Page 27 of I'm Your Guy
“Uh-oh,” he grumbles. “That’s Vancouver’s motto.”
My blood pressure doubles. And then I realize he’s grinning. “Are you fucking with me right now? Seriously?”
“Sorry.” He chuckles. “Couldn’t resist.”
Rigo laughs, and I feel like pushing over his ladder. “Hey, DiCosta,” he says. “What do you think of Vancouver’s new goalie?”
The two of them start nattering on about hockey. But with all three of us painting, we’re getting the work done ahead of schedule.
My belly is full of pizza, I’m gainfully employed, and Secret Garden is a kickass accent color.
Honestly, things could really be worse.
ELEVEN
Tommaso
“How bad are we talking about?” Bess asks as I pull into a parking garage in Cherry Creek. “Bad enough to get taken off the roster in Nashville?”
“No, no,” I say quickly. “In retrospect, it was just a bad day. Coach wasn’t pleased with my performance. But it isn’t the end of the world. I didn’t need to call you. I just, uh, panicked. Sorry.”
“You can always call me,” she says smoothly. “And everybody has a bad practice once in a while. But why did this one feel like a catastrophe?”
“I dunno,” I mumble, looking for an empty parking spot. “After the third time I blew a drill, Coach looked pissed. I thought you might hear from him.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“That’s a relief.” I honestly don’t know why I called my agent. But my anxiety has roared back to life this week, and it makes everything seem like a disaster. “I’d better go and let you get on with your day.”
“Where did you say you were headed?” Bess asks as I pull into a space.
“I’m shopping for furniture again.”
“God, I’m sorry,” she says. “You have my thoughts and prayers.”
“Thanks. I did what you said, though. I hired a guy to help me with it.”
“Oh! See? I knew you were smart.”
“You’re the only one who thinks so.”
“I doubt that. But, Tommaso, before I let you go, you should know that the publicist—Tate—is on my case.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah. He wants me to convince you to do this photo shoot. Apparently, you told him you’d think about it, and the poor man doesn’t seem to realize you’re blowing him off.”
I snort. “If I say no, he’ll just argue.”
“Hearing you. The problem is that his argument has merit. We all want to see your reputation improve. There’s a reason I can’t find you any lucrative endorsements. And that reason is…”
“Photographs of me punching a family member. I already know this.”
“As I said, you’re a smart man, and I’m sure you had your reasons. But if you never tell anybody what they are, then the Tates of the world won’t leave this alone.”
“Loud and clear, Bess.” But my stomach gives an uncomfortable twist, because I’m never sharing my story.
Everybody says they want to hear it, but they really don’t. Everyone has always let my uncle get away with his racist, homophobic bullshit, because he knows how to win hockey games. And it’s the same with his son’s blatant bullying.
