Page 69 of Brooklynaire
“Whew,” I say, sipping my soda. I turn my back on Nate and his parents so I won’t be tempted to stare athim.
“So what’s your deal?” Georgia asksme.
“What do youmean?”
“Why were you late to the game?” Georgia grabs my wrist. “Come with me to the ladies’ room. I have a few questions foryou.”
That sounds ominous. And then it gets worse. While Georgia fetches her handbag, Mrs. Kattenberger runs over to give me a hug. “Rebecca! It’s good to see you on yourfeet!”
Nate’s mom is so nice, and I feel an immediate flare of Catholic schoolgirl guilt just standing in front of her. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll befine.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that Nate told his mother about my head injury. Nate and his mom are close. But still, I’m fascinated. He probably doesn’t tell his mom every detail of his two thousand employees’lives.
It’s something to think aboutlater.
“I’ve had better months,” I add with a nervous smile. “But I’m doing better everyday.”
“You poor thing! What have you been doing to keep yourselfbusy?”
Your son. The words just pop right into my head. And I can’t help wondering what she’d say if she knew. “This and that,” I say carefully. And then I look up to see that Nate has appeared over his mother’sshoulder.
But his eyes reveal nothing. If he heard my comment, or saw my face flush, there’s no sign of it. And that’s good, right? I asked Nate to tamp it down. And hehas.
All the waydown.
“This game is so stressful!” I say, and my voice isshrill.
Mrs. Kattenberger reaches out and squeezes my hand. “It is!” sheagrees.
Nate ducks his chin and turns away, greeting a young woman I’ve never seen before. There is a constant stream of business people in Nate’s box during games. An invitation to the owner’s box is a coveted thing, and I’m sure they’re doled out to whomever KTech most needs to impress at thetime.
Still. I hate the smile he gives this woman in a suit. She’s wearing heels, not Converse sneakers. I feel about a foot shorter than she is. And when she leans in to touch his arm and then laugh at a joke, I have the irrational urge to punch her in thethroat.
“Uh, Bec?” Georgia has appeared at my elbow. She frowns at me, then steers me out into the corridor. I take a deep breath and let it out as I follow her down the hall toward the posh ladies’ room serving the luxury boxes on the mezzaninelevel.
No kidding—rich people get their own special place to pee. Because that’s how the worldworks.
“Okay, spill, dammit,” Georgia says as she pushes open thedoor.
The bathroom attendant greets us with a smile. “Good evening, ladies! How’s thegame?”
“Stressful,” Isay.
“Awesome!” Georgiaargues.
“Maybe for you! You’re the one whose honey just scored. So you’ll be scoring later,too.”
“About that,” Georgia says as we take adjacent stalls and latch our respective doors. “I’m waiting for you to fill me in.” Her voice floats above the walnut paneleddivider.
“About what? And shouldn’t you be downstairs prepping for a press conference rightnow?”
“Don’t you dodge me, missy. Danny is setting up the conference tonight, anyway. He’s in training.” She flushes. “So spill already. I’ve got allnight.”
Damn her. I consider hiding here in the stall for the rest of the evening. But that’s too chickenshit, even for me. When I emerge to wash my hands, she’s waiting. “Don’t you have anything to say foryourself?”
“Suchas?”
“Such as—why did you turn bright purple a minute ago during the world’s shortest conversation with a certain person’smom?”
