Page 40 of Sure Shot
That’s when all the fight runs out of me. “The game sucked,” I say, trying to find some way to empathize with my client. “You guys need more time. But where is the trust? And how are you going to build any with such a personal attack against a teammate? Your coach brought him on for a reason. Better start asking yourself why that is.”
“Okay, Bess. Message received.” He looks angry again, but probably at himself. Castro is smart. And while he’s a bit of a grump sometimes, he’s not a bad guy. “I’ll apologize.”
“Great idea,” I say softly. “If he’s smart, he’ll apologize for getting in your face.”
Castro shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Gonna shower now.”
“Fine. We’ll catch up later.”
He walks away, and I’m left standing here, feeling completely unsettled. The gamedidsuck the big one, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I cut my losses and leave, winding my way through the bowels of the stadium until I reach the street. Traffic is a mess, and there are still dozens of spectators hoping to catch a taxi. I cross the street when the light changes and head home on foot. It’s not a long walk, except I’m wearing a goddamn dress and cute little sandals again. Only because of Tank.
I don’t plan to sleep with him again, but I got dressed up anyway. I’m wearing mascara, for fuck’s sake. To ahockey game. That’s how badly he scrambled my brain.
A thirty-year-old woman shouldn’t be as confused as I am right now.
But lately I see Tank wherever I turn. Today I was minding my own business, reading the sports headlines, and there was a photograph of a sweaty Tank taking off his helmet after this morning’s practice. “Rumors Circulate After Tankiewicz’s Departure From Dallas,” screamed the headline.
Some of the trashier blogs are still trying to tie his divorce to his trade. It’s just clickbait. My own curiosity shames me.
None of it has a thing to do with me, I remind myself as I trudge through Brooklyn. He’s not my client. And he isn’t my boyfriend. It doesn’t matter if I was half in love with him at twenty-one. It doesn’t matter if I still find him more exciting than any man on Tinder. There’s no fairy godmother who can wave all the obstacles away. I don’t really believe in those fairytales that I love so much.
I make my own luck, and always have.
Looking for a distraction, I pull out my phone to see if Eric had any late-day questions for me. And sure enough, there’s a text.You had a delivery. The courier didn’t say who this was from. But your name and our office address were on the card.
There’s a photo of a balloon bouquet.I’m your number one fan, each balloon reads.
Oh, Tank.You make it so hard to stay away from you.
I shove my phone in my bag and keep on walking.
* * *
The next day I sit down for a business meeting in Manhattan with a lip-balm company. Getting sponsorship deals for my clients is one of the ways I grow their paychecks. Last year I landed a lucrative wristwatch sponsorship for Jason Castro. I’ve also been talking to a menswear company about their hand-tailored trousers—the kind that fit over muscled hockey-player butts.
My job is pretty weird, in an awesome way.
Today’s meeting is about beeswax lip balm, the trendiness of organics, and the many faces of sport. The female executive is eyeing an eight-by-ten glossy photo of Silas. She lets out a contented little sigh. “He’ll do.”
“Right?” I say, clapping my hands. “He has a handsome face and a lovely personality. You’ll never regret working with the nicest goalie in sports.”
The fact that he’s dating a superstar goes unsaid, but it doesn’t hurt Silas’s appeal that his face has begun turning up on red carpets and in paparazzi shots. If the kid can earn an extra hundred grand stumping for organic lip balm, he should take it. Fame is mostly a pain in his ass.
“I’ll send you a contract tomorrow,” she says.
“Excellent. Can I bend your ear about one more thing?”
“Sure.” She folds her hands on the desktop. “Although we’ve found all the athletes we need at this point. We have a downhill skier, a marathoner, and now a hockey player.”
“I get that. But I saw on your website that you’re bringing out some tinted lip products this spring, so I thought you should see these ladies.” I grab another folder out of my bag and quickly place four photos on the desk.
“These aren’t professional headshots,” she says, looking them over.
“You’re right. Every one of these women is a professional hockey player. And here’s the thing—these women are the most underpaid professional athletes in the world. Their salaries are around fifteen thousand dollars a year. It doesn’t even cover their rent. You don’t know their faces, because women’s hockey is, like, the redheaded stepchild of the sports world.”
She looks up at me, frowning. “Fifteen thousand dollars? That’s criminal.”
