Page 9 of The One Night Dash
With every swirl, every stir, she was closer to spilling over, hot and sweet and?—
My phone buzzes.
Koa:
Her apartment’s up the back staircase, past the coffee bar.
Me:
Didn’t know there were two sets of stairs. I’m in her office. Headed that way now.
To be continued, I think, as I turn to head back down.
The space opens up to a section of the store below, and I wonder if Noelle will expand to the second floor or instead continue writing whatever the hell it is she was writing.
I pass the little coffee and tea bar, and a good guess tells me the door at the back, past “The Powder Room,” is in fact the one that leads to her pad.
Up top, the apartment is small, warm, open, and lived-in. I step past a bookcase used as some sort of divider and find her curled up on the couch, hair messy, and totally oblivious to the fact that anyone is in her space as she sings along to a song, between hiccupping sobs. I’m about to step farther in when a sleek streak of black hops onto the couch beside her, long tail flicking. Yellow eyes lock on to me like I’ve just trespassed, which I kind of have, but whatever.
The cat—big, sleek, confident—noses her shoulder then sprawls against her side. She strokes him automatically, gliding her hand over his back like muscle memory.
She murmurs something, and I catch it.Hemingway.
I’ve never thought of myself as superstitious, not really. But somewhere along the way, I built a game-day routine I never break: same breakfast, same playlist, tape my stick the same way, three warm-up laps counterclockwise before switching. And once you’ve got rituals like that? You start noticing things.
Like how a black cat locking eyes with you feels like bad juju.
Hemingway blinks slowly, deliberately, then stretches a paw over her knee like he’s claiming her for himself. His expression doesn’t change, but I get the message:She’s mine. You’re just visiting.
No shit, I think as I glare back at him.
That’s when I recognize the song, low but clear enough to make out the chorus.
I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby …
She curls into herself further, knees to her chest, voice cracking as she sings along. Her cheeks are blotchy from crying, but the performance? It’s hilarious. Not in a mean way, of course, just funny. She’s off-key, overdramatic, and stabs a finger in the air at every “yeah” like she’s playing to a sold-out stadium. The purr, the music, the hiccupped breaths—it’s a strange mix of ridiculous and … kind of hard to look away from.
That’s when I hear it—her name. Clear as day in the chorus.
I’ve got two tickets to Iron Maiden, baby. Come with me Friday, don’t say maybe.
I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby, like you … Noelle.
I can’t help it. I grin, lean against the bookcase, and sing the line right back at her. “Like you … Noelle.”
She jumps up, wide-eyed, song dying in her throat. The cat bolts to the arm of the couch but doesn’t leave, clearly weighing whether to claw me or resume standing sentry.
Her mouth opens, then closes, cheeks going pink as she swipes at her face with her sleeve. “What the heck are you doing here?”
“Came to offer a hand,” I say. “And enjoying the free concert. Your cat gave me a ticket.”
“And why do you think I need a hand?” She hugs herself.
“Because coffee and silk don’t mix,” I say, shrugging. “Because I saw it happen and wanted to help, and I got a guy who’s a magician with stains.”
Sal’s not really a magician; he’s a miracle worker. Every guy on the team has someone they swear by: the barber who never messes up a fade, the massage therapist who can find knots you didn’t know you had. For me? It’s Sal.
I’ll never forget the night I thought he’d finally met his match. Playoff game, sudden collision, lip split wide open. I didn’t even notice until the end when I peeled off my lucky jersey and saw it—a streak of blood across the white numbers. Not a little spot either, but a full swipe that screamedretirement piece.That jersey wasn’t just fabric; it had history stitched into it. I’d worn it for every milestone game.
