by Sarina Bowen
I’m so angry I could explode. But I finally do the smart thing. I turn around and go.
Thirteen
Your Number One Fan
Bess
“Good God,” I whisper under my breath. Even as I watch Tank disappear, my anger remains in the red zone.
I have a temper, too, but it doesn’t show up very often. Teammate-on-teammate aggression makes me insane, and when Tank’s hand yanked Jason Castro’s jersey, I’d seen red.
It’s my job to fight for my players. I don’t mind playing the heavy. It’s always better for an agent to yell in the locker room than for an athlete to do the same. Plus, people have been stereotyping me as the “fiery redhead” since I was small. I lean into this reputation sometimes, because you have to use what God has given you.
But this is why I can’t sleep with a player. This is exactly why. There’s no room in my life for divided loyalties.
“I was a dick,” Castro repeats quietly. “I’m lucky he didn’t punch me.”
“Why?” I breathe. “What the hell did you say?”
Castro looks down at his skates. “I was venting, because that game sucked the big one. I said that Tank was so useless even his wife didn’t need him anymore.”
My heart squeezes. “Jason,” I whisper. “That’s so cruel. What if you broke up with Heidi and your teammates mocked you about it?”
“I know,” he says through gritted teeth. “I never meant for him to hear it.”
That’s when all the fight runs out of me. “The game sucked,” I say, trying to find some way to empathize with my client. “You guys need more time. But where is the trust? And how are you going to build any with such a personal attack against a teammate? Your coach brought him on for a reason. Better start asking yourself why that is.”
“Okay, Bess. Message received.” He looks angry again, but probably at himself. Castro is smart. And while he’s a bit of a grump sometimes, he’s not a bad guy. “I’ll apologize.”
“Great idea,” I say softly. “If he’s smart, he’ll apologize for getting in your face.”
Castro shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Gonna shower now.”
“Fine. We’ll catch up later.”
He walks away, and I’m left standing here, feeling completely unsettled. The game did suck the big one, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I cut my losses and leave, winding my way through the bowels of the stadium until I reach the street. Traffic is a mess, and there are still dozens of spectators hoping to catch a taxi. I cross the street when the light changes and head home on foot. It’s not a long walk, except I’m wearing a goddamn dress and cute little sandals again. Only because of Tank.
I don’t plan to sleep with him again, but I got dressed up anyway. I’m wearing mascara, for fuck’s sake. To a hockey game. That’s how badly he scrambled my brain.
A thirty-year-old woman shouldn’t be as confused as I am right now.
But lately I see Tank wherever I turn. Today I was minding my own business, reading the sports headlines, and there was a photograph of a sweaty Tank taking off his helmet after this morning’s practice. “Rumors Circulate After Tankiewicz’s Departure From Dallas,” screamed the headline.
Some of the trashier blogs are still trying to tie his divorce to his trade. It’s just clickbait. My own curiosity shames me.
None of it has a thing to do with me, I remind myself as I trudge through Brooklyn. He’s not my client. And he isn’t my boyfriend. It doesn’t matter if I was half in love with him at twenty-one. It doesn’t matter if I still find him more exciting than any man on Tinder. There’s no fairy godmother who can wave all the obstacles away. I don’t really believe in those fairytales that I love so much.
I make my own luck, and always have.
Looking for a distraction, I pull out my phone to see if Eric had any late-day questions for me. And sure enough, there’s a text. You had a delivery. The courier didn’t say who this was from. But your name and our office address were on the card.
There’s a photo of a balloon bouquet. I’m your number one fan, each balloon reads.
Oh, Tank. You make it so hard to stay away from you.
I shove my phone in my bag and keep on walking.
The next day I sit down for a business meeting in Manhattan with a lip-balm company. Getting sponsorship deals for my clients is one of the ways I grow their paychecks. Last year I landed a lucrative wristwatch sponsorship for Jason Castro. I’ve also been talking to a menswear company about their hand-tailored trousers—the kind that fit over muscled hockey-player butts.
My job is pretty weird, in an awesome way.
Today’s meeting is about beeswax lip balm, the trendiness of organics, and the many faces of sport. The female executive is eyeing an eight-by-ten glossy photo of Silas. She lets out a contented little sigh. “He’ll do.”
“Right?” I say, clapping my hands. “He has a handsome face and a lovely personality. You’ll never regret working with the nicest goalie in sports.”
The fact that he’s dating a superstar goes unsaid, but it doesn’t hurt Silas’s appeal that his face has begun turning up on red carpets and in paparazzi shots. If the kid can earn an extra hundred grand stumping for organic lip balm, he should take it. Fame is mostly a pain in his ass.
“I’ll send you a contract tomorrow,” she says.
“Excellent. Can I bend your ear about one more thing?”
“Sure.” She folds her hands on the desktop. “Although we’ve found all the athletes we need at this point. We have a downhill skier, a marathoner, and now a hockey player.”
“I get that. But I saw on your website that you’re bringing out some tinted lip products this spring, so I thought you should see these ladies.” I grab another folder out of my bag and quickly place four photos on the desk.
“These aren’t professional headshots,” she says, looking them over.
“You’re right. Every one of these women is a professional hockey player. And here’s the thing—these women are the most underpaid professional athletes in the world. Their salaries are around fifteen thousand dollars a year. It doesn’t even cover their rent. You don’t know their faces, because women’s hockey is, like, the redheaded stepchild of the sports world.”
She looks up at me, frowning. “Fifteen thousand dollars? That’s criminal.”
“The league is struggling. But think about the demographics. Hockey for young girls is growing faster than boys’ hockey. And your products appeal to sporty girls, right? Besides—hiring these women for a single day’s photoshoot will elevate a sport that the world needs to see. And it makes you guys look like heroes for supporting women’s sports.”
“Interesting,” she says slowly.
“There’s so much misogyny in hockey,” I say. “But that will change. You could be a leader, and it won’t cost you much. A female athlete costs less than an Instagram influencer. Think about it.”
“I will,” she promises. “May I keep these shots?”
“Absolutely. I wrote their names on the back. And if you go to my website, you can see all the women I represent.”
I leave the meeting feeling pretty pleased with myself. Silas is getting his sponsorship, and I got to say my piece for women’s hockey.
On the corner of Sixth Avenue, I watch the tourists swarm Radio City and wonder what else I should do with my day. I pull out my phone and text Henry Kassman. Any chance we could grab a coffee? It’s been too long.
To my surprise, I get a response before I’ve walked a block. Come meet with me, Bess. We need to talk.
That sounds ominous. Henry and I usually communicate through hockey memes. But it’s not like I’m going to turn the man down. He sends me an address on East 61st street, and I head right over there. It turns out to be an apartment building, and the doorman sends me up to the penthouse suite.
I’ve never been to Henry’s home. I didn’t even know the man had one. He basically lives in the office. Odd that h
e’s here on a weekday afternoon.
When I knock on the door, it’s opened by a smiling young woman in a nurse’s uniform. “Come right this way. Henry!” she calls. “You have a visitor! Henry loves visitors.”
“That is a lie,” grumbles my mentor.
I follow her through a grand archway and into what appears to be a living room. Even though my senses are already pinging with worry, it’s a jolt to see a hospital bed set up in the center of the big room. A bigger surprise is the grey-faced, skinny shell of a man with an oxygen tube at his nose and a weak smile. “Hello, Bess. Long time no see.”
Pain and fear slice through me. It takes all my strength to force a smile. “It’s great to see you, slacker.”
“Sit, Bessie.” He waves feebly at a chair. “We have things to discuss.”
I walk over to the chair and sit down. It’s way too quiet in here. And I know I’m not going to like whatever Henry has to say.
Fourteen
Everyone but Aunt Gertie
Tank
Puckrakers Blog
“Brooklyn Opener Ends in Disappointment”
That sound you just heard was Brooklyn’s collective groan as the Bruisers failed to find the net during their entire home opener. Leo Trevi almost brought the magic on a breakaway during the second period, but the Philadelphia goalie made a highlight-reel save to deny him.
Only the brilliant netminding of Brooklyn’s Mike Beacon—and some skilled defense from captain O’Doul—kept the damage to just two goals. The offensive effort was haphazard at best, and unable to capitalize on new trade Mark Tankiewicz’s speed and maneuverability.
Things almost got ugly in the locker room afterward, when Tankiewicz’s famous temper flared up at a forward. It’s no wonder his teammates treat him like the Ebola virus when they’re on the ice together.
Maybe it’s too soon to call the Tankiewicz trade a disaster. But if the Tank can’t make some friends and influence people, it’s going to be a long season followed by a short flight for the veteran to some other team next year.
Practice lasts an eternity.
Or maybe it just seems that way, because Coach Worthington puts the same players together today—the same squad who lost together last night—and then spends two hours driving home all the ways our lack of communication lost the game.
“Don’t look for Tankiewicz to stay on the blue line,” he says. “He could be anywhere. Play the drill again.”
He must have said it a hundred times already, basically pointing out why I’m supposed to be a different kind of defenseman than their hero, O’Doul. I would feel vindicated if I weren’t so sweaty. And the irritation on the faces of all three forwards is pretty hard to miss.
I hate my life.
When we’re finally done, I don’t even try to make conversation with the exhausted men who’d endured that practice with me. I shower as fast as I can and then try to make my escape.
Unfortunately, I manage to leave the locker room area at the same time as Jason Castro.
“Hey,” he says gruffly, as we both head for the glass tunnel that leads toward the main lobby and the street.
“Hey,” is the only reply I can think of.
“If you’re free the night after next, we’re all putting together some furniture for Silas’s girlfriend. She’s moving in down the hall.”
I blink in surprise, because it sounds like he’s asking for my help. “The singer?” I ask after a beat.
“Right. She just bought Dave Beringer’s apartment. So we could use one more set of hands. Delilah’s buying pizza afterward.”
“Oh. Sure. I’ll bring some beer,” I stammer.
“You know the address? 220 Water Street. We’re meeting up at my place. Just tell the doorman that you’re there to help with the move.”
“You got it,” I say as we step out onto the street. “I won’t forget.” But I wonder if somebody made him invite me, like it’s a middle school birthday party.
He stops when we reach the sidewalk. “Look, I’m sorry about that crack I made last night. That was egregious, and I shouldn’t have taken my personal bullshit out on you.”
Once again I’m startled, because it almost sounds like he means it. “Dude, don’t worry about it. Especially because it was true. The wife has no use for me. Dallas, though? They should know better.”
“Jesus.” Castro chokes on his laughter. “What happened there? Did they fuck up their salary cap?”
“That’s only part of it,” I admit. “After last season, there was some unhealthy scapegoating. Palacio blamed everyone but his Aunt Gertie for losing that second-round game to L.A.”
Castro sneers. “Is he as big a tool as he seems?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but then I realize I don’t have to anymore. “Let’s just say that if he’s moving furniture and having pizza, I’m finding a reason I need to be anywhere else.”
“Bummer. And you were co-captains?”
“Sure. On ice it’s different, you know? You don’t have to like a guy to play well together.”
“Uh-huh.” He looks like he doesn’t believe me, though. He’s twenty-four or twenty-five, and Brooklyn is the only big-league team he’s ever played for. He doesn’t know any different.
I’ll have to remember that.
“Every interaction I had with Palacio,” Castro says, “made me think he’s a big bag of dicks.”
“A big bag of dicks who can score,” I point out.
“Can we beat them in January?”
“God, I hope so.”
Castro grins. “Good. See you tomorrow.” He turns on his Chuck T’s and strides off toward Water Street.
On the walk back to the hotel, I check my texts. There’s two of them, and I have this moment of happiness, because I’m expecting to maybe hear from Bess. Honestly, I’m like a school boy with a crush. I can’t stop thinking about her, and I keep wondering when I’ll get to see her again.
A month ago I would have told you that I was too jaded to have a hot fling so soon after the end of my marriage. Sex was just about the last thing on my mind. But this week it’s practically all I think about.
Unfortunately, none of my messages are from her.
When I arrive at my hotel, the concierge offers me a fluffy croissant. I decline, because sometimes a guy needs some protein. “Do you have a recommendation for a Tex-Mex place that delivers?”
“Of course. This one is my favorite.” He opens a desk drawer and then hands me a printed menu. “The pork tacos are divine.”
“Thank you. Appreciate it.” I take the menu and head upstairs. The bed in my room has been made, and my clothes are folded in a pile.
Maybe I could just live here forever. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with the reality of my new life. I flop down on the bed to peruse the menu. I’m just about to place an order when someone knocks on my door.
That’s weird. It’s not like I have friends.
When I open the door, I’m stunned to find Bess Beringer standing there in tight black slacks and a flowing wine-colored blouse that shows a hint of cleavage. Well, hello. A single glimpse of her makes my body tighten. I’ve been thinking about her for days. Even when she yelled at me last night, it barely made a dent in my libido.
I’m about to make a sleazy crack about having a nooner when I notice her pinched expression and agitated body language. So I merely hold the door open wider.
“I fucked up,” she says, stepping through the door.
“Okay? Is this about last night? ’Cause I’m over it already.”
“No,” she says, and her voice is so low that I start to worry.
“Come sit.” I walk over to the sofa and perch on the arm, hoping I haven’t upset her somehow. But I can’t think of what I might have done. All I did was send her some campy balloons.
“You asked me yesterday if I’d prodded Henry Kassman about your setup in Brooklyn.” She sits down heavily.
“Yeah?” I say lightly. “But I got a fruit
basket out of it.” I point at the desk near the window, where an orange and a gourmet granola bar are the only things I haven’t already chowed.
“Well, I’m guilty. It was me who wrote him several lengthy texts about how you were struggling. Just because you’re a veteran and a solid guy, doesn’t mean you didn’t need a lot more attention. I criticized the hotel location. I asked Kassman if he was paying attention.” Her voice cracks.
“Okay, Bess. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Yes, it is! He’s my mentor,” she says shakily. “I’ve never criticized him before. Not once. At least, I don’t think I have.”
“Is he angry?” I ask gently. “I’m sure he’ll get over it.”
“I stuck my foot in where I shouldn’t have. He’s dying, Tank.” She whirls on me. “Did you know?”
“Oh. Fuck.” My heart sinks. Poor Henry. “No, he hasn’t told me a thing. But I wondered if something was up.” Bess was right—it’s not like Kassman to stay away. I’ve been in New York for a month already, and I haven’t seen his face. “What’s wrong with him? Is it cancer?”
She shakes her head violently. “Heart failure,” she snarls. “That’s it. Apparently your heart can just stop working for no reason at all.”
“Oh, God.” My mind whirls. “Could he maybe get a—”
“Transplant? No. I asked. He’s not a good candidate for some reason.” Her fists are clenched, and her brow is creased with anger. As if she plans to grab heart failure by both hands and knee it in the nuts.
“Bess,” I whisper. “Take a breath.”
“Why?” she shrieks. “I told a dying man that he was taking poor care of his client. I should have asked him if he was okay. I just expected him to live forever! And the worst part is that I am still thinking about myself! Who am I going to call when I’m confused about something in a contract?”