Page 22 of Bombshells
The coach drones on about New Jersey’s scoring style, and I try to pay attention.
* * *
When Coach is done, I somehow manage to enter the lobby from the video room at the same moment that Sylvie bounds out of the tunnel, heading for the door.
“Hey,” I say, startled by the reappearance of the girl I can’t stop thinking about. Her cheeks are flushed. Stealing glances at her for a week has taught me that she always has high color in her cheeks, as if she burns a little brighter than other women.
“Hi,” she says, slowing her pace as she approaches. “You’re not waiting for Campeau, are you?” The name sounds extra French when she says it.
And maybe I’m a jackass for thinking this, but I’d really like to hear her mutter French into my ear in bed. “Uh, no. No. Don’t know where he is.”
“Good.”
She sounds so fierce, I have to laugh. “Walk out with me,” I say with more nonchalance than I feel.
“Are you going to give me a lecture about patience, or gratitude?”
“Fuck no, I don’t give lectures. I’m usually on the receiving end of those.”
Her face breaks into a startled smile, and she follows me out onto the sidewalk. “Well, I probably deserve one. But I’m not in a forgiving mood yet.”
“Are you in the mood for tequila, though? That’s what I offer my friends after a shitty day.” It’s true, too. I’m not one to dole out advice. Who wants to turn into his father?
“I’m not much of a drinker,” Sylvie says, tossing her lush hair over her shoulder. “But I could use some food.”
“How do you feel about spicy Szechuan?”
“I feel great about it. You don’t have to cheer me up, though. If you have things to do.”
“Woman, it’s chow time. And you’re saving me from masturdating.”
“Um, what?” she says, giving me a startled look.
“That’s a Frankenword for taking yourself out to dinner alone. Masturdating.”
“A Frankenword?” She gives a shout of laughter and claps a hand over her mouth. “You are ridiculous.”
“True facts. Now follow me, newbie. It’s time for your introduction to the best cheap Chinese food in Brooklyn.”
She hitches her gym bag up on her shoulder and follows me down the street.
* * *
Soon we’re ensconced at China Garden and splitting a first course of green dumplings in tangy plum sauce.
“These are magnifique,” Sylvie gushes, plucking up another dumpling with her chopsticks. “How did you find this place?”
“Georgia Trevi. She has a thing for dumplings.”
“Bless her. And thanks for bringing me here. I was clearly in need of an intervention.”
“Hey, no problem.” I sound casual enough. But that’s not how I really feel. Sylvie has hovered at the edge of my consciousness these past ten days. Every time both teams are in the practice facility, I somehow manage to hear her laugh, or spot her down the corridor.
And now I have her alone. It’s no crime to buy a girl some spicy noodles and chicken after a bad day, but I feel a little guilty nonetheless. And it occurs to me now that Bryce Campeau hates this restaurant and never comes here.
Thanks, subconscious. Good work.
“You know,” I tell her. “You’re not the only one who’s struggling to prove herself.”
