Page 106 of Blitzing Emily

“Not sure. I got on a plane three hours ago.”

“You must have other meetings here today.”

“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”

“Thanks.” Brandon stared at the boilermaker in front of him. “I think.”

“You’ll be highly sought after in free agency.”

“Fuckfree agency.” Brandon drained his glass again. He had no interest in getting shipped off to whatever team could write him the biggest check.

The bartender dropped off some bar snacks.

“Where’s Emily today?” Josh asked.

Brandon pulled out his smart phone. “She’s on her way to Atlanta by now. She’s doing promotion or some damn thing for upcoming performances.”

She’d be gone for three days, which meant he’d spend the next seventy-two hours doing whatever he needed to do to keep from picking up a telephone and begging her to come back.

EMILY CIRCLED THEpark-and-fly lot just outside of the airport. She wanted to park anywhere there was a chance someone wasn’t going to open their car door into hers. She hated leaving Seattle when the sun was out. Atlanta would be a huge, sticky, humid mess.

She reached out to flip on the car stereo. Maybe some music would help. The last time Brandon was in her car, though, he tuned it to the sports station. She reached out again to change the channel, and her hand froze in mid-air.

“Twitter is on fire with the news that the Sharks declined the contract extension Brandon McKenna was looking for. We’re trying to get some official confirmation. Our phone lines are burning up right now, but if you’d like to weigh in on what might be the biggest story of the Sharks’ preseason, give us a call. Will McKenna demand a trade as a result? He always said he wanted to retire a Shark, but this might be enough to make him think the grass is greener in Dallas or Green Bay. Call us.”

Emily steered into a parking place that materialized from nowhere, stepped on the brake, and pulled her phone out of her bag. Brandon didn’t answer. She scrolled through “calls received,” and hit “dial” on Josh’s phone number.

“Josh Williams.”

“Hi Josh, this is Emily Hamilton. Where is Brandon right now? He’s not answering his phone.”

EMILY WALKED INTOthe dim, old-fashioned bar area of a restaurant she hadn’t been to in at least ten years. Josh was gone. He was already on a plane, flying back to Los Angeles; one of his kids had a soccer tournament.

Brandon was hunched over the bar with a string of empty pint glasses lined up in front of him. He didn’t glance up when she slid onto the barstool next to him. “Hey, bruiser,” she said softly.

“They cut me off,” he said.

She counted four pint glasses and three shot glasses. Brandon’s eyes were red-rimmed, but he wasn’t slurring his words. Yet. The bowl of peanuts in front of him was untouched.

“Want to go home?”

“Hell, no. I want to drink.” He shook his head like he’d been caught in a rain shower. “I thought you were going to Atlanta.”

“I thought I was, too. Damn mechanical problems.” She set her handbag down on the bar.

He turned to look at her. “There was nothing wrong with that plane.”

“You’ll have to update the pilot. He was pretty convinced.” Emily nodded at the bartender. “I’d like a club soda with a twist of lime, please. Also, I’d like an appetizer or two, if there’s a menu available.”

“Coming right up.” The bartender moved away from them. She reached out and laid one hand over Brandon’s bigger, warmer one. He narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t give me any of that ‘It’s going to be okay’ shit.”

She swallowed hard. “Of course not.”

“I don’t want anything to eat. I want to get so drunk I don’t sober up for a week.”

“I guess I’m driving, then,” she said.

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