Page 48 of Sure Shot
And when I glance into the second bedroom, the weight bench and treadmill are long gone. They’re being replaced by—
“Is that a giant telephone booth?” I ask the tangle of men who are trying to assemble it.
Several heads swivel in my direction. “It’s a recording booth.” Delilah pops out from behind a bright red panel. “It shipped in pieces.”
“Lots of pieces,” Castro says.
“Confusing pieces,” Silas adds.
“Guys, let’s eat pizza,” Delilah says. “Maybe this will seem simpler after you eat.”
Grumbling, the men lay down the various panels and boards they’re holding. And to my surprise, Tank is one of those men.
My mouth flops open. I wasn’t expecting to find him here, and I hadn’t really prepared myself for the inevitable moment when I’d run into him again.
He gives me a quick wink. It takes me a second to realize that I’m blocking his way out of the room. I make an awkward sideways hop so he can get to the pizza boxes in the kitchen.
The other hockey players file past me, but my focus stays on Tank. The way he’s pushed the sleeves of his long-sleeved T-shirt up onto his forearms. The way he tilts his head to listen to Georgia as she hands him a plate. And the way he fills out a pair of jeans.
All hockey players have great asses. Hockey butts are muscular. That’s why my clients all have to special-order their trousers.
Tank, though. One glance at him and I feel all stirred up inside. It’s not just the muscles, either. It’s the whole guy. And now it’s hitting me that if I want to represent him someday, I’ll have to wrestle everything I feel for him into submission and smother it with a pillow.
Or at least fake it really, really well.
And there’s nobody to blame. I have feelings for a guy who can’t return them. Lots of feelings. He’sthatguy to me—the bright, shiny goal that’s just out of reach. The one that got away.
“Beer?” Delilah asks me. “Pizza?”
“Sure,” I say, dragging my attention away from Tank. “But first, this is for you. Welcome to Brooklyn.” I hand her my gift bag.
“Oh! You shouldn’t have.”
“Of course I should.” I give her a quick hug. Silas is my client, and I see these two lovebirds all the time. And I love Delilah. She’s literally a rock star, and yet she’s one of the most modest, normal people I’ve ever met. “Open it. You know you want to.”
She flashes me a smile and then pushes the tissue paper out of the way to pull a throw pillow out of the bag. “Oh, pretty! I love it! And now I won’t get lost.” She’s looking at the pillow’s front—it depicts a very tasteful map of Brooklyn.
“Turn it over.”
She flips the pillow and then laughs. Because the reverse says,Brooklyn:Fuggedaboutit. “This is priceless. Thank you!”
“It’s my pleasure.”
“I thought you hated shopping.”
“I hate it less when it’s for other people.”
Delilah smiles and shakes her head, like she can’t figure me out. But it’s true. Buying gifts for clients is easy. Shopping for myself always feels like a big commitment. It’s the same with giving out advice. Figuring out someone else’s bullshit is always easier than figuring out my own.
The rock star gives me another hug and then runs off to decide which of her new pieces of furniture deserves the pillow.
“Hey, boss. Want a slice?” Eric Bayer appears at my side.
“Maybe later,” I tell my business partner. “Did you just come in?”
“They sent me out to grab some more beer at the store.” He points at a stack of sixpacks. “Want one?”
“Sure,” I say with a sigh. “I’d love one.”
