Page 67 of Brooklynaire
This is torture. I needanswers.
I tap on the Bingley app. It opens, and a familiar voice says, “Hello, my dear Rebecca. How may I be ofassistance?”
“Hi!” I feel like I’m reconnecting with a long-lost friend, although that’s patently ridiculous. “I need to know what’s happening with the hockeygame.”
“The hockey game is currently insession.”
“The score, Bingley. What’s thescore?”
“Tie game at 0-0.”
“Okay. What else? Who has thepuck?”
“The puck is a six ounce black rubberdisc.”
“I know that, Bingley. But which player is controlling the puck rightnow?”
“One moment, miss,” Bingley says primly. “I’m seekingassistance.”
Well, crap. I’ve obviously overestimated Bingley’s ability to process the hockey game. Some poor programmer at KTech’s phone is probably ringing right now with this programmingbug.
But Bingley comes back about ninety seconds later. “Nate reminds you that you need your rest to heal. But he adds that you should come to the stadium if you want to see who’splaying.”
“Wait, what? You askedNate?”
“Naturally. He’s my admin. Standby for another communication. Ah. Nate has asked me to send you a car. ETA three minutes. Black Mercedes C class. The driver’s name isParker.”
I let out a little groan ofdiscomfort.
“Dear Rebecca, are you quite allright?”
“I’m fine,” I snap. But I’m annoyed. I hadn’t planned to ask Nate for anything. Ever. And I don’t know if I should go to the stadium when I’m so freakingconfused.
“Oh dear,” Bingley says. “The score is now 1-0 in favor ofTampa.”
“Ohno!”
“Oh yes. Also, your car is two minutesaway.”
That’s it. I can’t sit here any longer while my team battles Tampa. I get up off the bed, throw the phone down, and start changing my clothes. Even a confused, mortified girl needs to look her best. I grab my coat and bag, wave to poor Missy, and then run down my stairs. The car is already waiting. So I slide inside and close thedoor.
Six minutes later we’re inching along in traffic toward the brightly lit stadium two blocks away. So close, yet sofar.
“I’ll jump out here!” I tell the startleddriver.
“It’s just ahead,miss.”
“I know! Gotta run,” I say as our progress halts again. “Toodles!” I jump out of the car and set off down the sidewalk at a fastpace.
I’m wearing Chuck Ts, which are better for my balance issues than girly shoes. This is the first time in my life I have ever had to think about practical footwear, and it’s sort of a drag. On the other hand, once I reach the stadium, my jog isn’t finished. I flash my corporate ID at checkpoint after checkpoint and then trot along the final corridor toward Nate’s box, where Nate and whichever top brass at KTech he’s invited tonight are watching. It’s where I watch, too, when I’m on duty in an officialcapacity.
I can hear the crowd and the suspense is killingme.
Panting, I smack my ID against the scanner, which opens the door to the box. As the little light turns green, the crowd makes a noise of joy. I yank the door open. “What’s the score?” I demand of Georgia, the first person Isee.
“One-one. We scored to tie it up. End of the second period now. Tampa just rushed the net, but Beacon made a glovesave.”
I exhale. We can still do this. Twenty more minutes to put one or two more in thenet.
