Page 5 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
And there’s no way in hell I’m staying any later than what he pays me for.
After picking up Liam from school, I drop him off at my parents’, finish up the last couple of things I needed to do for Brock today, then change into something less … frumpy before I meet Jack Bouchard for a drink.
I know it’s not a date or anything, but I rarely have occasion to get dressed up these days. I dress in jeans and boxy T-shirts on purpose for work. For one thing, sports guys tend to take me slightly more seriously if I’m wearing one of my many baseball or basketball shirts. I’m the baseball fan in the family. Kyle is an avid basketball fan, so Liam is too because he idolizes his dad whether Kyle actually deserves it or not. But being married to Kyle for so many years means my collection of basketball T-shirts is as big as my collection of baseball T-shirts.
I swap the T-shirt and jeans for a sleeveless wrap dress. It’s easy and no fuss and looks cute, nice and comfy for the warm May day we’re having, and most importantly, doesn’t look like I’m ready to go clubbing. I know that’s the type of woman Jack Bouchard is usually seen with. Since I don’t fit that category of woman in any way—older, a mom, with my boobs securely tucked behind fabric—I don’t think I have to worry about him getting the wrong idea.
By the time I get to the right part of town, find parking, and follow the map on my phone to where it says The Salty Salmon should be, I’m a little on the late side. The sound of my sandals slapping my heels keeps time with my hurried pace as I navigate around a cluster of pedestrians and find the door, yanking it open and slipping inside the dimly lit space.
Large televisions hang over the bar and in corners around the place playing different sporting events—baseball, golf, and what appears to be some kind of strongman competition. I stop and stare at the TVs for a second, letting my eyes adjust. The interior is an interesting blend of modern masculine with a dark wood bar lit from beneath with blue neon lights. Track lights illuminate the bar itself while the rest of the space is lit with pendulum lights over the tables in the cozy booths. In addition to the TVs, a variety of sports memorabilia lines the walls. A few of the comfy looking stools at the bar are occupied, but I don’t recognize Jack amongst them.
Taking a tentative step closer to the bar, I clear my throat, hoping to catch the attention of the man with salt and pepper hair wiping down the bar a few feet away. He stops and glances up at me, a polite smile tugging at his lips. “What can I get for you?”
“Oh, well, uh, I’m here to see Jack Bouchard?”
One of his dark eyebrows wings up. “Are you now?” He looks me over, not even bothering to be surreptitious, then he jerks his head toward the back corner. “He’s in a booth over there. Want to put in your order before you head over?”
“Right. Of course.” I step closer and squint at the taps then pick one from a local brewery I know I like.
“I’ll have Cindy bring it over in a minute. Good luck.”
On that dubious note, I head for the booth in the back corner the bartender indicated, wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake both in offering to buy Jack a drink by way of apology and in dressing up for it.
Arguably, he could take my apology and run with it as an admission of guilt on the show’s part. He could potentially sue Brock for defamation.
That thought stops me in my tracks. Oh, god. Would he do that? He sounded really pissed on the phone.
Would I care if he did?
Shaking my head, I continue to the table. Brock did all that editing himself and posted the video before I even saw it. I don’t think I could be held liable.
I’ll have to be careful not to admit fault, I guess. I can’t afford a lawsuit on top of everything else. I’ve barely managed to pay off my divorce lawyer, finally accepting my parents’ help so I wouldn’t have that debt hanging over my head.
Craning my neck, I look around until I spot him. He’s sitting in the booth farthest back in the corner, staring at his phone. I pause a second to study him unobserved.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been in the same room as a well-known athlete, of course. Especially after Kyle’s show got picked up by the network, we had famous athletes around all the time. But Kyle was more focused on basketball and baseball—I always thought he included baseball as a nod to my interest, but over time it became clear that it was really just a stop gap until basketball season started again. Yeah, sure, he covered spring training and the World Series, of course, but if I’d been a football fan or a hockey fan instead, he still would’ve focused on baseball in basketball’s off season.
It never really gets old, though, being around someone who has dedicated their life to perfecting their sport. I have a lot of respect for the time and focus it takes to make it to the big show in whatever sport an athlete chooses. One of my favorite times has always been the Olympics because we’d interview athletes from less celebrated sports, and I always thought it was cool to hear the stories of how someone gets into curling or fencing. Not that Kyle spent a lot of time on the curlers and fencers of the world, and I doubt Brock will either when the time comes.
Why do that when you could destroy a perfectly nice hockey player instead?
I watched Brock’s cut of Jack’s interview with growing horror as it became obvious that he was pinning the loss in round two almost entirely on Jack. The editing of the game footage as well as the interview made it seem like Jack is a drunk buffoon who can barely tell his stick from his skate.
Lawsuit or not, Jack deserves an apology. Hell, heshouldsue Brock. I could help him.
Clearing my throat, I slide into the booth opposite Jack. “Hi.” I offer a tentative smile.
His head jerks up like I caught him completely by surprise, then he relaxes, his eyes tracking over my face and torso, tracing my hair falling around my shoulders, a smile spreading across his face. “I wondered if your hair was straight or maybe wavy,” he said.
Raising my eyebrows, I glance at the ends of my hair. “Did you? How odd.”
He lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. “You had your hair in a bun when we met. I couldn’t tell.”
Narrowing my eyes, I give my head a tiny shake, determined to bring us back on track. “Did you order a drink yet?”
“Course. I opened a tab. Ryan probably added your drink to it, assuming you ordered one.”
My brows crimp together. “I did. But I thought I was buying you a drink.”
