The blonde next to me is talking, her hand on my arm now. But I can’t even hear what she’s saying, because I’m so distracted by the pickle I’m in. Fumbling into my pocket I pull out my phone and open up my text messages.Behind you, I send to Wes. I want to warn him that I’m here.Turn around.
He doesn’t, though.
Meanwhile, my new BFF Tracie has me in one hand and a pint glass in the other. Suddenly this night out isn’t fun anymore.
WES
Eriksson is a mess.
I’ve never seen him so sloppy drunk. He’s in turn gregarious, angry and right on the verge of weepy. “Another round, guys?” he slurs. “Not like I have anyone to go home to.”
He is killing me. Eriksson is one tough motherfucker. I once watched him push his own loose tooth back into place right on the bench in the middle of a game after taking a hit to the face. He played the third period with a smile on his face and blood dribbling down his chin. But toughness, apparently, does not extend to having your family walk out on you. He’s dangling off an emotional ledge, and I don’t think I could catch him even if we were closer friends.
It’s getting late and he’s getting drunker. What to do? Ikeep praying that one of the others who knows him better will step forward and take charge—put him in a cab, or take ’im home for the night.
Eriksson is like a slow-moving train wreck that I’m forced to watch.
Unhelpfully, fans keep approaching us. A group of guys in tuxes in a pub is always going to stand out. But Toronto is a hockey town, and the faces around me are famous ones. Drunk well-wishers keep coming up and asking for autographs. One girl asks me to sign her tummy. This I do without actually touching her with my hands. “It tickles!” she shrieks.
“My house is, like, empty,” Eriksson moans.
I’m going to lose my mind within minutes.
There’s another fangirl shriek, and I feel another small clot of fans descending. A brunette steps in front of me. “Omigod, you’re the rookie Ryan Wesley! Loved your goal on Montreal last week! Will you sign my phone case?”
“Sure,” I say as she invades my personal space. I smile anyway, because what is the alternative, really? Then I raise my head to see who else is crowding us—and get a shock.
Jamie is standing five feet away, staring me down with angry laser eyes. He’s being dragged toward me by a slight, blond girl.
“Don’t you want to meet the team! You’re hockey players, too! This is so exciting.”
Three girls swarm, and two of their male companions hang back at a more comfortable distance, their hands in their pockets and “aw, shucks,” smiles on their faces.
Then there’s Jamie. He raises an eyebrow as if to ask,How the hell do we get in these situations?
The pushy brunette grabs one of the other guys. “This is Frazier and Gilles and Canning!” she says brightly, as if we’reall going to be BFFs now. I recognize those guys’ names, too. They’re Jamie’s co-coaches. “Say hi, boys! This is awesome.”
Her companions shake hands with my very tolerant teammates, even if Eriksson sways a little. Jamie keeps his arms crossed. And I can’t stand it anymore. I hold out a hand to him. “Hey—how are you? Long time no see.” I give him a wink, waiting for a smile.
Jamie takes my hand and gives it a pump. “It’s really been too long,” he mutters.
“Wait!” The blonde who’s sticking close to him squeals. “YouknowRyan Wesley? No wayyyyy!”
Why yes. Biblically. “We go way back,” I say. “Hockey camp.”
Her pretty little mouth falls open, and I see her look at Jamie as if seeing him for the very first time. Her eyes widen and her hand tightens on his arm.
I hate seeing it there.
“You’ve been holding out on me!” she squeals, then punches him lightly in the chest.
“Is that so.” Jamie’s face probably looks friendly enough to everyone in this bar but me. You’d have to know him as well as I do to see how irritated he is.
She steps closer and tips her chin up toward his. The maneuver is unmistakably flirtatious. “Whatpositiondo you play?”
I let out a snort before I can think better of it. But she doesn’t notice, anyway. This chick wraps her arms around my man and sort of backs him away from the group.
Jesus, I can’t stand the sight of it. So I turn my back. If I thought the night was grim ten minutes ago, we’re talking suicide alley now.
