Page 2 of Must Love Hockey
I really can’t go.
“Come out with us,” Charles whispers to me, as if reading my thoughts. “I’ll make it up to you.” His brown eyes search mine.
“You can’t make up a lost night’s sleep,” I whisper.
“It will all get easier soon,” he murmurs. “I’ll get a place in the city.”
He wants to move to Manhattan, and he wants me to move in with him. I think there’s also a wedding ring in this scenario. I haven’t asked for more details, because I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
Charles is on his phone at the moment, though, summoning a hired car to take the four of us to Manhattan and taking my elbow as we start moving toward the exit. “Just one drink,” he whispers to me. “Then you can Uber home.”
He knows I should go home and go to bed. In fact, he should, too.
But, nope. What the client wants, the client gets.
The crowd begins to file into the aisles, inching slowly toward the exits. I rub my tingling palms together and try not to feel irritated.
* * *
It doesn’t work. In fact, it gets worse. It takes almost thirty minutes until we reach the cool, outdoor air. And it will take at least thirty more to get to the bar in post-game traffic.
“Have a great night!” says a smiling Ice Girl from just inside the front door. She’s wearing a furry cropped jacket in Brooklyn’s team color, and tight black jeans and heels.
Charles eyes her butt as we walk by. And I can’t even gather up enough energy to feel angry about it, because I’m not doing so well. I feel a little dizzy. My heart is racing, and I’m breathing too fast. And then there’s the weird little itch that’s starting in my throat.
Maybe I’m having a panic attack. That happens once in a while.
As our group rounds the corner of the stadium, I fall back. I lean against the exterior wall and try to take a deep, slow breath. Something’s wrong with me.
“Emily!” Charles barks. He whips around, scanning the crowd. When he finally spots me against the wall, he frowns. “What’s the matter? Why can’t you keep up?”
The clients and their wives turn their heads, and now everyone is staring at me. “I’m tired,” I croak. “I’d better go home.”
Charles reaches me in three urgent strides. “Emily, this is embarrassing.”
Now my eyes feel hot. “Charles, I don’t feel well. Go without me.”
“Are you nauseated?” He squints at me.
“No, I just feel…” I swallow, and my throat is unnaturally thick. “Weird.”
Charles rolls his eyes. “I gotta go, Emily. Seriously. They’re waiting.”
“Go on, then,” I rasp.
He leans in, pecks me on the cheek and then turns and strides off.
The others are still staring at me. I give them a tired wave and a half smile. I just want to be alone right now.
Finally, they’re gone. I breathe a deep sigh of relief. Or rather, I try to. My breathing still feels shallow. Heck, I need to get home. I squint, looking around for the subway entrance. I push off the wall and walk slowly toward the corner of Dean Street, sticking close to the building. It’s not very far, but I feel winded. The familiar green signs for the subway are another half block away, but they’re labeled for the 2 and 3 trains.
I need the B or Q.Crap.
And I feel…awful. I prop a hand against the stadium wall to shore myself up while I try to catch my breath. Slowly, I move around the corner of the building. I know there’s another subway entrance around here, because I checked the map earlier today.
But I have to separate from my new best friend—the nice, cool wall—as I approach what must be the stadium’s loading dock. The doors are open, and there’re a couple guys carrying gear from the building and loading it onto a van.
One of them stops what he’s doing to watch me. Any other night I would stare at him, because he’s seriously cute—with big, dark eyes and a tight-fitting Brooklyn Bruisers shirt stretched across an incredible chest. But at the moment, he’s just in my way. I steer my body toward the front of the van, so I won’t interrupt his work.
