Page 36 of Sure Shot
I groan out loud. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one to read this article. By the time I step out of the cab in front of my new boutique hotel, my phone is blowing up with texts from my ex-wife. Ignoring Jordanna for the moment, I pay the driver and then enter the spacious and plant-filled hotel lobby.
“Mr. Tankiewicz, welcome back,” the concierge says from behind his desk. “Can I offer you a croissant and some fresh-squeezed orange juice?”
“Well, sure,” I say as my stomach rumbles. “Thanks.”
He hands me a small bakery bag with a smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
When I let myself into my room a minute later, I’m nearly blinded by the glimmer of sun on the surface of the river right outside. The room is serene and comfortably appointed.
The only unsightly thing in my new space is a bouquet of balloons. They’re silver, and each one has an uplifting saying on it. “You’ve Got This!” “We’re Your Number One Fans!” “Go Get ’Em!”
Interesting choice. Kassman doesn’t usually send me balloons. I think his assistant might have been trying too hard.
On the bar, I find a plate for my croissant and I bite into it as I glance at my ex-wife’s texts.
Mark, you have to make it stop. I’m getting calls. A reporter asked me why we got divorced. Not like it’s any of their business. But just tell them, okay? I’m tired of seeing my name on Twitter.
So don’t look at Twitter. I actually type that out and then delete it. I refuse to argue with Jordanna, even when she’s being ridiculous.
There is nothing to be done, I reply instead.There is literally no way to kill off gossip other than to ignore it.
The second I hit Send, those little dots show up, telling me that she’s typing a reply.
I open the orange juice and wait, wishing I’d never responded in the first place. The juice tastes like sunshine and heaven. It’s funny, but Brooklyn is doing its best to impress me. The Bruisers facility is glorious. This new hotel is lovely. The publicist is nice. The staff is sharp, and living without a car is pretty fab.
If only my teammates weren’t trying to drive me insane, I’d have a chance at liking this place.
You could deny it!Jordanna writes.I look like an idiot.My own friends believe the things they read about you on the internet.
That’s on them, I fire back.I guess you need better friends. And I’m not giving any interviews about my personal life.
Somehow I manage not to add:And if I did, you wouldn’t even like what I have to say about the end of our marriage. I will not pick a fight with the woman who divorced me. No good can come of that.
At least keep your head down, she says.Don’t talk to reporters. Stay out of the gossip pages.
I’ll get right on that, I shoot back.
My phone rings about ten seconds later. Instantly, my famous temper spikes. I’d rather throw my phone across the room than talk to her right now. But when I glance at the screen, I see it isn’t Jordanna who’s calling me. It’s my agent.
“Hey,” I say into the phone the second I manage to answer. “Henry! How are you? Long time no see.”
“Nobody is sorrier about that than me,” the older man rumbles. “How’s the new room?”
“Nice,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “Thanks for finding me better digs.”
“That was all Kelly’s doing.”
“Still, I appreciate it,” I say, moving over to the king-sized bed, where I flop down with a weary sigh. “Did you call to yell at me for talking to Miranda Wager?”
“Not a chance. I called to remind you—” He stops to take a wheezy breath. “—not to let the assholes get you down.”
“Hey, are you okay?” He doesn’t sound right.
“Don’t you worry about me. Got plans for your afternoon off?”
“None,” I say. “Just a few prayers and incantations, and maybe a goat sacrifice or two. It’s the only way I can imagine beating Philadelphia tonight.”
Henry laughs. “That bad, huh?”
