Her face lights up when she sees us, too. I’m just about to call out a happy greeting when my teammate Campeau says, in a shocked voice, “Sylvie! What are you doing here?”
This is a development I wasn’t expecting.
And if I’m not mistaken, her beautiful smile grows a little uncertain. “Um, surprise!” she says as we approach. “A week ago Bess Beringer called me and asked me to be the second goalie for the Bombshells.”
“You—” Campeau swallows. He looks stunned, and maybe a little pale. “Here?”
“Here,” she says firmly. “In Brooklyn.”
“In Brooklyn,” he echoes like a dummy. He takes a long beat to digest this news. “Where are you staying?”
She puts a hand on her hip. “With you, of course. You have a double bed, right?”
Campeau blanches.
She laughs. “Oh, monsieur crédule! I’m just teasing you. This is my roommate, Fiona. We have an apartment together.” She indicates the blonde.
Bryce finally breathes. “An apartment? Where? Is it safe? There are some places in Brooklyn where you do not want to live.”
“Let me just stop you right there,” the redhead says with fire in her eyes. And when she speaks up, I swear Drake ducks behind me, using me as his human shield. “Isn’t Sylvie a grownup who can decide on her own where to live?”
“But—”
“Do you ask your male friends if their apartments are safe?” she presses.
Sylvie laughs. “Charli, stand down. Bryce met me when I was a silly, impulsive teen. He probably can’t help asking these questions.”
The redhead crosses her arms. “Fine, but on day one I’ve already witnessed two of these guys saying ridiculous things to grown women. And the day isn’t even half over.”
“Hey, Bryce,” I say, squeezing my teammate’s elbow. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend? We’re sharing a workspace, right?”
He gives a stiff nod. “Sylvie, meet Anton Bayer, a defenseman, and Cornelius Drake, winger.”
“Cornelius?” the blond woman asks, incredulous.
“Neil,” he corrects.
“Ah.” She smiles, and her eyes dance with humor. “I’m Fiona, also a forward, and the captain of the Bombshells. This is Charli, who plays defense.”
“And Sylvie is the goalie,” I say, because I can’t help myself. And I can’t stop looking at her. Even in her street clothes, with her hair smoothed after a shower, her cheeks bear the high color of an athlete after practice. She has wide-set brown eyes and the cheekbones of a Swedish supermodel.
But there are lots of pretty women in the world. I couldn’t even tell you why this one makes me feel wild and loose inside. Like I’ve just had three drinks and gotten on a roller coaster.
“Yes,” Fiona says, putting a hand on Sylvie’s shoulder. “We have two incredible goalies. It’s going to be a great season, boys. I hope your stats can keep pace with ours.”
“Oh, bring it on.” I laugh. “How does five bucks a goal sound? You versus me.”
“But we only have twenty games,” says Charli, the woman who Drake is afraid of. “That’s not a fair bet.”
“I’m a D-man, though,” I point out. My job isn’t running up the score.
“How many goals did you have last season?” Fiona asks.
“Five.”
“So you like losing money?” she asks, and the women laugh, which puts the sparkle back into Sylvie’s eyes.
“New year, new opportunities,” I say lightly. “Do we have a bet?”
“Ten bucks a goal. Might as well keep it interesting.” Fiona shrugs.
“Done,” I say, knowing full well that I’ll most likely be paying Fiona some cash every week. If they picked her for captain, she should easily average a goal a game.
But that’s okay with me. I’ll just have to make frequent visits to their new apartment—wherever it is—and pay up.
Forty minutes later we’re sitting in Grimaldi’s putting away the pizza at a rapid pace. Except for Campeau, who looks shellshocked.
“What’s your deal with, uh, the new girl?” I ask as casually as I can. Campeau isn’t the kind of guy who gives you a whole lot of info about his past. I’ve spent a lot of time with the guy, and I barely know a thing about him. And not because I didn’t ask.
“Sylvie,” he says quietly, like it’s difficult to say her name. “I really fuck things up with her.”
My blood stops circulating. I barely met the girl, but I don’t want to hear that they were lovers. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. “She’s your ex?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Remember when I miss some games last fall to go to Ontario?”
“Yeah, when your mom died?” Drake asks.
“Not my real mom, but the mother of my heart. I billeted in their home as a junior player after my own mother died. And Marie was wonderful. I was very close with the family. Sylvie is Marie’s daughter.”
“Ah. But something happened between you two?” I press.
“No, and yes. After the funeral we were both very sad. I said some big things to Sylvie, about what the future might hold. I love Sylvie. I would do anything for her.”
Brooklyn’s best pizza turns dry in my mouth.
“But I should not have said anything. I should not have made any promises. And I should not have kissed her.”
The image of Sylvie lifting her head for a kiss wrecks my brain. But after I take a drink of water and get a goddamn grip, I realize that nothing Campeau just said makes any sense at all. “Wait. Why not? If you love someone, why not say so and then kiss the girl senseless?”
He puts his head in his hands. “I was not ready. You already know how hard it is. We have to focus on the game.”
“For that girl I would multitask,” Drake says, speaking my own thoughts aloud.
“This season will be everything,” Campeau says. “This one is for all the…” He frowns, searching for a word.
“Marbles?” I guess.
“Yes. I cannot afford to fuck up. I literally cannot afford it. The team offers last month to renegotiate, but I turn it down.”
My water glass stops halfway to my mouth. “Wait. They offered to extend you early?” If the team wants you badly enough, they’ll remake your contract way before the June cutoff.
Campeau nods curtly. “Yes, for a three-year deal. But the number was not very generous. We said no.”
Something goes wrong in my gut. Campeau was Mr. Serious last year, when I was busy fucking around. He got the job done, and the team offered to extend him for three—really four—more years.
And he said no? Because of a couple million dollars? “Nate and Hugh are very savvy,” I say slowly. “Of course they’d lowball you a little bit. But you would have all that added security against an injury, or even a bad season.” Even if my cousin wasn’t an agent, I’d still understand this on a gut level. The team offered him a career.
Campeau shrugs. “I do not plan to have a bad season. But I also do not plan to propose marriage before it is finished. I need the wins, the cup, the contract, and the girl. In this order.”