Page 11 of The Rebound Plan

“No can do,” she says sweetly. “Now shhh, this is important part of the lesson.”

And then she flashes anI told youlook at me, but he didn’t offer to buymea drink. He was willing to barter drinks for Ani’s incredible skill.

When we finish, I get up and stretch, my shoulders stiff and aching from holding my brush too tightly, apparently.

As I lift my arms over my head, Jake glances at my chest for a split second before beelining to the bar for another beer.

From across the room, he mimes lifting a glass at me, but I shake my head.

Ani is deeply enjoying all of this far too much.

“Stop it,” I whisper under my breath. “How long until these will dry?”

“Another hour, maybe.”

When Jake returns, though, he only has his own drink, and he’s clearly accepted that flirting isn’t going to happen tonight.

He makes the rounds of the other paintings, encouraging everyone to look at his if they want to feel better about their own, and he admits to the women next to us that he came out tonight because his fourteen-year-old daughter told him there would be lots of single ladies.

That gets a big laugh from everyone within hearing range.

“It really is more of a date thing than a single mingle,” he mutters as he returns to his easel. He looks at me with an easy,don’t worry I didn’t forget you’re marriedlook. “Your husband might have fun after all.”

The odds that Max would have fun at a place like this are negative ten million.

Jake frowns a little and looks at my face again. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

Now that he’s given up on my boobs, he recognizes me. I give him my public smile. “Are you a hockey fan? It’s possible you recognize me because of my husband. He plays for the Highlanders.”

“That’s it.” He snaps his fingers. “Both of you are WAGs, right? I'm a big fan. Of hockey, I mean. Not WAGs, although you guys are great, I’m sure.” He’s tripping over his words now, but in a fun kind of way. He really does seem like a fan. “I really like the big Scottish guy, Russ Armstrong. He came out to my kid’s school last year. He was amazing. Who are you married to?”

“Max Tilman, the captain. Ani’s husband is Jensen?—”

“Hale, of course.” Jake cuts me off, his attention now all on Ani. “He went to the same high school that my daughter’s at now.”

“I went there, too,” Ani says. “Graduated five years ago.”

“Okay, way to make me feel old,” he chuckles.

I’ve lost them to a conversation about life on the Mountain, what locals call the suburban stretch of city up on top of the escarpment that divides the city. The hockey arena is right downtown, in the heart of the grittier, more urban part of Hamilton wedged between the bay off Lake Ontario and the cliff-like ridge of the endless Niagara Escarpment.

I think about his reaction to us being wives and girlfriends—the WAGs—and also how interesting it is that a journeyman like Russ has had the biggest impact on him out of all of the hockey players, because he took the time to do community outreach that felt personal.

I find the community and business parts of professional hockey endlessly fascinating.

Jake mentioning Russ also reminds me of my text that I sent him earlier, so I pull out my phone. Still no reply.

I don’t text any of Max’s teammates that often. I introduce myself to all newcomers, of course, but Russ is like us, one of the original expansion draft members. I think our entire chat history is maybe ten messages stretching over the last year.

But he’s never left me on read before. Maybe I overstepped by offering to help. I’m pretty sure my husband has bullied him into having a team retreat at his brand-new-to-him cottage, and I just want to smooth that over as much as possible.

“I think our paintings are dry enough now we can head out if you want,” Ani says.

I put my phone away immediately and she laughs.

We say goodbye to Jake and everyone else, and hit the road.

“I think I’m going to give mine to my neighbour,” she says as we pull into her driveway.

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