Page 107 of Blitzing Emily

Emily’s club soda with a twist of lime appeared, and the bartender brought one for Brandon, too. Brandon studiously ignored it. He asked for another Guinness with a shot of Jameson’s.

“You know I can’t serve you if you’re drunk,” the bartender said.

Brandon fixed laser eyes on him. “I’m not drunk.”

“Trust me. You’re drunk.” The guy moved the second glass of club soda in Brandon’s direction. “Maybe you should talk about it. The booze won’t fix it.”

The look on Brandon’s face was murderous. Emily slipped both hands through his arm.

“Take it easy,” she said into his ear.

“Maybe we should leave this dump. I can drink as much as I want at my house.”

A platter of meatball sliders landed on the bar in front of them, along with saucers, silverware, and napkins. The bartender moved away. Emily arranged two sliders on a saucer, grabbed a napkin, and put them down in front of Brandon.

“Eat.”

“Not hungry.”

“If you don’t eat, I’ll check you into a hotel without an honor bar. You are not throwing up all over my house, Brandon McKenna.”

“Who said I was going to your house?” He took a bite of one of the sliders.

“I’m driving.” She helped herself to a slider. Brandon’s phone vibrated so hard with incoming calls it slid across the bar. He grabbed it, switched it off, and put it back in his pocket.

“You should have gone to Atlanta,” he said. The expression in his eyes was bleak as a bitter-cold morning in January. “I can grab a cab home.”

She raised one eyebrow.

“I can take care of myself,” he said.

She picked up a fork and took a bite.

“You’re using a goddamn fork to eat a goddamn burger—”

She spoke into his ear again. “I realize you’re having the worst day of your life, but this does not mean you get to act like an ass toward me.”

“You can leave at any time.” He looked down his nose at her.

She sat up straighter on the bar stool that must have been pressed into service for the first time during the Cold War. The bar was still deserted, but she spoke loudly enough to be heard over the omnipresent soundtrack of rock n’ roll oldies from the sixties and seventies playing from tinny-sounding speakers.

“No, actually, I can’t leave. I have other commitments and responsibilities right now, but you are more important. I would spend the rest of the night worrying that you didn’t make it home, you fell down the stairs, or you gave an interview that made Charlie Sheen look like a Rhodes Scholar.” She looped her handbag over one arm. “We’re packing up the rest of the food I ordered, and we’re going to my house. You’re going to sober up. We are going to talk about what to do next.”

“There’s nothing to do next.”

She captured his chin in her fingertips. They stared into each other’s eyes. Her voice dropped. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

Neither of them moved for a few moments. The world shrank to the circle of space around them. His eyes dropped.

“Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he said.

Emily took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to put up stats this season that will make the Sharks GM and front office the laughing stock of the league. You’re going to go into free agency with more buzz than Peyton Manning did. You’re going to get the biggest contract offers Josh can field, andyouwill decide when it’s time to walk away. Not them.” She let go of his chin, picked up the slider on her plate in two fingers, and consumed it.

“More buzz than Manning.” His voice was dry.

After listening to Brandon’s football tutorials, she knew her example was over the top and more than a little ridiculous, but Brandon’s agent’s phone was probably already ringing.

“It’s your choice. Let them beat you, or beat them at their own game.”

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