Page 83 of Bombshells
“Not really,” Bess says tightly. “Doc says he’s missing two games at least. And tomorrow they’re going to check him for costochondral separation.”
I shudder, because I know what that is. It hurts, and it’s nasty.
“And then there’s the photo shoot you were supposed to do the day after tomorrow.
“Fuck,” he whispers. Then he hangs his head. “I can’t be in those pictures like this.”
“Probably not,” she says with a sigh.
When Campeau goes off to the men’s room, Bess turns to me. “Anton—can I offer you as a replacement?”
“For…what?”
“The photo shoot. It would be your first endorsement.”
“Oh, heck. What’s the company?” I can’t hide my interest.
“It’s for Brooklyn Outfitters, they make—”
“—sporty clothing,” I say for her. “I’ve got some of their stuff.” Seeing as I spent the whole summer in various Brooklyn gyms, it’s not a big surprise.
“The shoot was supposed to be Castro, Trevi, and Campeau, with some of the Bombshells, too.” She pulls out her phone. “I arm-twisted them to have six models. And now I have to pull one of them. Could you make it, Baby Bayer? The pay is really decent.”
There’s that nickname again. “Yeah, sure. But only if Bryce can’t do it.”
“Thank you.” Bess puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s not a Cartier sponsorship, but it’s something. They’re rolling out a line of cobranded T-shirts with the Bruisers and Bombshells logos. It will be fun, I promise.”
“Sure. Thanks. Just send me the details.”
Then it hits me. Look who’s second choice again? This guy. And my mom was totally wrong. It doesn’t bother me.
Not much anyway.
Okay, sure. It bugs me a little.
Damn it.
Campeau comes back, with Drake tagging along. “Need more ice, buddy?”
“No,” says our surly friend. “But scotch would be nice.”
Drake blinks, because Campeau never touches the hard stuff. “Hmm. Okay, sure. Let me see what single malts they’ve got.”
“I’ll do it,” I offer, and head for the bar. I order a Talisker for Bryce, and when the bartender slides it in my direction, I take a deep inhale of the caramel scent.
“Something else?” he asks.
I hesitate. There’s no reason I can’t have a shot. I don’t have a problem with alcohol. Except I promised myself that this year would be different. And here I am ready to break that promise for no good reason.
“Just a Coke,” I say.
“You got it.”
By the time I get back to Campeau and hand him his drink, Drake is working hard to unpack whatever is bothering him.
“Just got a lot on my mind. I never let this stuff distract me.”
“What stuff?” Drake chuckles. “Women stuff?”
