Page 34 of Sleepless Nights and Hockey Fights

My phone rings from the depths of my bag. By the time I find it, it’s stopped ringing. Richie calls me right back though, always one to bother the shit out of me just for sport. Except there’s also a text from Molly. I ignore the incoming call from my brother and read her message instead.

“Well, shit,” I mutter. She turned down my date idea. Kind of.I’m going to say no.Which in my limited knowledge of proper English means saying no in the future, but maybe she doesn’t want to say no right now? In other words, there’s still hope. If the message had beengo fuck yourself, hell no to this date idea, then I’d take that as a firm no. Her text is a firm maybe. I can work with maybe.

Practice was just as brutal today, though a bit shorter since we leave tomorrow morning for our road trip. I joined the old guys in the ice baths and I have to say, they might be onto something. I’m feeling spry as a spring chicken as I leave the rink.

My phone rings again. Goddamn Richie.

“Yo, Richie, why you blowing up my phone?” I answer, slinging the bag over my shoulder and heading out of the facility.

“I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m a little low on gas. You think you could pick me up before we head to that charity thing?” he asks by way of greeting.

I close my eyes for a second. “Shit. I forgot about that.” I check my watch. I barely have enough time to pick him up and get over to the center on time. Kaitlyn set everything up for me, including tipping off one of her favorite paparazzis. She’d never forgive me if I blew it off or showed up late.

“I’ll be right there. Be ready to go. Clean shirt. No bullshit, Richie.”

“Since when do I–”

He doesn’t even finish that ridiculous question before I hang up on him and sprint the rest of the way to Wolverine. Traffic is stupidly thick in the middle of the day thanks to the older set getting to their pickleball tournaments and doctor appointments.

Thankfully, Richie is dressed in a T-shirt that’s not only clean but also doesn’t have the name of a bar or a curse word on it. It’s basically a fashion miracle. I probably shouldn’t have asked Richie to come along to my charity work, but Ashley suggested it as a way for us to bond over something wholesome.

Richie and I pull into the parking lot my navigation system directed me to. A squatty building with an unfortunate orange paint job and above ground electrical wires streaming to it greets us. Two small windows should offer light into the place, but they’re covered by security bars. The door has a handwritten sign that saysBros 4 Bras.

“Dude.” Richie peers out the passenger window at the place. “That’s some serious cable wire they got there.”

I push open my door and slide out. “We’re here to work, Rich. Just follow my lead.”

Richie and I head inside where we have to blink repeatedly for our eyes to adjust. The overhead lighting in here is the stuff of nightmares for fitting rooms. The mega-watt halogen lights make my Gucci slides look sickly orange instead of Bulldog red.

“Can I help you?”

We look left to see an elderly woman with a bat in her hand, slapping it lightly against her palm in a menacing manner as she glares at us. We both put our hands up and Richie looks at me to take the lead. Kaitlyn’s going to get an earful about this if I end up getting my ass kicked by an octogenarian.

“I’m Bobby and this is my brother, Richie. We’re here to volunteer this afternoon?”

The woman’s face clears and the bat gets tossed aside onto a pile of lingerie. Her facial wrinkles stack up as she smiles, making her look like our Grandma Betty Mae. The transformation is incredible.

“Bobby!” She leans in to hug me like she already knows me, a waft of minty muscle cream and denture glue hitting my nose. I pat her back and watch Richie look even more awkward than me when she gives him the same treatment. “Welcome, boys. I’m Betty, the manager of Bros 4 Bras. Sorry for the bat, but you’d be surprised how often we get robbed.”

I look around the place, seeing bras on every surface. Six-foot tables and clear plastic bins are set up against all four walls and in neat rows filling the space in between. I had no idea this many bras could be in one place beside the bra factory. Television screens line the walls above our heads, maybe thirty of them in total. It’s like a sports bar, but instead of whiskey and beer, it’s bras and more bras.

“My husband Johnny, God rest his soul, started this place in 1972 when his sister did a stint on the streets.” Betty puts her thin hand on my arm. “She was pretty well endowed, if you know what I mean. Had funbags the size of watermelons, that girl did.”

Richie makes a choking noise he tries to disguise as a cough. I nod, giving everything I’ve got to keeping a straight face.

“Anyhoo, come to find out, it’s hard to afford bras when you’re homeless. Johnny rounded up his friends and started a nonprofit, asking all our female neighbors and friends for their old bras. From itty bitties to the bazookas, we collect them all. I’ve kept the place going and am proud to say we ship out over one hundred bras to every state in the nation every year.” Betty pats my chest with her left hand and Richie’s chest with her right. “That’s where you two come in.”

“I’ve got a bad back, but Bobby here can lift the heavy boxes,” Richie offers. If Betty had her back turned I’d have flipped him off for trying to get out of working.

Betty’s laugh is like tinkling wind chimes. “Oh no, sweet thing. I need you boys to sort the sizes. What good is a triple-D hammock to a woman who’s got nothing but bee stings, you know? Proper sizing is imperative for good breast support.”

Richie’s face is turning the kind of purple that spells trouble for my image if he opens his mouth. I put my hand over Betty’s, getting her attention. “You can count on us, Betty. We’ll have hundreds sorted before our shift is over, don’t you worry.”

Betty smiles at me like I’m her favorite boy. The door to the place swings open and a guy with a camera pops his head in. “Bobby Rhodes?”

Shit, that must be the paparazzi Kaitlyn called. “Yep. Come on in. We’re just about to start sorting the donations.”

Betty gets us set up at a table in the back but gets pulled away when the phone starts ringing at the front. The camera guy stares around in all directions, probably wondering how his day led him to the land of brassieres.

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