Page 74 of Bombshells
“You, too,” she says softly.
“You know I will.” My voice rasps, because I’ll probably dream about her.
We hang up, and I walk the last part of the journey. I stop on the sidewalk on my own side of the street, and look up at her darkened windows. She’s up there, probably in bed, her silky hair spread across the pillow.
All I want you to do is pin me down and shut me up, she’d said today. And I don’t doubt her sincerity, or her right to do whatever—and whoever—she pleases.
But this afternoon I’d walked into my locker room and sat down on the bench next to Campeau. He’d asked me if I’d seen Sylvie at the pool today.
“Sure did,” I’d said. “We practiced some open-water rescues for the kids, and then took a cab back to Water Street.”
He’d frowned at me. “I called her earlier and she did not pick up.”
“Try again, man,” I’d said, looking him right in the eye.
I’d meant it when I’d said that I didn’t want to be their go-between. And I sure as hell didn’t want to be put in the position of ducking my teammate’s questions.
I’m still frozen here on the sidewalk, looking up at a certain third-floor apartment. If I buzzed Sylvie’s door right now, she’d let me in. And hell knows I want to.
But I can’t be that guy. Because of my teammate, and because of me. My father takes what he wants and doesn’t care who he hurts.
I won’t, though.
So I turn around and head toward my own building. The doors open automatically, because one of the staff has seen me coming. “Evening, sir,” he says as I enter the lobby. It’s Borek, the new guy.
“Evening, Borek. Did anybody arrange a car to the airport tomorrow?”
He picks up a sheet of paper on the counter. “Leo has room in his.”
“Sign me up, would you? Thanks.”
“My pleasure, sir. Good night.”
I head to the elevators alone. This is how discipline works, right? I go to bed on time. I sleep alone. I skate like the devil is chasing me.
I won’t fuck this thing up again.
Twenty-Four
A Dudevorce
SYLVIE
Maybe heartache is good for my hockey game. Because I am on fire this week at practice. My stamina is back, and I feel strong for the duration of every practice. And when Friday comes, I head to Providence with my team, knowing that I’m finally playing at a high level.
Meanwhile, Anton keeps up his campaign to stay friends. My phone is full of funny, chatty texts from him.
It’s harder than I thought it would be, though, to step back into the role of sidekick and workout buddy. Not after all that we shared. That night meant something to me. But it didn’t mean the same thing to him.
I’m just setting my gear down in the Providence locker room when he texts to wish me a good game.
Anton: Smash Providence, Bombshells!
Sylvie: We’ll do our best. They had the worst stats last year, so I think the girls are feeling good about this one. What are you up to?
Anton: I’m on a bus to the arena in San Diego. Castro and Trevi are having a vicious argument in the seat behind me. It’s bad. I think they might end up getting a dudevorce over this.
Sylvie: A dudevorce? That’s another one of your strange words. What are they fighting about?
