Page 10 of Bombshells
“How many goals did you have last season?” Fiona asks.
“Five.”
“So you like losing money?” she asks, and the women laugh, which puts the sparkle back into Sylvie’s eyes.
“New year, new opportunities,” I say lightly. “Do we have a bet?”
“Ten bucks a goal. Might as well keep it interesting.” Fiona shrugs.
“Done,” I say, knowing full well that I’ll most likely be paying Fiona some cash every week. If they picked her for captain, she should easily average a goal a game.
But that’s okay with me. I’ll just have to make frequent visits to their new apartment—wherever it is—and pay up.
* * *
Forty minutes later we’re sitting in Grimaldi’s putting away the pizza at a rapid pace. Except for Campeau, who looks shellshocked.
“What’s your deal with, uh, the new girl?” I ask as casually as I can. Campeau isn’t the kind of guy who gives you a whole lot of info about his past. I’ve spent a lot of time with the guy, and I barely know a thing about him. And not because I didn’t ask.
“Sylvie,” he says quietly, like it’s difficult to say her name. “I really fuck things up with her.”
My blood stops circulating. I barely met the girl, but I don’t want to hear that they were lovers. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. “She’s your ex?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Remember when I miss some games last fall to go to Ontario?”
“Yeah, when your mom died?” Drake asks.
“Not my real mom, but the mother of my heart. I billeted in their home as a junior player after my own mother died. And Marie was wonderful. I was very close with the family. Sylvie is Marie’s daughter.”
“Ah. But something happened between you two?” I press.
“No, and yes. After the funeral we were both very sad. I said some big things to Sylvie, about what the future might hold. I love Sylvie. I would do anything for her.”
Brooklyn’s best pizza turns dry in my mouth.
“But I should not have said anything. I should not have made any promises. And I should not have kissed her.”
The image of Sylvie lifting her head for a kiss wrecks my brain. But after I take a drink of water and get a goddamn grip, I realize that nothing Campeau just said makes any sense at all. “Wait. Why not? If you love someone, why not say so and then kiss the girl senseless?”
He puts his head in his hands. “I was not ready. You already know how hard it is. We have to focus on the game.”
“For that girl I would multitask,” Drake says, speaking my own thoughts aloud.
“This season will be everything,” Campeau says. “This one is for all the…” He frowns, searching for a word.
“Marbles?” I guess.
“Yes. I cannot afford to fuck up. I literally cannot afford it. The team offers last month to renegotiate, but I turn it down.”
My water glass stops halfway to my mouth. “Wait. They offered to extend you early?” If the team wants you badly enough, they’ll remake your contract way before the June cutoff.
Campeau nods curtly. “Yes, for a three-year deal. But the number was not very generous. We said no.”
Something goes wrong in my gut. Campeau was Mr. Serious last year, when I was busy fucking around. He got the job done, and the team offered to extend him for three—really four—more years.
And he said no? Because of a couple million dollars? “Nate and Hugh are very savvy,” I say slowly. “Of course they’d lowball you a little bit. But you would have all that added security against an injury, or even a bad season.” Even if my cousin wasn’t an agent, I’d still understand this on a gut level. The team offered him a career.
Campeau shrugs. “I do not plan to have a bad season. But I also do not plan to propose marriage before it is finished. I need the wins, the cup, the contract, and the girl. In this order.”
