Page 72 of Bombshells
My father grins, like he’s gotten away with something. “Saddle up, kids,” he says to Junior and Rudy, because apparently thirty seconds with his oldest son is plenty.
“But you just got here!” Rudy points out, and Junior actually winces.
“Yeah, but it’s late. Thank your cousin Eric for hosting you tonight.”
“Anytime,” Eric grinds out. “But the seats were a gift from the Bombshells,” Eric says. “They deserve the gratitude.”
“Oh yeah, thank the girls’ team for me.”
“Women’s team,” a female voice says. Heads swivel toward Sylvie, who’s standing by the bar, a pitcher of beer clutched in her hands. Two bright pink spots stand out on her cheeks, and her eyes are flashing with anger. “Your sons are lovely, by the way,” she says to my father. “So I’d do it again. But you are a very impatient, unpleasant man. So don’t bother asking for another favor unless you’re bringing Rudy and Paul Jr.”
Holy fuck. And here I didn’t think she could get any sexier.
My father turns toward her, a sneer on his lips. He gives her the kind of up and down glance that you’d give a mangy dog if you’re hoping it won’t put its muddy paws on your Valentino overcoat.
“Well, then,” he says, and I brace myself. “I guess hockey is the right sport for you, honey. Gotta get that aggression out somehow. ’Night, guys!” He raises a hand in the direction of Eric and me. “Rudy. Junior. We’re going.”
Then he stomps past Sylvie and heads for the door.
“Wow, Sylvie,” my brother Paul says, thrusting out his hand to shake. “I’m gonna stay on your good side.”
“Sorry,” she squeaks. “I shouldn’t have yelled at him.”
He shrugs. “Somebody should. ’Night. Bye, Anton.” He turns around to give me a serious wave as he goes.
“Bye.” There’s a lump in my throat. I’ve spent more time with the teenagers at the pool than I ever have with him. I was in the third grade when he was born, and I spent a lot of time trying not to think about him. Every year I got a Christmas card in the mail—the kind with the posed, professional photo on it. My father was always holding one of those boys—his upgrade children—in the photo.
Rudy doesn’t follow his brother, though. Not yet. He takes a leisurely last sip of his soda, and then he sets it down on the bar. “Thanks for the wings, Eric.”
“My pleasure, kid.”
Then he turns to me, and I’m startled when he throws his arms around my chest. “Great game, Anton. Super cool.”
“Thanks,” I say, giving him a squeeze. What a strange night this has become.
“Hit me with your digits,” he says, releasing me.
“Sorry?” I glance toward the door, where my father’s glower is visible. He’s waiting for his son.
“Your number. I have my own phone now.” He pulls it out.
I gather my wits and rattle off my phone number. Then I give the kid a smile and a shoulder squeeze. “Later, Rudy. Thanks for coming to my game.”
“It was awesome!” Still grinning, he grabs his jacket off the barstool and heads for the door.
“People,” Eric grunts a moment later. “I don’t understand a lot of ’em. Your dad is such a tool. But that kid is a ray of sunshine.”
“Weird, right?” I take a swig of my beer and glance around the bar, wondering where Sylvie went.
I don’t see her anywhere.
* * *
“Darts?” Castro prods me a little later. “Heidi isn’t here, so we might actually win if it’s men against women.” His wife has creamed every one of us at darts at some point. And pool. And cards.
So I’m tempted. But my one beer for the evening is empty and we have a plane to catch tomorrow morning. “I gotta pack and get some sleep,” I say instead.
Castro gives me a thoughtful glance. “Okay. You do you. I’m not the kind of friend who complains that you used to be more fun. So long as you’re not the kind of friend who draws Sharpie mustaches on his hungover friends who are sleeping it off on the jet tomorrow.”
