Page 23 of Knotted Laces

“Grab your shit and come out with us,” she interrupts, absolutely no room for argument in her tone.

Fucking hell.

I look longingly at my computer.

“Don’t even think about it.” Another tilt of her head to the hall. “Come on. I’ll even buy you a beer.”

Knowing I’ve lost, I give in with a sigh, log off, and grab my jacket and purse.

And then…

I follow her.

Scowling,I sit on my stool, nursing my beer at a local hotspot called Bobby’s.

It’s all sticky old wood and blond oak tables. A bar that’s seen some things?—

At least inthisroom.

The front of Bobby’s almost made me turn around and walk right the fuck out—Sandra’s interference and Connie’s wrath or not.

But, sensing my impending tactical retreat, Sandra had slipped her arm through mine and drew me through the dance music and flashing lights, through the throng of young bodies rubbing all over each other, down the hall, and into?—

A much better space—in my opinion, anyway.

The old-timers hanging in their usual spots, a group of women who look like they’ve been friends for years cackling around a table in the corner, bartenders who know their patrons’ names, and us—a group of new colleagues sitting awkwardly at a high top table.

Luckily, the Eagles game is on and providing distraction.

Mostly because it’s a battle as the match winds down in the third period, the Eagles down a goal and looking to tie it up.

Camis looking to tie it up. I can see his focus when the camera pans to him on the bench, can see how hard he’s working when he’s on the ice. And he’s flying around, skating faster than should be possible, slamming his body into guys on the other team, getting knocked down in front of the net, blocking shots?—

Doing all the things I’ve seen him do in the many games I’ve watched.

But…

It doesn’t seem to be enough.

None of what he or the other guys on the Eagles do seems to be enough.

Not with under two minutes left between them and the end of the season.

“Damn,” I hear and blink, refocusing on the game, realizing the commercial break is over and the play’s started up again. The specks—one of which is Cam—speed around on the ice.

But, I realize, not in the direction we want.

They’re zipping toward the Eagles’ net, and I spot Cam trying to catch up with a fast fucker from the other team. He’s closing the distance?—

“Come on,” I whisper.

Five feet behind.

I clench my beer.

Two feet, almost close enough to reach the puck, but he’s also almost out of room. Their goalie is right there and there’s a guy from the other team who’s caught up too and?—

“Shit,” I whisper, realizing that Cam’s already seen what I’ve only just clocked.

---