Page 79 of Trick Shot
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“No, sorry,” I say to Sophie. “I was thinking about my to-do list next week. What were you saying?”
“I’m skipping dinner tonight. The place you picked is Italian, and I don’t eat pasta.”
“Okay,” I say, not bothering to point out that there are loads of non-pasta options on the menu.
“We can find a new restaurant, if you want,” Holland says, rubbing her temples. She must be as sick of Sophie as I am, but she’s much better at masking her emotions.
Sophie waves off the suggestion. “It’s fine. I’ve eaten enough processed food to last me a month since I’ve been with you two.”
I take another sip of my drink to keep my mouth from saying something nasty. Just twenty-four more fucking hours, I remind myself.
We finish our snacks and head back to the inn. I’m looking forward to an evening with just Holland, but when I step out of the shower and into our bedroom, I realize plans might have changed. My bestie is curled up in bed with a box of tissues on her lap. Her nose is red, her eyes are heavy, and she looks miserable.
“Oh, no. Did the little germ-mongers get to you?” I ask. Holland’s student teaching in an elementary school right now and the place is basically a Petri dish.
“Yes,” she says, blowing her nose. “I started to feel crummy this morning, and it just keeps getting worse.”
“Do you want tea? I think I saw a pharmacy in town. They might still be open. Should I?—”
Her arm darts out from under the covers and reaches over to her nightstand. “I have some cold and flu meds in my makeup bag. I might want tea later, but right now, I just want to sleep.”
“Done,” I say, grabbing my bag and turning out the light. I’ll have my phone on if you need me, okay?”
A muffled groan is the only response I get, so I head back into the bathroom to slip on sweats and a tee.
“You’re going out to dinner in that?” Sophie asks, her nose wrinkled as she leans over the vanity to plug in her straightener.
“Holland doesn’t feel great, so we’re staying in. What are you up to tonight?”
She smooths some product into her hair and combs it through. “There’s an art exhibit at the university. I’m meeting some friends there. It’s sold out or else I’d invite you along.”
No, she wouldn’t. And if she did, I’d decline. But we both smile politely at each other while Sophie sprays her hair.
“Have fun,” I call as she leaves. She doesn’t even bother replying and that’s fine with me.
I open my laptop and start working on notes for the article. An hour later, I’ve made decent progress when I hear my phone buzz. I’m hoping it’s Pete because we haven’t talked all day, but when I pick up my phone, the screen is empty. My phone’s fully charged, and it’s saying I have no messages. I hear another buzz, but my phone is silent. I’m not quite sure what’s happening, but when I stand up and shake my blanket out, I see a phone wedged in the couch cushions.
It’s not Holland’s phone because I saw it charging on the nightstand.
And my phone is in my hand. When I free it from the cushions, I recognize the glittery case, and I’m not surprised that it’s Sophie’s.
I am surprised by the messages I find there.
In hindsight, I could have done a lot of things when I found Sophie’s phone. I could have left it there. I could have put it on the counter for her to find when she got home. I could have texted Pete and let him know what was happening.
But I didn’t. I acted on instinct.
After checking on Holland, I slipped on my sneakers and got in the car. Using the address I found in the thread, I made it to Woodcock University in under twenty minutes. But I didn’t go to the “sold out” show at the art museum to return Sophie’s phone.
I drove to the hockey arena on the edge of campus. Why? Because that’s where Assistant Coach Dan Silva’s office is.
And according to these texts, that’s where Sophie is tonight.
It’s also where I am. Sort of.
Sophie and Dan are in his office.
