense expression he wears during a difficult game. Every head swivels to watch as he storms toward her. “Petra,” he barks.
“What!” she snaps.
“I am sorry.”
“Then go somewhere else and be sorry!”
We can hear every word because the bar is dead silent. Everyone is watching this drama unfold. Even Pete the bartender is standing perfectly still, a look of trepidation on his face.
“You are right,” Campeau barks. “Désolé.”
She still doesn’t turn around. Her hands are braced on the server station like she’s afraid a strong wind will tear her away from terra firma.
Campeau grasps Petra by the elbows, turns her firmly around, and leans in. Then he gives her a passionate kiss.
She yanks herself back and lifts a hand. It hovers above his face. The whole bar braces for her slap.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, she grabs him by the jacket and kisses him again.
“What is happening?” Charli says from somewhere nearby. “I’m so confused right now. And kind of turned on.”
“I don’t know. But it’s fascinating,” Sylvie says. She leans against my body and starts to laugh.
Her father is laughing, too. Like, doubled over and struggling to breathe. “The quiet ones,” he gasps. “You never know what’s going on in there.”
Indeed, Petra and Campeau are now staring into each other’s eyes, whispering to each other, and ignoring everything around them.
“Sylvie.” I settle my arms around her and close my eyes. “Baby, I’m glad to hear you laughing. I was so worried about you.”
“Sorry about that,” she whispers, and hugs me even more tightly.
“We could sit down, okay? How’s your head?”
“My concussion exam was inconclusive.” She takes a seat on the stool that I offer her. “I answered all the questions correctly. But if you black out—even for a moment—you end up on the concussion protocol. Which I did.”
“Oh, baby. I’m sorry.” That means she’ll miss games. “That just sucks. But I’m just so glad you’re going to be okay. I need you.”
She looks up, no longer laughing. “I need you, too. But my position is pretty precarious. They’ll have to roster another goalie.”
“God, I’m sorry.” I take both of her hands and squeeze, knowing full well how much it hurts to watch your team go on without you. “Does it make me a hypocrite to say that it doesn’t matter as long as you’re okay?”
“A little?” She gives me a shy smile. “But I like hearing it.”
“I’m sorry it took me too long to tell you. But guess what? The way I feel about you isn’t casual at all.”
Her expression softens. “That’s good, because I skated past casual a while ago myself.”
“God, I’ve missed you. So much.” Very, very carefully, I kiss her.
Someone clears her throat nearby. “Excuse me, lovebirds, but we are all waiting to see Sylvie.” It’s Fiona standing there, her arms crossed, and Sylvie’s coach is also waiting nearby.
“Oops,” I say, letting her go. “I’m monopolizing your teammate.”
