“Hey,” I argue from the floor, where I’m stretching my quads on the new rug I bought yesterday. “The logo is a cartoon bomb. No boobs in sight. But if it meant we could be paid more, and that a women’s team could be profitable, I’d almost be willing to play topless.”
I’m joking, of course, for two reasons.
First, I don’t need the money because my bookkeeping job followed me to Brooklyn. “You can work remotely,” my dad had said. “And I’ll cover your apartment,” he’d added during the frenzied twenty-four hour period where I had to decide if I was going to change my whole life and move to Brooklyn. “Just go and give this thing a whirl. Don’t worry about money.”
And the second reason I’m joking about flashing my tatas for ticket sales is that I’m hoping to get a rise out of Bryce, who’s in my bedroom right now. That’s right, in my bedroom, where I always hoped he’d end up.
Be careful what you wish for, though. A couple hours ago he texted me, asking if he could come over. So I washed my hair and put on makeup, as well as a low-cut sleeveless top.
In my defense, it’s a warm September afternoon.
But when he came through the door, Bryce didn’t even give my outfit a glance. He was carrying a small toolbox and a brand new deadbolt lock, the kind you can install above the perfectly functional locks already in place on our door.
He’d given me a perfunctory kiss on each cheek and got straight to work installing the extra lock, while my teammates looked on in amusement.
To be fair, Bryce’s helpfulness is one of the things I’ve always loved about him. All the players who ever lived with us did chores. “This eez not a hotel,” my mother would say, pinning a schedule to the refrigerator. Everyone in our home was responsible for taking out the trash or washing dishes or vacuuming the floors, at least when they weren’t on a tour bus in the hinterlands of Canada.
Bryce’s contribution was on another level, though, right from the start. He’d call on his way home from the rink to ask if my mother or I needed anything from the store. He fixed doorknobs that had stopped turning, he hung shelves, and changed the oil in my mother’s car.
“So resourceful,” my mother used to say. “The finest young man I’ve ever met.”
Forty minutes ago, when Bryce had installed the lock on our front door to his satisfaction, I’d brought him a soda and led him into my room for a moment away from the prying eyes of Fiona and Charli.
“Listen, I appreciate your concern,” I’d said. “But I feel very safe here.” I’d sat down on the bed and patted the spot next to me. “I’m only two blocks from the rink. It’s a nice neighborhood.”
He’d sat down, too, but at a respectful distance, his serious blue eyes nowhere near my cleavage. “Your father thought it would be a good idea.”
“Hmm?” I’d asked, distracted by my own agenda. Kiss me you fool. Why won’t you just lay me out on this bed and make love to me? Finally?
“The lock,” he’d said, giving me a frown and putting the soda on the bedside table. “Your father worries about you, too. You know…” He’d turned and climbed onto the bed on his hands and knees, making my heart leap. But it turned out he’d only been looking out the window. “Merde. You are only on the third floor. And these burglar bars are loose. Someone might climb the fire escape. I will tighten them.”
That had been forty minutes ago. He’s already made a trip to the hardware store for just the right kind of screw.
Although the right kind of screw, in my opinion, is not something you can get at the hardware store.
It’s no use, anyway. We have a big team meeting in a half hour—the Bruisers and the Bombshells together. So if I’m going to convince Bryce to ravish me, it’s going to have to be another day.
Having given up, I left him to his screwdrivers and came out here to stretch my sore muscles on the rug and listen to my teammates’ chatter. We’ve known each other for four days, but they’ve been intense ones. I’ve moved to a new city, and I’ve had my first two grueling practices with my new team.
I’m tired, but happy. Playing hockey as a professional? There is no better job in the world. And I like these women. Fiona is just as bubbly and confident as a team captain should be.
And Charli is... not. She’s angry, although she hasn’t told us why. But she’s also smart, with a biting wit that frequently makes me cackle.
The buzzer rings on the wall, and I startle because I’m not used to the sound of it yet.
Fiona pops off the couch. “I’ll get it!” She spends a moment on the handset and then presses the button to admit someone.
“Who is it?” Charli demands.
“A couple of Bryce’s friends,” she says. “He asked them to stop by before we all go to the meeting.”
“It better not be that one who called me a doll.” Charli tosses her red hair. “I still can’t believe that. Two hours—that’s how long we’d been in the building before one of the self-important millionaires revealed his sexist attitude.”
“They’ll adjust,” Fiona says with a shrug.
“Will they?” Charli points a finger toward my bedroom, where Bryce is still performing his unsolicited home repair.
There’s a knock on our door, and this time I get up to answer it. The first thing I see when I open the door is a pair of bright, turquoise eyes. They’re smiling at me.
And then they take a slow trip down to my cleavage, before rising back upward.
My cheeks flush, even though I wore this top for that exact reason. “Hello there,” I say, just as I notice the object in his hands. It’s a toilet seat. “Gosh, is that for me?”
“It is, and aren’t you lucky?” I’d forgotten that his voice has a slightly husky texture. I feel it right in the center of my chest. “Some men bring flowers, but I brought a new seat for the throne.”
“Why?” Charli demands from somewhere behind me.
“Well—” Anton clears his throat. “Mind if I come in?”
I realize that I’m blocking the door while I stare at his pretty eyes. “Of course!” I leap out of the way.
“Campeau asked us to pick up a few things that he thought you needed.”
“A toilet seat?” Fiona asks, skeptical.
“Replacement!” Bryce yells from the bedroom. “You do not know who lived here before.”
“Actually, we do,” Drake says, entering the apartment behind Anton.
Charli growls.
Drake moves to stand in the corner, in a pose that positions his hands in front of his testicles. “This is the apartment where Becca and Georgia lived until Georgia moved out to live with Leo, and Becca moved in with Nate. After that, Becca’s sister lived here.”
Bryce emerges from my bedroom. “Thank you for stopping at the store.”
“My pleasure.” Anton tosses the toilet seat—frisbee style—toward Bryce, who catches it. Then he hands me a small bag that contains four nine-volt batteries. “For your smoke detectors,” he says. “Safety first.” He gives me a wink that manages to mock Bryce and look sexy at the same time.