Page 9 of Bombshells
“Thanks, man.” Drake pushes himself off the doorframe. He still looks a little off. I’m thinking we’ll need to take a taxi over to our favorite pizza place.
The three of us leave the dressing room and troop down the hallway together. It still has that new-paint smell from all the work they’re hurrying to finish. We exit via a set of secure doors into a hallway that widens toward a glass brick tunnel. From there, the floor slopes upward from our practice facility to the Bruisers’ corporate offices.
Drake stiffens as we reach the tunnel. “Uh-oh.”
Glancing up, I see three women ahead of us. They’re stopped, as if waiting for someone else to join them. And, whoa, it’s like the Charlie’s Angels of hockey—a blond, a redhead, and the brunette beauty I can’t stop thinking about.
Her face lights up when she sees us, too. I’m just about to call out a happy greeting when my teammate Campeau says, in a shocked voice, “Sylvie! What are you doing here?”
This is a development I wasn’t expecting.
And if I’m not mistaken, her beautiful smile grows a little uncertain. “Um, surprise!” she says as we approach. “A week ago Bess Beringer called me and asked me to be the second goalie for the Bombshells.”
“You—” Campeau swallows. He looks stunned, and maybe a little pale. “Here?”
“Here,” she says firmly. “In Brooklyn.”
“In Brooklyn,” he echoes like a dummy. He takes a long beat to digest this news. “Where are you staying?”
She puts a hand on her hip. “With you, of course. You have a double bed, right?”
Campeau blanches.
She laughs. “Oh, monsieur crédule! I’m just teasing you. This is my roommate, Fiona. We have an apartment together.” She indicates the blonde.
Bryce finally breathes. “An apartment? Where? Is it safe? There are some places in Brooklyn where you do not want to live.”
“Let me just stop you right there,” the redhead says with fire in her eyes. And when she speaks up, I swear Drake ducks behind me, using me as his human shield. “Isn’t Sylvie a grownup who can decide on her own where to live?”
“But—”
“Do you ask your male friends if their apartments are safe?” she presses.
Sylvie laughs. “Charli, stand down. Bryce met me when I was a silly, impulsive teen. He probably can’t help asking these questions.”
The redhead crosses her arms. “Fine, but on day one I’ve already witnessed two of these guys saying ridiculous things to grown women. And the day isn’t even half over.”
“Hey, Bryce,” I say, squeezing my teammate’s elbow. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend? We’re sharing a workspace, right?”
He gives a stiff nod. “Sylvie, meet Anton Bayer, a defenseman, and Cornelius Drake, winger.”
“Cornelius?” the blond woman asks, incredulous.
“Neil,” he corrects.
“Ah.” She smiles, and her eyes dance with humor. “I’m Fiona, also a forward, and the captain of the Bombshells. This is Charli, who plays defense.”
“And Sylvie is the goalie,” I say, because I can’t help myself. And I can’t stop looking at her. Even in her street clothes, with her hair smoothed after a shower, her cheeks bear the high color of an athlete after practice. She has wide-set brown eyes and the cheekbones of a Swedish supermodel.
But there are lots of pretty women in the world. I couldn’t even tell you why this one makes me feel wild and loose inside. Like I’ve just had three drinks and gotten on a roller coaster.
“Yes,” Fiona says, putting a hand on Sylvie’s shoulder. “We have two incredible goalies. It’s going to be a great season, boys. I hope your stats can keep pace with ours.”
“Oh, bring it on.” I laugh. “How does five bucks a goal sound? You versus me.”
“But we only have twenty games,” says Charli, the woman who Drake is afraid of. “That’s not a fair bet.”
“I’m a D-man, though,” I point out. My job isn’t running up the score.
