Page 36 of Bombshells
We get into the close quarters of the cab’s back seat, which only makes things worse.
Anton gives the man directions to our block, and then sits back and smiles at me. “So that was pretty fun. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but they didn’t seem to care.”
“I thought I knew what I was doing,” I admit. “But there was more chaos than I’d hoped for. And after the girls put swimming caps on, I realized that I hadn’t learned their names as well as I’d thought, because I kept getting Trina’s and Theresa’s names backwards.”
Anton snickers. “Never forget a woman’s name, Sylvie. That’s a classic dick move.”
“You shut up,” I argue, and he laughs. “But seriously—you’re good at this. There’s a kind of playfulness to you that works well with teenagers. They trust you, because you don’t look like a guy who’s judging them.”
He stops laughing and looks down quickly, like he doesn’t quite know how to take the compliment. “Well, thanks, buddy. That’s a nice way of saying that my childish personality is occasionally useful.”
“I wouldn’t say childish. I’d say fun-loving.”
“Nobody cares what word you use when you end up in the gossip blogs.” He gives me a tight smile. And then he changes the subject. “How’s practice going? Better?”
“Sometimes.” I hold back my sigh. “I coached hockey last year, but I didn’t play, and I certainly didn’t train for this. So while I feel sharp in the net, my fitness level wasn’t where I needed to be. And the, uh, mother-dying-diet had me down twenty pounds that I somehow have to regain. In pure muscle.”
“Mmm,” he says, giving me a knowing look. “Yeah, I had some basic fitness issues last year, too,” he says.
Bullshit, I think immediately. He’s built like Adonis.
“But I spent the summer training like a beast. It was boring, but it worked. You’ll get there. Lace up your sneakers tomorrow, and I’ll show you where I like to run.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “I’ll do my best.”
Twelve
I Just Jinxed Us
October
ANTON
It’s a beautiful autumn Saturday, so I don’t mind waiting a few minutes outside my cousin Eric’s office while he finishes up a call. His office is directly across the street from my apartment building, anyway.
When he finally emerges from the building, he gives me a big smile. “Ready for the big game?”
“Born ready,” I say, bypassing the fact that this is not, in fact, a big game. We’re playing an exhibition game today at the practice rink, against the Bombshells.
His grin widens. “Uh-huh. Cool.”
“What? Why are you giving me that creepy smile?”
“No reason.”
“So how is this game going to work, anyway?”
“I can’t tell you,” Eric says. “Bess insists on complete silence until we’re all assembled to hear the rules.” Eric works for Bess Beringer, who started their boutique sports agency years ago. Bess is very involved with the women’s team.
“Dude,” I complain as we cross the cobblestone street. It’s only a two-block walk to the facility. “I’m not asking for state secrets. I’m just curious, you know? Because the men are gonna smoke the women. What’s the point of that?”
“Wait up!”
We stop for my friend Silas Kelly—the goalie—who’s trotting behind us on the sidewalk.
“I have questions,” he says, joining us. “How is this game against the women going to work? Are we supposed to, like, throw the game so they don’t look bad?”
I wince, and wait for Eric to rip him a new one. Because I already know the Bombshells would never want that.
