Page 71 of Bombshells
Our eyes meet, and he offers me a smile so big that I feel it everywhere. I offer him a thumbs up, and those blue eyes sparkle back at me.
“Hey, Anton!” Rudy’s squawk cuts through the bar chatter.
Anton turns his head, and when he picks out Rudy’s metallic smile, his beautiful eyes give a slow blink of astonishment. “Hey! Look who it is!”
“Great goal!” Rudy chirps.
“Assist,” his brother grunts.
“I know that, but it was part of a great goal,” Rudy insists.
“Thanks, man,” Anton says, lifting his hand for a fist bump. “So you enjoyed the game, and now you’re hitting the bar for some brewskis?” He looks utterly delighted by this development.
“It’s soda,” Paul says.
“And a dozen wings,” Eric adds, lifting his own fist for a bump. “Great play tonight. That was one for the highlight reel.”
“Yeah?” Anton tries to bury his smile, but it doesn’t quite work.
“Hey, who’s this?” Castro asks, handing Anton a beer. “You’re recruiting ’em young for your fan club?”
“Castro, meet my brothers, Paul Jr. and Rudy,” Anton says, his smile goofy. “They’re usually in Seattle, but they came to the game tonight.”
“Your…” Castro looks gobsmacked. “You have two brothers?”
I’m watching this little drama unfold, so I don’t immediately notice that the bartender—Petra—is glowering at me. “Are you just holding that pitcher?” she asks. “Or do you actually want me to put something in it?”
“Oh, sorry,” I say, handing it over. “The lager, please.”
She practically yanks it out of my hands. I don’t know what I ever did to offend this woman. The few times I’ve been in here, it’s always the same.
She takes her time, too, setting the pitcher down and then busying herself with other bar tasks before actually filling it.
I really don’t get it.
So I’m standing here, cooling my heels, when the door opens again. Everyone in the bar looks to see if another hockey player has joined the party.
But, nope. It’s Anton’s father, strutting in like he owns the place. The crowd moves out of his way, too. Maybe he off-gasses Important Guy pheromones, or something. He walks right over to his sons. “Everyone have fun tonight?” he asks like he’s the host.
“Did you see Anton’s assist?” Rudy crows.
“Sure did.” He glances at Anton. “Next time shoot it in the net, son.” He guffaws. “The goal would look better on your stats than an assist, no? Thought I taught you to go for broke.”
“You motherfucker,” I say under my breath.
Twenty-Three
Hit Me With Your Digits
ANTON
Here we go again.
It’s always like this. My father has never been able to say anything nice about me. I’ve learned from an early age to shrug it off. I had to.
The problem is that other people don’t know what to do when he’s rude. My brothers are blinking at their father, like they don’t know if he’s kidding. My friends are staring. And I feel all kinds of tension radiating off Eric beside me. “You son of a…” he says in a low whisper.
Instinctively, I reach for his forearm and give it a squeeze. Leave it alone, the gesture says.
