Page 27 of Brooklynaire
Mrs. Gray is really on top of her romantic pop culture. She refills my coffee cup and shoos meupstairs.
I go willingly, pushing play on the first book and reclining on that bigsofa.
* * *
That nightI’m alone in the mansion. The solitude is lovely. And I don’t feel as if I’ve spent the day alone, because theOutlandercharacters spoke to me for much ofit.
But two hundred miles away, my hockey team is about to take the ice. And it kills me that I’m missing it. What’s more, I can’t find the remote control for the giant TV in Nate’sden.
“Bingley,” I say into thesilence.
“Yes,miss?”
“How does a girl turn on that television? There must be atrick.”
“Nate has informed me that screens are against your bestinterests.”
“Seriously? He hid theremote.”
Bingley clicks his digital tongue. “Miss, there is no remote. I control the entertainmentsystem.”
“Holy crap. You’re as pushy asNate.”
“That’s because IamNate. Nate’s mind. The deep learning he’s programmed is a very powerfulthing.”
All the hair stands up on the back of my neck. I can’t believe I’m creeped out by a computer. But it’s like a British mash-up of my boss. I can almost hear Nate’s wheelsturning.
Still, it’s hockey time. I will not give in to a machine. “Nate said I should ask you for anything Ineeded.”
“Absolutely.”
“Open the pod bay doors,Hal.”
“I’ve heard that joke before,miss.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “Bingley, Ineedyou to play the Bruisers game. And I won’t look at the screen; I’ll justlisten.”
“It’s adeal.”
The screen flickers to life immediately, and the channel counter in the corner advances as Bingley navigates to the game. A moment later, the roar of the DC crowd fills theroom.
“There you are, dear one. Kindly seat yourself where the blue light cannot trouble your faireyes.”
“Bingley, you’re a good man.” He isn’t a man at all, though. Which means I’m technically talking to myself. Or maybe I’m talking to Nate. Or an echo of Nate? Seriously, my head aches a little just trying to sort itout.
So I plop down on the sofa and lie back. “All right,” I say into the empty room. “Let the winningcommence.”
Game five is a tense one. Nobody scores in the first period. But then DC puts in a goal just after the second period begins. And somehow the Bruisers quickly retaliate. The rest of the period is a slow grind, though. Apparently I’m not the only one who’s frustrated, either. The game gets chippy, and both teams start to rack up the penaltyminutes.
I’m flopping around on the couch, trying not to look at the screen. But every time the crowd makes a noise of surprise, I want to peek. If not for my head injury, I’d be in Nate’s private box at the arena right now, having a glass of wine with Georgia, my bestie who is also the teampublicist.
Instead, Lauren is there keeping Nate’s Diet Coke fresh and seeing the game live from a good seat. And scowling,probably.
“Life is so unfair,” I whine at Nate’s ornate paneledceiling.
“Indeed,” Bingley agrees. “The hit on Trevi should have drawn a penalty. But Nate’s model shows we still have a sixty-seven percent chance of winning thegame.”
I sit up. “It’s tied, Bingley. That means we both still have a fifty percentchance.”
