Page 48 of Call the Shots
Hesitantly, she took the enormous goalie glove. “Why do they call you Fridge?”
“Want to take a guess?”
“Because…” The blush darkened. “Because you’re so big?”
“That and I’m full of deliciousness and a necessity at your place.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket—Cleo.Thank you, stars aligning, because with her in meetings, I didn’t know what I was supposed to give Tallulah. I stepped away from them, careful to keep the call quiet. “Cleo, the interview’s for twenty minutes?—”
“I have a camera man,” she barked. “I’m stealing—borrowing him from the Romans!”
“She’s going to leave?—”
“Keep the reporter there! Give me ten minutes!”
How the hell was I supposed to do that? I glanced over my shoulder to see Fridge and Tallulah. The two of them weremaybe six inches apart, Fridge whispering something to her, relaxing against the rink.
Oh.
Bear opened his dumb, stupid mouth. “Fridge, aren’t we doing warmups?”
“Bear.” I directed him over until I could grab his jersey. “Get Montoya.”
“I’m practicing?—”
“I drove to Vernon’s house last night and went through his dumpsters. I foundnothing!Do you understand this? We don’t have a way to get rid of him, we need a win!” I gestured towards Tallulah. “This interview could be it!”
“You went through Vernon’s garbage?”
“Get Montoya!” I hissed.
Grumbling under his breath, Bear brought Montoya. I basically shoved him to Tallulah. “Here! Youngest hockey player on our team,ooo!Ask him questions!”
Montoya shrank back. “I’m not good at interviews?—”
“You’ll be fine!”
After I explained the plan to Fridge, he did more than stall Tallulah. I could see Tallulah melting in real time while Fridge hovered close, his words soft. God, he was good.
Bear shook his head. “What are you doing, killer?”
“Don’t call me that. Don’t make it a thing.” I punched the air when I got Cleo’s text, confirming she was in the parking lot. “If Marrs won’t give us advertising, we’ll create some, dammit!”
From the eighthpage to a small snippet on their website, it was all I was thinking about on my drive to myparents’ house. We were getting the team together, but it was such an uphill climb.
“Nothing’s ever easy, June,” I mumbled.
Frederick and Cynthia Basil lived on a sprawling estate that didn’t match how much Houston city council members made. My family lived comfortably from fortunes on both sides. My mom’s family heavy in politics, and my dad’s family in international shipping companies.
“Look who decided to come home,” my sister, December, joked, holding one of my nephews. “Mama says you abandoned her.”
It was meant as a quip, but I winced, heading inside to see my family surrounding the dining table, discussing the group photo for today.
My older siblings were talented entrepreneurs who handled equally sprawling families and careers, essential parts of Houstonian culture, while my younger siblings were acing classes, popular student-athletes, and darlings in my parents’ eyes.
And there was me. June.
Who still wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with her life, who’d been skipping a lot of family stuff since January.
