Page 27 of Bombshells
“Thank you, Pete,” I say as he sets down several glasses, too. “We sure do appreciate it. Will you tell those hooligans I said so?”
“Absolutely.”
Fiona lifts herself up a few inches so that she can wave a thank you to the men at the bar. “It was your new friend, Anton, and that Drake guy. And Jason Castro.”
Charli growls. “They’d better not be expecting sexual favors.”
“No way,” I say, flipping over a glass and pouring it for her. “Drink this and be grateful. Not everything a man does is a ploy.”
“It’s more like seventy percent,” Scarlet says with a giggle. “But I don’t mind, because my guy is the best there is.”
I pour a glass for Scarlet and pass it over, wondering what it would feel like to be in her shoes—to be unafraid to say “my guy” and know that he loved you and wasn’t afraid to say so.
“It was nice of Anton to send us drinks,” Fiona says. “Does he have a thing for you?”
“Nah.” I pass another glass across the table and then pour my own.
“He’s got a reputation,” Fiona whispers. “For being excellent in bed.”
“Figures,” I say. “His whole sex-on-a-stick thing is a little much.”
“What do you mean?” Charli asks.
“Well, lots of guys are attractive. But he’s just so…extra. Like, I don’t know where to put my eyes, you know? Everything about him is super sexual. And super hot.”
Charli shrugs. “If you say so.”
“All hockey players are hot,” Scarlet says.
“Sister—” Fiona puts her hand on top of mine. “—what if it’s not just him? To me, that sounds like chemistry. Between both of you. Do you find yourself suddenly wondering what he looks like naked?”
“What? No.” My face burns, though. Because during dinner I had wondered that about five different times. But it’s only because he’s not my usual type. He’s rougher around the edges than Bryce. He wears his attractiveness differently.
But I’ll never admit my petty fascination with Anton Bayer’s incredible body. It’s confusing to me. It must just be hormones or something.
“Be careful with that one,” Charli says. “He’s a total man-whore. Last year it became a problem—he ended up in the blogs for a hotel foursome he had on a road trip.”
“A…foursome? That sounds complicated.” Does she mean sex between four people at the same time? Does that math even work?
I sip my drink and try not to call any more attention to my inexperience. Not that it’s anyone’s business.
Charli rubs her hands together, because even she isn’t immune to a juicy piece of gossip. “The trouble was that one of the women took a selfie while Anton was passed out in the hotel bed with three women around him. This woman sent it to some friends as a trophy, and it ended up on the internet. The publicity department was not pleased.”
Three women in a bed with Anton. I turn my head and glance quickly in his direction. He’s holding a glass of beer in one strong hand, laughing at something Drake is saying, and I feel several different emotions at once.
There’s such joy in him, for starters. It’s been a while since I laughed as easily as he does. But he reminds me that it’s possible.
He intimidates me, though. Somehow I can picture each muscular arm around a different woman at the same time. I’m not sure where woman number three would be in that scenario. But still—confidence practically seeps through his pores.
I can’t imagine what it would feel like to be on the other end of that dazzling smile when there were no clothes on that body. A girl could burn right up. Nothing but a little puff of smoke and a wisp of ash left to show for her.
He is really out of my league. And I really must stop staring.
I turn back to my friends and take in their happy faces. My drink is tasty, I’m full of good food, and my teammates are amusing. Life could really be worse.
And I’m enjoying this opportunity to spend time with Scarlet. In many ways, we’re competitors. If she ends up starting every Bombshells game, I’ll be sad. But she’s smart and funny and living the life I hope to lead in a few years.
“We’re in Manhattan, on the Upper East Side,” she’s saying. “I take a ferry across the river for practice. It’s not such a terrible commute. And Lucy doesn’t need us to walk her home from school anymore, because she’s in ninth grade, and wouldn’t be caught dead with us, anyway.”
