Good Boy

by Sarina Bowen

  “Uh-huh. This from the girl who didn’t like to cross the middle school cafeteria alone. You used to make me walk to the girls’ room with you and wait outside.”

  “Dyson, if it’s fair to criticize the things we did in the seventh grade, I’m going to have to call you out on that awful polyester blazer with the satin lapels.”

  There’s a puff of outrage in my ear. “I was wearing it ironically.”

  Great. Now I’ve made him mad, too. Everyone is mad at everyone else. “Look, I’m really tired. Sorry to whine in your ear.”

  He sighs. “Get some sleep, Jessie. But my vote will be the same in the morning. I think he likes you. And I’m pretty sure we’ve been having this same chat since middle school.”

  Well, ouch. “Goodnight, Dyson.”

  “Night, kitty cat.”

  Two nights later I don’t really feel like going out, but I promised my brother I’d accompany him to an event thrown by the wives and girlfriends of the hockey team. Jamie is an honorary member of the WAGS club. As far as I can tell, they have two purposes. First, to drink together at every home game. Second, they do charity work. Tonight is some kind of planning session for their annual holiday Christmas party. It raises money for the same children’s hospital where I visited the cancer ward for my very first hospital assignment.

  “What are we bringing?” I ask my brother, eyeing the shopping bag under his arm.

  “I brought a couple of six-packs. The WAGS like fruity drinks. So BYOB if you want something else.”

  “I love fruity drinks.”

  We’ve arrived at a downtown apartment building with a lobby even grander than the one where my brother lives. “Whose apartment is this again?”

  “Katie and Ben Hewitt live here. Wait ’til you see this place.”

  Jamie isn’t kidding. Their pad is swanky. It has a formal entry foyer with a chandelier. A uniformed maid takes our coats. When we step into the giant room beyond, my eyes lift to find the double-height ceiling. There’s a walkway around the upper part, from which doors disappear to parts unknown.

  “Cheezus,” I whisper.

  Jamie cocks an eyebrow.

  “I mean…” I clear my throat. “This is some place.”

  The women spot us and then tackle Jamie like a tidal wave. “You came!” “You didn’t have to bring beer!” “Have a cookie!”

  Good lord. I love Jamie, but he’s not a celebrity.

  They cluck on over to me. I’m hugged and patted, too. “You look so much like him!”

  “Would you believe there’re six of us?” I ask, shaking Katie Hewitt’s hand.

  “Shut the front door!” she shrieks. “Six? Are you all gorgeous? I don’t know if the world can handle that much beauty.”

  Her words turn me into a stuttering goofball, because I’ve never been good at taking a compliment. Luckily, someone brings me a strawberry daiquiri. Jamie’s wink says, I told you so about the fruity drinks.

  But the thing is delicious, and I’ve decided that these women know how to have fun. Starving nursing students don’t party like this, and it’s a nice treat.

  I’m introduced around as “Jamie’s gorgeous sister.” Which means nothing, because everyone here is either glamorous or beautiful or both. Katie Hewitt has thick, glossy hair and diamond earrings so large that I’m surprised she can hold her head up. She’s a hoot, too. Her brand of glam isn’t Rich-and-Stuffy. It’s Let’s-Party-Like-Wild-Women. She’s wearing a custom Toronto jersey with the logo done in rhinestones, and I’d lay odds that her red lipstick was color-matched to the team’s logo. Under one arm she holds a chubby white poodle with a red bow on its curly little head.

  She’s the hostess, so I take her for the leader of this organization. But when the meeting is called to order, it’s by a dark-haired beauty named Estrella. She’s wearing a “C” on her Toronto sweater, and I can’t decide whether her husband is the team captain or if it refers to her own title.

  Because she’s clearly in charge.

  “Listen up, ladies!” she declares, banging on a daiquiri glass with an elegant silver spoon. “First, I want to thank Katie for hosting us tonight.”

  “Oh, come on, I fucking live for this!” Katie says, beaming. A cheer rises up.

  Estrella taps her spoon again, calling for order. “Now we have a very important decision to make. Which caterer do we want for the Christmas party?”

  All the carefully made-up faces around the room turn thoughtful. A young woman raises her hand. “Which one made those pigs in blankets we had at our summer party?”

  “That’s the guys at North End. But there’ll be children at this party, and hot dogs are a choking risk.”

  There are murmurs of agreement, and several heads are scratched.

  “But we can still have mini empanadas and mini quiche. So all is not lost.”

  They discuss miniaturized foodstuffs for a few minutes while I wander over to the buffet table and nibble on fancy cheese. My brother sets himself up in front of the largest TV screen I’ve ever seen, on a beanbag chair the size of Mount McKinley. He pats the space beside him, and I sit down to the familiar crunch of shifting Styrofoam.

  “God, I want this chair,” I whisper, petting the plush surface. It’s wooly and warm. “I could just live my whole life right here. It’s like a giant…”

  “Sheep,” Jamie supplies. Then he grins. “Did Blake ever tell you about his fear of sheep?”

  “His…what?” I’m thrown a little by Jamie’s mention of Blake. I don’t want my family to know about my recent frisky business with the guy. They already think I’m a screw-up and a lightweight. I don’t need to give them any more reasons to judge me.

  “Yup. He hates sheep. Can’t stand ’em. Thinks they’re dangerous.”

  I snort, and my head fills with pranks I could play on Blake. Do they make sheep underwear?

  But that only makes me think of Blake removing my clothes… Rawr.

  The WAGS have finished their caterer discussion and are ready to vote. “Jamie?” Estrella calls. “Do you want to weigh in? We’re having trouble deciding between the place with the sesame chicken on a stick and the place with the hotter waiters.”

  “Tough call,” my brother says, tearing his gaze away from the pre-game commentary. “But I’d go with the sesame chicken. The hot waiters might’ve quit. And there will be plenty of hotness in that room already.”

  More murmurs of agreement. The sesame chicken wins the vote, and then attention shifts toward the giant screen on the wall.

  “Puck drops in five!” Katie says. “Who needs a fresh drink?”

  I do. “Save my seat,” I order my brother.

  My daiquiri is topped up just as Wes and Blake take the ice together on the first line. It’s a blast watching the game in this room full of hardcore cheerleaders. When Lukoczik gets the puck on a breakaway, Estrella starts screaming. He shoots, but the goalie scoops it into his glove.

  “I love you anyway!” Estrella shouts, and everyone laughs.

  I enjoy myself immensely. Since Katie’s TV is the size of a double-decker bus, Blake seems nearly life-size every time he skates past me. My cheering for him is silent, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t heartfelt. Every time he charges down the ice I get a thrill.

  The rum in my drink has made me a little breathless and woozy. I find myself hoping Blake texts me again tonight. Or calls. His voice in my ear would sound pretty good right about now.

  When the first period ends, the camera follows the Toronto players as they exit the bench, down the chute. The lens zooms in on a pair of young women banging on the plexi, screaming like Beatles fans on the Ed Sullivan show. They’re pressing signs to the glass, and I can read them all too well. FUTURE HOCKEY WIVES! and MARRY ME, BLAKE RILEY.

  Under that? A phone number.

  That cools me off a tad. For the first time since I heard Blake’s awful story, I feel a pang of empathy for his ex. People are crazy. That marriage proposal on the poster is probably only sev
enty-five percent kidding.

  My brother opens a new beer for himself. “You’re good to stay, right?” he asks me. “This is more hockey than you usually sit through in a week.”

  “Oh, I’m having fun.”

  The second period is tense and fast. There’s a fight between Lemming and one of the Dallas forwards. The pitch of the WAGS’ shrieks is deafening until Lemming ends up on top.

  “Aren’t you glad Wes is not a fighter?” I whisper to my brother.

  “Guess so. His face will stay pretty this way.”

  Drops of blood stain the ice when the refs separate the two players. Shit. Hockey is dangerous. I wonder how the WAGS sleep at night.

  After the next face-off, Blake and Wes make a new attack. They cross the puck between them so many times I lose count. Both players get shots on goal, but it’s Wes’s that goes in. My brother leaps to his feet with a shout of victory.

  Katie runs over to hug him. “Jamie has to do a shot! It’s a rule!”

  “Why?” I ask.

  He grins at me. “Spouse of the scoring player drinks. That’s why I’m hung over the morning after a game with the WAGS.”

  Katie swiftly appears with a bottle of tequila and a shot glass.

  On the screen they call the point for Wes and the assist for Blake. Blake does his usual celly. Then he looks into the camera and winks, blowing a kiss. He clearly mouths the words, Hi, baby!

  “Whoa!” Estrella hoots. “Did you see that?”

  “What the fuck?” someone else adds.

  “What did I miss?” Katie shrieks, handing a shot and a lime wedge to Jamie.

  “Blake Riley throwing kisses! Does anyone know for who?”

  “Really?” Katie looks at the tequila bottle in her hand. “I haven’t poured a shot for a Blake Riley goal in years. Anyone have the dirt?”

  A strawberry-blonde pipes up from the corner of a leather sectional sofa the size of Lake Ontario. “I heard Blake didn’t go to the strip club last night, and when they asked him why, he said his girlfriend wouldn’t appreciate it.”

  Startled gasps reverberate through the room, and I feel heat creep up my neck. Suddenly, my fingernails become very interesting. It’s been a while since I had a manicure…

  I can feel one gaze boring into me, and it’s coming from beside me on the beanbag chair. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Jamie asks, his voice low.

  “Me?” I squeak, picking at a cuticle. “That tequila has gone to your head, baby bro.”

  The game resumes, thank God. My brother’s focus shifts elsewhere. And since Wes has a great night on the ice, Jamie is sloppy drunk by the time we get into separate cabs to go home.

  I lie in my bed and wonder if Blake’s interest in dating me has survived another night.

  It’s eleven thirty when my phone chirps. How’s my girl?

  The words warm me all the way through.

  Drunk and sleepy, I tell him. Nice assist, hot stuff.

  The phone rings, and I answer it immediately. “You watched again?” he says, his voice making me smile.

  “Yeah,” I answer, shy all of a sudden. “There was some rum involved.”

  He laughs. “Did Jamie drag you over to Katie Hewitt’s?”

  “He did.”

  “Did you do a shot for my assist?”

  Uh-oh. “I didn’t,” I admit.

  There’s a brief silence, and I expect him to give me a hard time about it. “That’s okay,” he says cheerfully. “You can make it up to me by coming to lunch with my family this Sunday.”

  “Blake,” I warn. “Didn’t you tell your mother we broke up?”

  “Nope. Because we didn’t.”

  “Is this another you-need-a-buffer-with-your-ex situation?” I ask warily.

  “Naah. Molly shouldn’t be there. It’s just an ordinary Sunday with the fam.”

  “Then why do you need me there?”

  I can almost hear him roll his eyes. “Because we’re dating. That’s what dating people do. They hang out with each other’s families. The food will be epic. And you told me you always see your family on the weekend. You can see mine instead—it’ll be nice. And since we don’t get back into town until Saturday night, Sunday is your first chance to visit with the Blake Snake, anyway.”

  I give an unladylike snort. “The…did you just call your dick the Blake Snake?”

  “Well, you haven’t named it yet. Unless we’re going with ‘Do me, Blake! Harder! Yes! Yes! Yes!’”

  Even though I’m lying here alone, I have to put my hand over my eyes. His impression of me was frighteningly accurate.

  And really, after all the orgasms he’s given me, the least I can do is go to lunch.

  So when he says, “See you Sunday, baby,” I hear myself agree.

  26 Triple Entendres

  Blake

  “Do I look like someone who just had sex in the parking lot behind a gas station?”

  I give Jess a thorough onceover. Tousled hair—check. Sexed-up flush on her cheeks—check. Beard burn on her neck—check. Oh yeah, that’s what I like to see.

  “Naw,” I answer. “You look like my girlfriend.”

  Humor dances in her brown eyes. “And just out of curiosity, what does Blake Riley’s girlfriend look like?”

  I reach over and tweak one still-hard nipple through her shirt. “Well-fucked.”

  Jess groans in frustration. “Okay, pull over at the next gas station so I can use the bathroom to clean myself up.”

  “Is that really a risk you’re willing to take, J-Babe? You know what happens when we go to gas stations.”

  Hell, I don’t think I can ever pump gas again without thinking about pumping Jess. Seeing her fill up the tank of my Hummer was such a turn-on, I had to take her right there and then. Well, not right there. I had the decency to drive to the deserted lot behind the Petro-Canada before I ravished her.

  Now we’re back on the road, making the twenty-minute drive to my folks’ place for lunch. I know she’s nervous about it, because she keeps fidgeting in the passenger seat. Me, I’m looking forward to seeing the fam and eating a home-cooked meal. This last week of road games was exhausting, and I’m sick of hotel room service.

  “Just don’t make any inappropriate double entendres when we’re there,” Jess warns as I speed off the highway exit ramp.

  “How about triple entendres?”

  “That’s not a thing.”

  “Single entendres?”

  “Also not a thing.”

  “Everything’s a thing if you make it a thing,” I disagree.

  She sighs. “I’m going to dump you one of these days.”

  I cast her my most innocent smile. “No, you’re not.” And my inner Blake—who I like to imagine is holding a tiny hockey stick—does a happy flip because her remark implies that I’ve finally worn her down. We’re dating and she knows it. You can’t dump someone you aren’t dating.

  “BLAKEY!” Mom shouts happily when Jess and I enter the house five minutes later. We’d caught her on her way to the dining room, judging by the two aluminum-foil-covered dishes in her hands.

  “Hey, Ma.” I glide over to kiss her cheek, then rid her of both casserole dishes. “Lemme help.”

  She clicks her tongue in approval. “What a good boy I raised, helping your mother like—JESSICA! I DIDN’T SEE YOU!”

  Just like that, Mom abandons me for Jess, who looks a bit stunned as she’s enveloped in a bone-crushing hug. My mom gives killer bear hugs.

  “Hi, Mrs. Riley,” Jess says shyly. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m great, honeybunch! Was cooking all morning, and everyone knows that cooking is good for the soul.” Mom fixes Jess with a stern look. “And I don’t EVER want to hear those words leaving your mouth!”

  Jess blinks. “What words?”

  “Mrs. Riley. Pshaw!” My mom slings an arm around Jess’s shoulders. “You call me Ma or Mama or Annette. ANYTHING ELSE IS UNACCEPTABLE!”

  “Note
d,” Jess says with a nervous laugh. “Thanks for having me over again, Mrs—Mama. Last time I was here I left in an honest-to-God food coma. I can’t wait for another one.”

  My mother’s expression goes bright enough to light the Air Canada Centre. She likes people who like food. So do I.

  “You’re going to love everything,” she informs Jess. “PAPA RILEY MADE RIBS!”

  “Oooh, sounds awesome.”

  Mom turns to me. “Blakey, shut the front door please. We didn’t raise an animal—” Her forehead suddenly creases.

  I turn around to see what’s got her all agitated. Through the door I’d left open, I spot a familiar silver Lexus pulling up the drive. The windows are tinted so I can’t see the driver, but… Fucking hell. The Lexus was here the day of Brenna’s baby shower, too.

  I slowly turn back to my mother. “Kyle trade in his Beemer for a Lexus?” I ask hopefully.

  She shakes her head. “He’s in the kitchen with Beth and Britt. They came together in Bethy’s car.”

  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

  “Hello, everyone.” Molly’s timid voice sounds from behind me. Those two words prick into my spine like a sharp needle.

  This is Brenna’s doing, obviously. My sister always invites Molly to every occasion known to man. But this shit is getting ridiculous. I can’t even enjoy a nice relaxing lunch with my folks without having Molly shoved down my throat?

  “Turn around and say hello,” my mother murmurs, her voice audible only to me. “She’s here now. We can’t be rude.”

  I’m not the rude one. What about her? Why the fuck does she have to keep showing up like this?

  I draw a breath to calm myself, then turn toward my ex-fiancée. “Hi,” I say tightly.

  The smile on her face looks forced. I don’t even bother trying to muster one up. Jess does, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “Hello again,” she says to Molly.

  “Hi. Janet, was it?”

  “Jess.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m so bad with names.”

  She’s a lawyer. She can pull names out of her ass. I scowl at her before glancing at Jess. “Come on, babe, let me unload these dishes, and then we’ll get you a drink.” I need a drink, too. Or ten.