“It was just so—he was just—” My face, my whole body, feels hot.
“Look, I’m sure the sex is great, but your stalker is not going to marry you. He’s not going to be a good husband or a good father. I know you don’t need a ‘good’ provider”—she makes air quotes with the crab claws—“but you need someone who you can take to work parties, who isn’t going to act like an animal around your family, who supports you emotionally. You don’t even know what this guy looks like.”
“He’s tall. And he does do house chores.”
“Fitz can pay for someone to do that.”
“Fitz… is… boring,” I admit.
“He’s a billionaire—he’s not boring. Also, boring is good! You can’t have stalker sex in an alley every night. I know you,” Carolina pleads. “Your default is curled up on the couch with a good book, not having public filthy intercourse. Forget the stalker. Go for Fitz.”
“Oh, I just don’t know.”
“We are too old for love triangles. This is a cry for help. You need to accept that there are men out there who find you attractive. You’re not just the smart sister.” She pushes me off the stool. “Go over there. Get your man. You haven’t even given him a real shot.”
“Yeah, because I don’t want to be publicly rejected and humiliated.”
Carolina glares at me. “I need to see some self-esteem.”
“I don’t even know what to say,” I fret. “It’s not like there are businesspeople here that I have a reason to talk to, to give something else to chew on that will put me firmly in nonthreatening-coworker territory and not woman territory.”
“Forget sex—you need a therapist.”
I stare at the TV above the bar, displaying the game for people who aren’t in oversized luxury stadium seating.
Kathy was a WAG long enough that I can sort of follow a hockey game.
The oysters turn rancid in my stomach as I watch Knox skate across the ice after the puck to the cheering of fans. Like his ego needs any more stroking.
“Don’t look now,” Carolina mutters as she stuffs a handful of lobster meat in the Tupperware container hidden on her lap. “Troll hunters unite.”
A bulldozer of a woman with an angry face stomps up from the tiered seating that overlooks the ice.
The Pittsburgh troll.
Knox’s mom’s nostrils flare when she sees us.
“Security!Security! These lunatics are stalking my baby!”
“Shelby,” my mom says anxiously, rushing up, “you know us. We’re not stalking you.”
“I know your daughter is stalking my son.” The troll slobbers.
“No, Kathy’s not—he moved here—he’s stalking her.” Gran explodes. “He’s not over her. Kath’s here with her sister. We were invited by her sister’s boyfriend, who owns this team and owns your son.”
The Pittsburgh troll makes a distasteful face in my direction.
“Gran, we haven’t even kissed,” I whisper.
“Wait, you haven’t even kissed Fitz?” Gran demands.
“Shhh!”
The whole room looks over to us. Several of the WAGs titter.
I never should have come here. I should have stayed in my café with my books. This is way out of my comfort zone.
“Now, Shelby,” Dad says kindly, “Knox and Kathy have been together for fifteen years. We don’t want bad blood between us.”
