Brooklynaire

by Sarina Bowen

  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 the throat.

  “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 mezzanine level.

  No kidding—rich people get their own special place to pee. Because that’s how the world works.

  “Okay, spill, dammit,” Georgia says as she pushes open the door.

  The bathroom attendant greets us with a smile. “Good evening, ladies! How’s the game?”

  “Stressful,” I say.

  “Awesome!” Georgia argues.

  “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 paneled divider.

  “About what? And shouldn’t you be downstairs prepping for a press conference right now?”

  “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 all night.”

  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 for yourself?”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as—why did you turn bright purple a minute ago during the world’s shortest conversation with a certain person’s mom?”

  “Well…” I let out a nervous laugh. “Not purple. Red, maybe.” The bathroom attendant hands me a soft linen towel as I shut off the water.

  “Oh. My. God. You didn’t!” Her eyes are bright and shiny. “Wow. It was Bal Harbour, right? You canceled breakfast for sex with…”

  I reach up and put a palm over her mouth. “Please. A little discretion regarding my poor life choices.”

  The bathroom attendant has been hanging on every word, and now she looks disappointed.

  Georgia blinks. I remove my hand. “Oh my God,” she says again, her voice full of awe. “Wow. Florida has some powerful mojo. Who knew?”

  Not me, that’s for sure.

  “Okay.” She takes a deep breath and blows it out. “I just have one question. Was it good?”

  Ugh. Why does everyone keep asking me that? “Does it even matter? It doesn’t make my life less complicated, so it’s really beside the point.”

  “It is not at all beside the point!” Georgia says, wringing her hands. “Either you’re into him or you’re not. So which way is it?”

  “It’s not that simple. We can’t just have an office fling, Georgia. There would be consequences—more for me than for him.”

  “Well…” She leans a hip against the marble countertop and frowns. “That’s the whole problem, right? There’s an imbalance of power between you.”

  “Yes! Thank you!”

  “N—” She catches herself. “Your guy has more power than anyone else I know. But it’s also his prison. I’ll bet he can’t trust that anyone he meets will ever love him for his own sake. And since his company is his life, anyone he meets there is already in debt to him.”

  I hadn’t thought about it that way. Then again, everything else in his life goes pretty much as he pleases. “Let’s not get out the violins just yet. Nobody can have everything come easily. What would be the fun of that, anyway?”

  Georgia shrugs. “I know. Did he, uh, say he’d like to see you again sometime. Out of the office, I mean?”

  “Or bent over his desk,” I whisper. That’s another one of my fantasies. Not that I’m ever telling him.

  The bathroom attendant’s eyes get huge.

  “Oh, wow.” My best friend fans herself with the linen towel. “Remind me to always knock on doors at work.” She smiles widely.

  I mentally slap myself. “Actually, you don’t have to bother. Because I told him we need to just forget the whole thing.”

  “Oh.” Georgia looks crestfallen. “But why? Because my mind just went straight to candlelit dinners and weekends in Bermuda. Picture the dinner parties you could throw in that mansion!”

  I can’t picture it, though. “That is a fairy tale. Reality is far more awkward. What if we dated and it didn’t work out? I don’t want to live with the fallout. And besides, I wouldn’t even know how to be his…”

  “Girlfriend,” Georgia puts in.

  Even that word sounds impossible. “My psyche might not be able to wrap itself around the concept. I used to get his coffee, Georgia. I still do.”

  “Girl!” The bathroom attendant yelps. “I’ll get his coffee till the day I die if it means I get banged by a hot, rich guy in Bermuda. Whoever he is, you gotta give it a whirl. If you don’t, I’ll do it for you.”

  “She makes a really good point,” Georgia insists.

  They high-five each other and I kind of want to punch them both.

  16

  Nate

  May 15, Brooklyn

  When I was eight, I learned my first lines of computer code. One of the first lessons was how to avoid an infinite loop, where the program gets stuck, and the computer just hangs there, frozen, while you try to decide if it’s time to pull the plug and reboot.

  That’s me right now. It’s Sunday morning, and I’m lounging on the sofa in my study at home, thinking about Rebecca. I’ve been stuck in an infinite loop since that awkward conversation in my office.

  I can’t stop wondering if I made things worse. And yet I can’t figure out how I could have made them better. If I’d said more—told her I felt more—that would just put more pressure on her.

  I don’t want to be that asshole who’s chasing her at work. Women have put up with that for years. And I pride myself on running a great company, with an excellent track record for employees of all stripes.

  When I was thirteen, my mother had an awful year. She’d just gotten a promotion in the school district’s main offices. And there was this asshole who would chase her around the desk at work. My father about had a coronary. He begged her to quit, but she wouldn’t do it.

  Because the guy was a giant sleaze, he eventually got busted for solicitation, solving the problem by getting himself fired. But meanwhile, my parents were so tense. When my mom had tried to complain, the higher-ups didn’t do anything.

  I will never be that guy.

  It’s taken me a good week to realize that both Stew and Becca were right. The work thing makes this awkward. I can’t pursue her the way I’d pursue someone who didn’t work for my organization. I can’t send her flowers, invite her to dinner, or steal a kiss. I can’t do what I do best, which is to go hard after the thing I most want until I win.

  Emphasis on hard.

  If I didn’t think we could have something great, it would be easy to accept. But my gut says that she and I are amazing together. I trust my gut. It’s rarely wrong.

  But none of that matters if she doesn’t want to entertain the idea. I have to just zip my lip (and my pants). I can’t remind her how good it was, or mention how badly I want to make her moan on every surface of this oversized house.

  I must have let out a little moan myself, because Bingley jumps into the fray. “Master Nate! Is everything all right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Could you repeat that, good sir? I won’t alert the security team if there is no cause for concern.”

  “I’m fine, Bingley.”

  “Glad to hear it, sir. Can I help you with anything further?”

  I should load up a different voice module, so that he’ll stop calling me sir. It’s too much like my day job.

  On the other hand, I changed him to a Victorian Brit to amuse Becca. And
I miss Becca.

  “Bingley,” I say. “How do you get over someone?”

  “Get over a person?” he asks. “As in, pass over them in physical space or remove oneself from a romantic entanglement.”

  “The latter, Bingley. I can’t even picture the former.”

  “Just a moment, sir. I’ll perform an internet search.”

  This should be entertaining.

  “Nate, we are all fools in love. There are six hundred and twenty-two million search results for this question,” he says. “The most common suggestions are as follows. Number one, don’t bottle up your emotions. Cry as necessary. Two, acknowledge your anger, if you are angry. Three, take care of yourself in other ways. Don’t forget to eat well and exercise. Four, listen to music, especially uptempo songs. Five…”

  “Thank you, Bingley,” I sigh.

  “…Keep a journal,” he finishes.

  “A journal.”

  “Yes. A record of your thoughts and feelings, validating and exercising those emotions on the page.”

  Now there’s a document my HR department doesn’t want in the world. Dear Diary, it wasn’t until I snuck into Rebecca’s hotel room and screwed her seven ways till Sunday that I realized I was in love with her.

  Not helpful.

  As my mother says, the only way out is through. And I should be more focused on my hockey team. We’re headed to Detroit tomorrow to face off against a new rival. Meanwhile, across the country, my least favorite team is doing the same.

  “Bingley. Are there any new injury reports for the Dallas team or for Anaheim?”

  “One moment, sir… Yes. Simms will not be appearing in game one for Anaheim.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s an expression of displeasure. Ignore all fucks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Besides, I can’t decide if that’s good news or bad. I hate Dallas with all my heart and soul. So I don’t want them to get an easy win. On the other hand, if they won the Western Conference my boys could mow them down in the finals.

  Now that was an appealing little daydream. Yet not a statistically likely outcome.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket.

  “Stewart is calling, sir,” Bingley announces.

  I grab the phone, because Stewie doesn’t usually bother me on the weekend. Unlike me, he has a life. “Yeah,” I say, answering it. “What’s up, man?”

  “I’m on a golf course on Kiawah,” he says with a chuckle. “What’s up with you?”

  “Are you calling to see if I’m out giving the HR department something to fret over? Well, I’m not.” And aren’t we a study in contrasts. “I’m just lying here on the sofa, conversing with my digital assistant. As one does.”

  My old friend snorts into his phone. “Look, I’m not checking up on you. And before the players behind us get pissed off, I just had a text that we’re getting an offer for the router division tomorrow.”

  “Really?” I sit up. “From who?” It can’t be Alex, because she would call me herself.

  “Actually, from iBits Canada. The chipmaker. And they want to do a licensing deal, too.”

  “Well, that’s complicated.”

  “A little bit. Anyway—we’ll get all the deets tomorrow, okay? Just thought you’d want to know so you can plan your week.”

  “Thanks, man. Hit ‘em long and straight.”

  “As if. I’ve already lost a lifetime’s worth of balls on this course.”

  “Hold on to your balls, man.” I could never resist the obvious joke.

  “Later, nerd.”

  “Later.”

  We hang up, and I immediately feel better. Now my big brain has something to do. Except there’s just one problem. I was planning to go to Detroit tomorrow to watch hockey. And now I’m thinking that’s not going to happen.

  “Bingley—call Hugh Major for me.”

  “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

  My phone lights up in my hand, and I hear Hugh’s phone ring a moment later. “Hey, Nate,” the Bruisers’ General Manager says. “What’s happening?”

  “I’m going to pull Lauren out of the Bruisers’ office for the week. Sorry for the short notice, but I need her in Manhattan.”

  “She’ll be thrilled.” He chuckles.

  “I know, right? We probably won’t make it to Detroit this week. Can you get someone else to travel with you?” Hugh always has an assistant on the road.

  “Sure. The timing works fine, anyway. Rebecca told me forty-eight hours ago that she was just cleared to come back to work part-time.”

  “She was?” That’s the best news I’ve heard in a week. “Are you sure?”

  He chuckles again. “Of course I’m sure. I have the doctor’s note asking for a reduced schedule.”

  “There’s no such thing as a reduced schedule during the playoffs,” I point out. But I really need to shut up. It’s none of my business.

  “Got it covered, okay? I’m assigning an intern to assist Rebecca full-time. We’re bringing both of them with us to Detroit. The intern can cover the hours when Rebecca is resting. Don’t worry about any of us or the team. We look good going into this series. The guys are ready.”

  Of course they were. “Go get ‘em. See you in a few days, maybe.”

  “Later.”

  Well, okay then. Time to do some business and forget about Rebecca.

  As if.

  17

  Rebecca

  May 21, Brooklyn

  It’s almost time to leave for the stadium, and my boys are playing a little elimination soccer to pass the time. They’re all wearing suits and ties. That makes the soccer less exhilarating, though the eye candy quotient is pretty high.

  It’s great to be back at work.

  Silas has the ball. “You’re going down, captain.”

  O’Doul crosses his powerful arms over his chest and smirks at the young goalie. “You little smack talker. Kick it already.”

  He does.

  We’re standing in the warm-up room at the training facility. The puck drops in two and a half hours on game three of the third round. There’s a lot riding on tonight’s game.

  O’Doul has to leap sideways to prevent the ball from hitting the floor, but he keeps the game alive with a knee shot to Trevi.

  I have a sewing kit in my bag, as always. One of these days someone is going to split a seam.

  My gaze flits to the clock on the wall, and then to the phone in my intern’s hand. It hasn’t lit up yet to indicate that the bus is outside.

  Heidi Jo catches me looking and pulls the phone to her chest. “Now now. No peekin’,” she says.

  I want to slug her.

  My most grievous error on the day I returned to work was mentioning that I needed to limit my screen time. Who knew that such a cute little twenty-year-old could be such a dictator?

  “Oh, mercy!” she says suddenly. The phone is vibrating in her hand. “It’s time!”

  Indeed, the outside edge of my phone is lit up orange.

  “Okay, boys!” I holler, smacking my clipboard for emphasis. “Bus is waiting!”

  “You hear that, O’Doul?” Castro says. “Becca needs you to miss this next point so we can go to the stadium.”

  He snarls, and Castro uses that moment to spike the ball toward him. There’s nothing like a little friendly competition to fire up the boys before a game. It’s a warm-up activity that’s equal parts hand-eye coordination and bravado.

  I wait, trying to be patient. But we’re on a schedule here.

  “They’re so dreamy,” sighs the young woman beside me as the ball travels among the muscled men. “My mama would smack me for saying so, but I really want to climb Silas like a tree. Or maybe Castro.”

  I tune out my intern. On a scale of one to ten—where one is no big deal and ten is me almost putting her in a choke hold—she’s an eleven. And a half.

  When Hugh told me I was getting an intern, I thought that sounded like a hoot. I am,
after all, the assistant. I don’t usually have an assistant. Not since I came to Brooklyn, anyway. I thought it sounded fun.

  How wrong I was. Having Heidi Jo around is exactly like spending the week with an overeager puppy. She never shuts up, and she wants to hump everyone’s leg. She’s also cute like a puppy. Big eyes. Silky blond hair curling around her face.

  If only I could swing by Brooklyn Animal Control and kick her to the curb. Free to a good home.

  It’s possible that exhaustion is contributing to my lack of patience. On Monday morning I boarded the team jet at seven a.m. We spent four days in Detroit for two games, and now we’re Back in Brooklyn for two more.

  Now it’s Saturday night, my sixth day back at work. I’m running on black coffee and adrenaline. But there’s nothing like game night. The players are all pumped up. They won the first two games of the series, and now they’re back here with a home ice advantage.

  The soccer ball hasn’t hit the floor yet, either. As I watch, Silas uses a knee to pop the ball across the circle to Trevi, who heads it to Castro. Who kicks it to O’Doul.

  Who misses.

  “Goddamn it,” the captain chuckles.

  “Getting old sucks, man,” Silas says, risking his life.

  “Guys,” I warn. “Move it outside now before I have to open up a fresh can of whoop-ass.”

  “We don’t want that,” O’Doul says. “Let’s go, men. We all know Silas would win again, anyway. He always does.”

  O’Doul tosses the ball to Castro and then they’re on the move. They form a line as we exit the room, heading for the back exit, away from the street.

  I scurry to make it to the front of the line, with Heidi Jo on my heels.

  “Ready, miss?” asks a man in a dark suit near the door. He’s one of the security team members, but I don’t know his name.

  I peek outside, where the bus is waiting. “Let’s go,” I agree.