Page 113 of Brooklynaire
“That sure sucked for the bossman,” Castro says as we reach the corner. “Wouldn’t want the whole world knowing my ex dumped me for a meathead likePalacio.”
“People say he’s adick,” Heidi Jo chimesin.
“Bec, did you know her?” Silasasks.
We wait to cross Atlantic Avenue, and I consider the question. “A little. Spoke to her on the phone a couple times a day. Saw her once or twice a week. But just small talk, you know? Shocked the hell out of me when they brokeup.”
“You’re a pretty good judge of character,” Castro says. “You likedher?”
“Nope,” I say immediately. “But I can’t even saywhy.”
Heidi Jo smirks, and I give her a look ofwarning.
“Nate’s prolly hitting the whiskey tonight,” Castro says. “Bet he won’t turn up at the bar, though. Not after that bullshit. Everyone knows how much he hates Dallas; now we knowwhy.”
My heart sinks. “Because Dallas issmug,” I argue. “If Nate wanted revenge on a guy, you really think buying a team is an efficient strategy? He’d probably just make the guy’s phone run at a quarter the normal speed, or write a script that gave him zits in every photo on theinternet.”
My three friends burst outlaughing.
But I wasn’t joking. And I can’t stand the idea of Nate brooding in his empty house alone. “You know, I think I’m too wiped for The Tavern. I’ll see you guyslater?”
“Want us to walk you home?” Castro asks, always thegentleman.
“Nope, I’m good!” I say cheerily. I back away from them slowly.Nothing to seehere.
Heidi Jo chuckles. “Get somerest.” Shewinks.
I turn and jog down Atlantic, toward thePromenade.
27
Nate
June 10, Brooklyn
My den isdark as I enter the room. But the moment I walk in, soft lighting switcheson.
“Hullo, Master Nate,” Bingley says. “Would you like thetelevision?”
“God, no.” Given the press conference debacle, I may never watch again. “Pour me a Scotch, wouldyou?”
“Sorry, sir. I have not the talent which some people possess. That is beyond mycapabilities.”
“I know, Bingley. Just wondered what you’d say.” Just another night in singlesville, joking with a bot. Party on. Good thing there’s a hidden bar in the corner of this room. I open a walnut cabinet and take out a glass and a bottle of Macallan 18. I pour myself two fingers of Scotch and kick off myshoes.
Then I sit down and take a sip. It burns goingdown.
I shouldn’t care what’s written about me in some rag of a newspaper. Whether we win the Cup or not, the hockey team is a labor of love. People said I couldn’t turn the franchise around. And yet I did exactly that with good management and great coaching. And I did it in two shortyears.
They were floundering before I bought the team. And now they’re not. Theend.
But the article stings. Juliet left me for an athlete, and I don’t want people to read that andlaugh.
My phone rings in my pocket—my mother’s ringtone. I ignore it. She’ll say nice things to me, but I don’t want to hear them. But she starts texting meanyway.
What just happened? Do you think this is Juliet’swork?
I doubt it, but my mother never likedher.
