Page 47 of Sure Shot
“Eat some Tex-Mex. Rest up. Beat Tampa. You and I will talk soon.”
“How soon?” he asks, still deliciously naked. I can’t make eye contact with his abs, or I’ll lose my resolve. Lust is fun, but it isn’t everything. And this man is not in a place to love me.
“Soon,” I lie. “Soonish.” I give him a little wave, and then I make my exit.
Sixteen
That’s a Lot of Muscle
Bess
For the next forty-eight hours,the decision feels like a good one. In the first place, Tank and the rest of the Bruisers eke out a win against Tampa. So that’s progress.
And I manage to get some much-needed distance from him. When Tank texts me a photo of himself in front of a bar called The Tank, I don’t engage. I don’t call him or flirt, even though I want to.
It’s better to have a few heart pangs now than a bigger heartbreak later, right?
To put myself in the right mindset, I do some background research on Tank’s career. His contract negotiation is still over a year away, which means that I can leave him in Henry’s hands for a while longer.
When the time comes—and if Henry is out of the picture—I’ll get Tank a good deal. I know Brooklyn’s management team better than most. And I’ve already negotiated with them for an over-thirty player who’s a challenge to the salary cap.
Speaking of Henry, I also do some frightening research on late-stage heart failure. The prevalent symptoms—besides shortness of breath—are pain and swelling. The man needs distraction, so I wander through Books are Magic in Cobble Hill and choose some titles that I think he’ll appreciate. He likes thrillers and action. His books require at least one ugly plot twist and one major explosion. Bonus points if someone has to fly a helicopter without any training.
It soothes me to send Henry a gift. The man has more money than God and can buy his own books, but I want him to know that I’m thinking about him.
Meanwhile, I’m still catching up on all the little details that went astray while I took my long vacation. I take a day trip to see a young player who’s just been traded to Pittsburgh. And while I’m on the train, I write up a proposal for an endorsement deal. I’m trying to get a national chain of chicken joints—called Chickie’s—to sponsor some female hockey players.
The women are pro-bono clients, basically. There’s so little money in women’s hockey that I don’t charge them to look over their paltry employment contracts. I only take a cut on whatever endorsement money I can win for them. Honestly, it would be more profitable to hunt for lost cash in the pockets of my jeans.
But I keep at it anyway. Raising the visibility of women’s hockey is my hobby and my mission. Someday I’m going to make a few of these women rich. I don’t know how, but it’s going to happen. I’ll probably be a hundred and one years old by then, but…
That makes me think about people who are a hundred and one, and how Henry isn’t going to make it that long. And now I’m crying in the Quiet Car of the Amtrak train.
It’s eight o’clock by the time I get back to Brooklyn. I drop my briefcase in my office, grab a gift bag that I’ve left waiting on my office chair, and head across the street. “Hello, Miguel!” I tell the doorman. “I’m here to see Delilah.”
“Is it gonna be weird to see the apartment?” he asks. Delilah’s new place used to be my brother’s.
“I’m sure it looks completely different already.”
“You’d be right,” he says, waving me toward the elevator. “Go on up. The pizzas just got here.”
“Yesssss.” I give a fist pump and head for the shiny elevators.
When I reach the third floor, the hallway is full of cardboard moving boxes, plus Delilah’s bodyguard. “Hi, Avivit,” I say, giving her a wave. “I heard the pizza just got here.”
She nods and then steps aside so I can reach the apartment door. Avivit is a woman of few words.
“Should I bring you a slice?”
“No, thank you. I don’t eat when I’m on duty.” She gives me a tiny smile.
“You know there’s a dozen athletes literally standing between Delilah and trouble?” I pause, my hand on the door.
“That’s a lot of muscle,” she says. “But it’s what’s up here that counts.” She points at her head, as her dark eyes dance.
“You make a very good point.” And since my job is literally to prevent athletes from doing anything stupid, I should already know this.
When I step inside my brother’s old apartment, the place is hardly recognizable. The living room has been furnished with sofas and chairs in bright, stylish colors.
