Page 43 of Good Boy

“Today, Ashleigh and I read ahead in the anatomy textbook,” she announces.

Of course they did. Ashleigh is one of Violet’s nerd friends.

“The circulatory system is going to be a real bitch. All those veins and arteries? It’s, like, ten times harder than the quiz we’re taking tomorrow. And—God—Ashleigh actually confused veins and capillaries today. I mean, I’m sure she’ll pull it together before the test, but can you believe it?” She gives a little shake of disgust at the idea, while I make a mental note to google capillaries later.

My confidence dissipates like the foam on top of my beer. I’d ordered the least expensive draft they had. The one flaw in Blake’s plan to go out drinking with Violet is the fact that the team’s favorite bar—Sticks & Stones—isn’t cheap.

Speaking of Blake, I crane my neck, wondering when he’s going to show up.

“So who’s your friend anyway?”

“Blake Riley? Oh, he’s my brother’s neighbor. You wouldn’t know him. Hockey player. Not exactly up on his anatomy.” Wait—that wasn’t strictly true. Blake is very well-versed in the reproductive organs and, well, my nervous system. Whenever he touches me, all my synapses short out…

I catch a funny look on Violet’s face. “What?” I ask. “Something wrong?”

She uses a low, hushed voice I’ve never heard before. “You can’t be serious. Not that Blake Riley. Not the Toronto forward.” Her eyes become saucer-like.

Uh-oh. Have I fucked up yet again? “What? You don’t like hockey?”

She gulps. “Bitch, I’m Canadian. Of course I like hockey. I love hockey. You can’t tell me you know Blake Riley.”

I shrug. “Of course I do. All my Toronto friends are on the hockey team.”

“All. Your. Friends,” she repeats slowly.

“What, like that’s weird?”

Slowly, Violet’s wide eyes track upward, over my head. “Oh God.” She puts both hands to the sides of her face and gasps.

A deafening sound booms down from above. “Yo! J-Babe! What are we drinking?”

Blake has arrived. But I can’t take my eyes off Violet, because something is very wrong with her. She’s holding on to her face, and her mouth has flopped open. She’s doing Edvard Munch’s The Scream, basically. It’s so unusual that I’m instantly uneasy.

“Hey, are you okay?” Why would she hold on to her face? Is there weakness there? “Are you…stroking out?”

Shit! What are the signs of stroke? Facial drooping, difficulty speaking. Check and check!

But then she thrusts a hand out. “Blake Riley! I’m a huge fan of your work. That overtime goal against Pittsburgh in the playoffs was seminal to my existence.”

I make a note to look up seminal later too. That word must have two meanings. I only know one.

“Nice to meet you too,” Blake says, reaching around me to shake hands with typical Blake-like enthusiasm.

I turn to greet him, and he’s so close behind me that we’re suddenly face-to-face. Big green eyes blink into mine. And damn it, a sizzle shoots through my chest, tingling through all the various veins and arteries. And maybe even my capillaries, if I knew where those were.

“Hi,” I say stupidly.

He winks. “How’s it hangin’, J-Babe?”

“Not bad. You?”

He makes a face and claps a hand on his thick neck. “Got a crick right here. It’s nothing a beer won’t fix.” He turns away, waving a hand. “Lisa! Une beer avec moi!”

“That’s not proper French,” I point out.

“Baby, I’m very proper when I French.” He grabs my ass on the bar stool, and I slap his hand away.

“Don’t squeeze the Charmin, dude.” I’m still watching Violet carefully, because she’s not quite back to normal.

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