Overnight Sensation

by Sarina Bowen

  Everyone looks pale and horrible right after surgery. I know this. But it plucks my heartstrings to see this powerful man—a seventeen-year veteran of the NHL—laid out like this, his knee bandaged up, an IV in his arm. “Oh my,” I say softly, slipping into the chair beside him. I take his hand and give it a squeeze.

  He opens his eyes and squints at me. “I’m okay, angel,” he slurs. “They have really good drugs here.”

  “I’m sure they do,” I agree. “Just wish you didn’t need them.”

  “Me too,” he grunts. “It’s gonna be a while until they let me out of here.”

  “I know that,” I explain, releasing his hand. “Just didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

  His hand lands on top of my head. “You’re a good girl, Heidi Jo.”

  “Everyone says so,” I grumble.

  “It’s a good thing to be,” he slurs. “You won’t end up all alone like me.”

  Oh my. Anesthesia is its own kind of truth serum, and he’s still under the influence. “How’s your pain?”

  “Fine. I’m a tough old stone, Heidi. Probably out for the season, though.”

  “What? That’s terrible!”

  He doesn’t answer. He just pats me clumsily on the head.

  While he dozes, I pull out my laptop and get to work trying to figure out how to solve Jason’s Western Union problem. I have his credit card in my pocket, as well as an email and the scribbled destination, torn from the magazine. I can do the whole transaction online, although it doesn’t work the way he thought. There’s nowhere to input the pickup location.

  “Bayer?” I ask.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Do you know how Western Union works?”

  “Is that a hockey team?”

  I’m taking that as a no. So I do some more research and figure it out myself. Then I email Jason.

  To: Jason Castro

  From: Heidi Jo Pepper

  Sir—Western Union doesn’t work exactly the way that you implied. You don’t need to give them a pickup destination. Instead, you need to tell Mrs. Jolene Skinner to bring her ID to any Western Union location and give them tracking number KP7742-11.

  Paying with a credit card cost you $26. Sorry. They asked me if I wanted to charge the recipient for the fee and I said no. I figure I’ll just spend $26 less on your grocery list. Those blueberry waffles you asked for have too much sugar anyway.

  Beat Denver.

  Your humble servant, HJP

  The nurses come back to Bayer’s bedside and lift the bed to a sitting position. He gives me a wobbly grin and a thumbs-up.

  “Once you’re taking liquids, and you’re able to urinate, we can send you home,” the head nurse says.

  “Roger that.” His eyelids drift closed.

  I get an email from Jason not five minutes later.

  From: Jason Castro

  To: Heidi Jo Pepper

  Thank you so much for handling the wire transfer! I really appreciate it—and it’s fine that I paid the $26. I felt like a dick for forgetting to handle it myself. But I got really distracted Saturday night. It’s basically your fault, now that I think about it.

  That’s a joke, okay? And it had better be a joke that you’re saving money on waffles. What is the point of shopping for me if you’re leaving out my favorite things?

  —JC

  From: Heidi Jo Pepper

  To: Jason Castro

  I’m great! I’m super busy getting everything the players asked for, and looking at apartments in Queens and the Bronx.

  The waffles will appear and so will your dry cleaning. They couldn’t get the pizza stain out of your red tie, but honestly the world is better off without that old thing. You’re replacing it with something nicer from Barneys.

  You also need some new shirts. Just saying. The blue striped one is particularly ragged. What’s your shirt budget, is $2000 too much?

  —H

  From: Jason Castro

  To: Heidi Jo Pepper

  $2000? You can’t be serious. And don’t toss the striped shirt! We beat Dallas twice when I was wearing that. Seriously, don’t toss it. Don’t toss anything. I don’t know which tie you mean because they all have pizza stains. The one with kittens on it is lucky against Tampa.

  Leave the clothes alone, okay?

  —J

  I let out a cackle.

  “What’s so funny?” Bayer asks in a perkier voice.

  “Jason Castro is the most gullible man in sports. It’s a miracle his opponents don’t deke him on every single play.”

  Bayer tips his head to the side and studies me. “I think he’s a cynical kid. Reminds me of myself. Except where you’re concerned, maybe.”

  I squint at him. “I don’t know what you mean.” Those meds are still impairing his brain. And now my phone is ringing, and I have to dive into my bag to shut it up before the nurses eject me. And it’s him!

  “Hello?” I whisper into the receiver. “Jason?”

  “Heidi? Why are you whispering?”

  Oh my. A now familiar tingle rolls over me as Jason’s deep voice reaches me from afar. “I’m in a very posh store,” I whisper. “On Fifth Avenue. Did you know there were silk ties with actual gold threads in them? They’re beautiful. I think you should buy one. Five grand isn’t too much, right?”

  “For a tie?” There’s horror in his voice. “My clothes are fine, Heidi. I just need the dry cleaning. Don’t throw anything away. I know some of my things are looking worn, but you won’t know which ones are lucky.”

  “You, sir,” I whisper, “are hilarious. And it’s a little too much fun to tease you. I’m not going to throw away a single thing. I was kidding about that.”

  He exhales into the phone. “Okay, thank you. And also thanks for taking care of that other thing even though I gave you shitty instructions.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Jason Castro.” And, whoops! That comes out sounding flirty and dangerous. I need to dial it down.

  He lets out a sound that might be a groan. “I better go. You take care of yourself.”

  “Oh, I will. Are you sure you don’t want a purple silk tie with little golden stripes…”

  “No,” he says briskly. “O’Doul is waving me down.”

  “Bye, killer.”

  “Bye, Hot Pepper.”

  Bayer is grinning at me and sipping water through a straw. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “What’s the deal with you and Castro?” Bayer asks immediately.

  “Nothing.” My voice cracks on the word, because I’m a terrible liar. “Why?”

  He rolls his eyes, and I’m pleased to see a little color returning to his face. “He can never stop staring at you, for starters. And why did he sound like a stammering teenager on the phone just now?”

  I give him a stern look. “Don’t eavesdrop on my calls, or I won’t spring you from this hospital.”

  He laughs again.

  Pro athletes are not to be underestimated. Who else can be charming and infuriating ten minutes post-op?

  After another hour, Bayer passes all the nurses’ tests, including a very slow trip to the men’s room on crutches. “Don’t watch me walk away,” he says as they ease him off the bed.

  “Why not…oh.” I get a glimpse of his bare ass through the open halves of the hospital gown.

  “Your girlfriend can wait outside now,” the nurse says. “You’ll be out of here in thirty minutes tops.”

  Bayer cackles as he shuffles towards the john. “Be honest. Do you think she’s too young for me?” He gives me a wink over his shoulder.

  “No comment,” the nurse says.

  Eventually, we’re set free. I get a taxi for Bayer, his new crutches, his pain medication, and ten pages of instructions. Bayer grits his teeth every time the car goes over a little bump in the asphalt. But he looks a lot happier as we ride the elevator inside the Million Dollar Dorm.

  Luckily, Bayer lives on the third floor—the same one as Cas
tro and Jason. That’ll make it easy for me to keep an eye on him tonight. But when we walk into his apartment, I see that it’s configured completely differently. Bayer has a duplex—there’s a set of spiral stairs up to his loft bedroom.

  “Wow, this is super cool,” I gush, turning around in the open space. “But you can’t climb those stairs tonight.” And tomorrow doesn’t look good, either.

  He crutches into the center of the living area. “I have the sofa.”

  “Does it fold out?”

  “Sure does.”

  Still. My own knee throbs in sympathy at the idea of six-three Bayer on a sofa bed. “Tonight I’ll help you set it up. But first let’s find you some lunch. Could you eat?”

  “Always,” he says.

  I get him situated in a chair with a footstool propping up his knee. Then I order lunch from the ramen place near the waterfront.

  We eat noodles together in companionable silence. “You don’t have to babysit me, kid,” he says as he takes a sip of the ice water I brought him. “This isn’t my first knee surgery.”

  “I know that. And I promise you I’m leaving for a few hours to do some work for my boys. But I’m right down the hall. I’ll be over later to change the bandages.”

  His eyes widen. “Really? I hate that part.”

  “Of course. That’s on page two of the instructions.” I get the paperwork out of my bag and set it on the coffee table. “Hey—I should check to see if the money Jason sent was picked up.” I pull out my laptop. “It’s for some lady in Minnesota. His family, maybe?”

  Bayer shakes his head. “That kid is such a fucking martyr.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well…” Bayer frowns, as if he’s not sure if he should say. “If he’s sending money to Minnesota, it’s for the dead girlfriend’s mother. She treats him like an ATM.”

  “His dead…” I can’t bring myself to say it.

  Bayer’s eyes widen. “You don’t know that story?” He shakes his head. “It’s not mine to tell. But it explains a lot about that boy. He’s only twenty-five, but he thinks it’s totally fine to be alone.” Bayer waves a hand around his apartment. “This is where he’ll be. Paying someone to bring him home from the hospital after his last knee surgery.”

  “Hey! You’re not paying me.”

  “Sure I am.”

  “No way, dude.” He gives me that smile that so many people do—the one that implies I’ve said something cute. Usually it drives me crazy, but somehow I don’t mind when it comes from him. “I was never billing you for this. We’re friends, right?”

  He tips his head to the side and considers me. “Yeah, we are. You’re a great friend, Heidi Jo Pepper. I just hope that dumbass Castro gets his head out of his ass and tells you how he really feels.”

  I have no response, because I can’t imagine that Jason has anything to say to me on the subject. “I need to run now. You need anything, you text me.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Don’t take any risks with that knee, okay? I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “Got it.” He salutes me. “Go forth and conquer the shops of Brooklyn.”

  So I do. An hour later I’m standing in a tailoring shop in Brooklyn Heights, picking up a dress for Ariana, the team massage therapist. “You’re a lifesaver, Heidi!” she’d said when I confirmed her request.

  Hey, maybe I’m not curing cancer, but at least I make busy people happy.

  As I wait for the tailor to charge my credit card, I get a text message from my sister Jana. The blogs love Jason Castro. And he sure is nice to look at!

  My heart ricochets. There can’t be another picture of Jason and me, can there?

  I click on the link, and it takes me to a blog called Puckrakers. The first thing that loads is the headline, “Hockey’s Latin Lover Strikes Again.”

  I roll my eyes. That’s so trite, and racist, too. But when the photo snaps into focus on the screen, I gasp for a completely different reason. My sister was right—it’s a very attractive photo of Jason. Except that he’s arm-in-arm with a gorgeous brunette. He’s smiling at her, while she eyes the camera with laughing eyes.

  I want to punch her in the throat. No—scratch that. I want to punch Jason in the throat. Or maybe the nuts. Because according to the caption, this photo was taken on Sunday night, after the Chicago game.

  A mere twenty-four hours after I handed him the remote control to my entertainment center.

  “Um, miss?" The tailor’s assistant is staring at me, possibly because I’ve begun growling like an angry honey badger.

  “Yes?” I snap.

  The poor thing slides my credit-card slip across the counter with a wary expression. I sign it hastily, thank her, and leave the store.

  Breathe, I coach myself as I step outside. The October air is cool and fresh, and I can see lower Manhattan in the distance across the river. Nothing has changed. It doesn’t matter.

  This was inevitable, really. He warned me. I slept with him, anyway. I made that choice, and now I’ll have to live with it.

  I don’t, however, have to like it.

  21

  Jason

  To make it in professional sports, you have to drink your own Kool-Aid. You have to invent your winning narrative and never question it. That puck isn’t going into the net if I don’t believe it will. The game can’t be won unless I believe it’s possible.

  In Denver, I believe.

  And I’m en fuego. Now that I’m back to believing that the puck can find my stick and then the net, it does. Twice. I feel unstoppable in the third period. I run the opponent so ragged that Campeau gets his first goal of the season.

  Tonight is Silas’s victory, too. Coach is putting him in goal more often and resting Beacon, our star goalie. To make it to the playoffs again, we’ll need depth everywhere.

  And it all feels possible.

  “Everything is right with the world,” I say to my roommate as we touch beer glasses in the hotel bar.

  “It was a good night for Apartment 302,” Silas agrees. “I’m so tired, though. Can’t wait to go home tomorrow. The apartment will be clean, because Esme is back from Puerto Rico. And the groceries will be stocked, because Heidi is a goddess.”

  “Mmm,” I say, picturing Heidi’s face for the millionth time. It’s been three days now and I still can’t stop thinking about her. The idea of her flitting around our apartment is surprisingly appealing.

  I know I gave her a whole speech about one-and-done. But now that seems hasty. It doesn’t help that I’m full of post-game adrenaline. I’d like to exorcise this buzzy feeling in my veins by getting her very naked and demonstrating my appreciation.

  I pull out my phone and text her. Thanks again for helping with my Western Union thing. The recipient got the cash and is happy. Also I forgot to tell you that my nephew loved the bear.

  She doesn’t respond right away. A couple of women approach Silas and me, asking for autographs.

  “Great game,” says the smiliest one. “Well done tonight.”

  “Thanks,” I say, signing her cocktail napkin. “It was fun.”

  I don’t invite her to sit down, though. Any other night I might have, but I’m waiting for a text from Heidi and nobody else will do.

  It takes a while until I can check my phone for Heidi’s response. When I finally read it, I’m instantly disappointed. She wrote: Glad to hear it.

  “Four words?” I yelp, staring at the screen.

  “What’s the matter?” Silas says, waving down the bartender for a check.

  “Nothing.” I shove the phone in my pocket. “Let’s call it a night. I’m so tired I can’t feel my legs.”

  I can’t believe Heidi didn’t comment on our victory. Didn’t she tell me to beat Denver? And didn’t I just make Denver cry?

  What is going on in that girl’s head? Maybe I’ll go upstairs and call her.

  “You know it’s after one in the morning in Brooklyn,” Silas says as he slides off the bars
tool. I swear he reads my thoughts.

  “Oh. Shit. And get out of my brain.”

  He grins. “You are so goddamn entertaining. I should sell tickets.”

  “Fuck you,” I say, and he laughs so hard I want to smack him.

  We land Thursday at one p.m., and there’s a meeting with the offensive coordinator at three. So I only have time for lunch and for dropping my luggage off in my sparkling apartment.

  Heidi isn’t there. But I leave her a note on the coffee table. We’re home! I’d love to catch up with you. Text me if you want to catch up later.

  Hours pass, and I get no response. None.

  I don’t make it home again until evening, because the guys drag me out for a fried-chicken dinner. I text Heidi to see if she wants to meet us at the restaurant.

  Again—no response.

  After the check is paid, the boys want to head over to the whiskey bar. “I’m beat,” I tell them, peeling off from the group.

  “Night, weakling,” O’Doul says with a laugh.

  I don’t even give him the finger. I just walk home by myself. When I open the apartment door, the living room is dark, and I only hear silence. My disappointment is swift and fierce.

  But then I spot a glow of light coming from the open door to my bathroom. Hope springs up inside my chest so fast I can’t even believe it.

  Now there’s something to contemplate later.

  Kicking off my shoes, I walk on silent feet toward the bathroom. And then I’m rewarded—Heidi is there, humming to herself while she picks up about fifty different beauty products she’s scattered around my bathroom. One by one she’s dropping them into a quilted overnight bag.

  My happy buzz dies instantly. “Going somewhere?” I ask.

  She lets out a shriek, whirls around, and lunges at me with a hairbrush.

  “Ow!” I yelp as the brush connects with my chest. “What the hell?”

  “Jason!” she squeaks. “You scared the bejesus out of me. Don’t sneak up on a girl!”