Page 28 of Sure Shot
I sure hope so.
Meanwhile, two tables away, Tank is putting away the New York strip steak, rare, with arugula and Parmigiano mashed potatoes. The muscles in his forearms flex whenever he cuts his meat. And every minute or two he looks up to give me a look so searing and sexual that it’s probably punishable by death in several distant nations.
And I’m just so confused. How is it possible that I’m slobberingly attracted to one man, when the other one does nothing for me? Science insists that their DNA is 99.9 percent identical. But, man, that 0.1 percent is like the difference between a rare steak and plain macaroni. One makes my mouth water, while the other is just…
I hold back a sigh and pray for my date to finish his ice cream.
Finally, Brian calls for the check. When the waitress brings it over, I plop my credit card on top of the wallet right as Brian does the same.
He lifts his bland eyes to me. “What’s this? I’m treating.”
“Well, thank you very much,” I say, removing my card. Because I don’t want to fight about it.
“I’m an old-fashioned man,” he says, passing the wallet and card to the waitress.
“I noticed that when you expressed surprise at my career.”Oops. It just slipped out.
He chuckles, as if I’ve said something cute. “I work in a man’s world. Sometimes I forget.”
“You forget that women exist? Are there no women who…” I try to remember a single word he said about his job. “…do what you do?”
“There’s one,” he says. “We used to have two, but she went off and had babies.” He shrugs, as if this was inevitable.
He’s lucky the waitress has already removed my silverware, because I would have stabbed him with it. “You know, this has been fun, but I’ve got to go,” I say, pushing back my chair. “Thank you for the lovely evening.”
“Will I see you again?” Brian asks, pushing back his chair to stand up, too.
“Oh, I hope so,” I lie, offering my hand for a shake. “It was so nice to meet you.” I give him a big smile and then practically run out of the restaurant. When I hit the sidewalk, I take a deep, cleansing breath.Chin up, I coach myself.You can’t expect to meet Mr. Right on the first try.
Except this wasn’t really the first try. Every few months I summon the courage to get out there and date, but I always get discouraged. The older I get, the thinner the talent pool.
I’m starting to view single men like the NHL draft. All the best players get snapped up when they’re really young.
New York was supposed to help me shake things up. There have to be more single men here than there were in my corner of Michigan. But what if they’re all like Brian?
I take another breath and stroll up Water Street, grateful to put distance between me and that disaster of a date. My date might not have been romantic, but Brooklyn’s scenery is. The streets are cobblestone, and I’m walking past a Civil War-era warehouse with curved windows and giant shutters. It’s half a mile—a ten-minute walk—back to my apartment. I’d planned my getaway when I’d chosen the restaurant. This isn’t my first rodeo.
“Bess,” Tank’s voice calls from behind me. “Wait up.”
Except I didn’t count onhim. I don’t slow my roll, but I’m not going to be able to outrun an athlete, especially while wearing strappy little sandals. “I can’t believe I dressed up for Brian,” I grumble to myself. It’s just a denim skirt and a silk top. But still.
Tank falls in step with me. “Who was that guy?” he asks. As if it’s any of his business.
“Just a guy. I’d tell you what he does for a living, but I didn’t understand a word of it.”
“Bummer. Where’d you meet him?”
“Tinder,” I grunt. Using the dating apps embarrasses me. But when you’re in a new city and you’ve sworn off dating the men you meet at work, there’s really no other way. “When I told him my job, he said, ‘But you’re a woman.’”
Tank stops suddenly. “No he fucking did not.” He turns right around and heads back toward the restaurant.
“Tank!” I chase after him. “What are you doing?”
He stops again. “I need to teach him a lesson.”
“No, dumbass!” I squeak. “Your agent would kill you.”
“Easy, Bess.” He reaches out, giving my forearm a squeeze. I’m instantly annoyed by how nice his touch feels. “I didn’t mean I was going to punch the man. I need to tell him he’s an idiot, because he pissed off a woman with access to the best seats in hockey.”
