Page 35 of Someone to Have
“Hell, yeah, it is. You’re giving it your all and showing your opponent no mercy.”
“I don’t have anopponent.” She looks scandalized, which is hilarious. “I probably know most of the people trying out. They could become my castmates.”
“Sure, sure. After tryouts, you’ll be on the same team, just like in hockey. They’ll have your back. But when you’re auditioning, every other person there is the enemy. You’re Mel Gibson with his face painted blue, giving a speech up on that horse.”
“I amnotMel Gibson.”
“John Wick?”
“Hard pass.”
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ear,” I bellow in a pretty good Scottish accent, if I do say so myself.
“Uh…” She shakes her head. “That’s not fromBraveheartorany of theJohn Wickmovies. You’re mixing it up. You’re mixingmeup.”
“You feel less nervous than you did ten seconds ago,” I point out.
She pauses, opens her mouth to argue, then makes a face. “You’re annoying.”
“Exactly what part of me?” I tap a finger against my chin and pretend to consider the options. “My confidence? The fact that I’m always right? Extremely good-looking? Uber talented? Basically a god walking among men?”
“I hate you right now.”
“I can deal with that. Channel your hate, and let’s hear you sing.”
She closes her eyes, balls her hands into fists, and is quiet for so long I’m about to lay into her again. Smack talk is my specialty on the ice, both to fire up my teammates and get in the heads of our opponents. The words I use with Taylor or Rhett involve less swearing, but I’m hoping I can irritate her enough that she’ll just?—
My thoughts brake so fast I can almost hear tires screeching in my brain as the first notes of a popular Adele song roll off her tongue. Only roll is the wrong word.
They float in the air like champagne bubbles or some kind of magical fairy dust. Her voice, a clear soprano, washes over me as she sings about regrets, and looking through a window at the other side. She hits the chorus, and I’m not sure if her voice gets louder or if the depth of it fills the room. It feels like everything, including her, is shimmering. Like she’s a goddamn diamond sparkling in the sunlight.
I stare at her, slack-jawed. As she finishes the final note, her eyes blink open, and goosebumps trail down my arms.
“I told you I was okay,” she says, her hands twisted in front of her, staring at the floor like she hasn’t just shattered and rebuilt every inch of mewith her voice.
“Fucking hell,” I shout. “That’s like saying fucking Gretzky was okay at skating. If Bryan Connor doesn’t beg you to be the lead, he’s a fucking idiot.”
She winces. “Why are you yelling at me?”
“Why haven’t you shared this—that—your talent—with the world?” My voice is still too loud, but…damn…this woman has a gift, and it’s like she doesn’t even realize it.
“Pretty sure we covered this—stage fright.”
“Does your family know you can sing like this?”
“They’ve heard me sing. We have birthday parties and whatnot.”
“People would pay to hear you sing ‘Happy Birthday’. Good money, Tinkerbell.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s just your opinion. You don’t know.”
How can she not know? How can she perform magic and then look so uncertain?
“Idoknow. It’s a fucking fact, like gravity. I don’t understand whyyoudon’t look more confident, but we’re going to change that. Because you are going to get thefuckinglead in thisfuckingproduction.”
“Stop saying the f-word,” she orders. “This isn’t a hockey rink.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a slight nervous gesture that makes me want to cross the room and?—
