Page 25 of Bombshells
“That’s true,” I admit. “And a problem for women’s sports. But I’m not hurting like some of the girls. I’m the bookkeeper for my dad’s hockey organization, so I brought my job to Brooklyn with me.”
“Still,” he says, giving me a confident smile. “This is my treat. You can buy next time.”
Next time. I think Anton Bayer and I are becoming friends. “Well, thank you. I really appreciate it. And thank you for talking me off the ledge earlier.”
“I’ve been out on that same ledge.” He shrugs.
My new phone starts chiming with texts, and it’s awfully loud. “Sorry.” I pull out the phone. “I’m still getting used to this thing. All the features…”
The texts are from Fiona. Some of my teammates are gathering in a Brooklyn bar. It’s on Hicks Street! Are you in?
“Wait until you win your first game,” he says. “There’s a gold star that appears on the screen.”
“I’ve heard about that. It sounds a little silly.”
“Doesn’t it?” He chuckles. “But, man, the Kattenbergers are onto something. After a couple of losses, you’ll be missing that damn thing. I’d do just about anything for the star.”
He signs the check while I read my texts. “Do you know where there’s a tavern on Hicks Street?” I ask. “Is that nearby?”
“Oh, sure. I’ll walk you over there.” He gets up. “That’s the name of the place—Tavern on Hicks. It’s the Bruisers’ second home, on account of being located between the arena and the practice facility. We usually walk there after home games.”
He holds the door open for me, like a gentleman. And we set off down the street together. He’s so ruggedly handsome that a few women on the sidewalk turn and stare.
I’m not immune to it either. It’s not just his face. There’s something so sexual about him, that I feel overly aware of my own body when I’m near him. I keep noticing tiny details about him, and each one is more fascinating than the last. He has golden hair on his strong forearms. And his long-legged gait is almost a swagger.
“You don’t have to walk me there,” I blurt out eventually. “I mean, you probably have other things to do on a Saturday night.”
“Not really. Ten bucks says my friends will be there, too. And there’s practically a print of my ass on one of the barstools.”
“Charming,” I say, trying to play it cool.
“Not that you asked, but this part of Brooklyn is safe enough. Although Bryce would probably suggest taking a taxi home if you leave the bar after ten, and especially if you’re alone.”
I snort, and it isn’t very ladylike. “Bryce would probably like me to take a taxi all the way to JFK and fly home to Toronto.”
“That isn’t true.”
“No?” I’m not so sure.
“No.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because Bryce isn’t insane. And only a crazy man would wish you were farther away.”
My cheeks begin to burn, because I don’t know how to take a compliment from a hot guy.
I’m saved from trying to think of a suitable response by the appearance of the Tavern. “This is the place?”
“Oh yeah. In all its beer-scented glory. On a weekend, both bartenders are working. Pete looks crusty, but he’s actually a cinnamon roll.” Anton stops to open the door for me again.
I step inside and spot the gray-haired bartender immediately. The place is more than half full, and the man looks busy.
“And then there’s Petra.” He nods toward a young, blond woman pouring a pitcher of beer at the end of the bar. He drops his voice even though she’s pretty far away, and there’s a hum of bar noise in the room. “She looks sweet, but she’s made of steel. She keeps us in line.”
Petra looks up, as if she’s overheard. “Hey, Anton!” she calls. “Who’s this? She’s too pretty for you.”
He puts a warm hand on my shoulder. “Just a friend who puts up with me once in a while. This is Sylvie. She’s new in town, and one of the Bombshells’ goalies.”
