Page 19 of The Groupie

“I have to get to practice.” Suzie glances at the Felix cat on the wall next to the calendar. “Coming?”

Even though I should stay home and put my ankle up, how can I turn down the look on her face? Big brown eyes, perfect creamy skin, and classic features framed in the kind of golden blond mane of hair that movie stars pay big money for, make her an unlikely candidate as my sister. She’s soft, and I’m angles—physically, emotionally, and every which way there is for a person to be. “Absolutely.”

I grab my jacket, and we say goodbye to Mamma.

“Good. You two get out of here so I can get some peace and quiet. I need a nap already from all your drama.”

I laugh and give her an extra squeeze.

“I’ll drive,” I say because I know Suzie normally takes the subway to save on parking.

“You sure? I don’t have a parking pass.”

“I’ll splurge.”

* * *

In the car, I’m about to talk to her about Mamma, but she beats me to the conversation starter punch. “Tell me all about the promo shoot, Ry. I’d give anything to be in a televised promotion. All I ever get is in-person events. I want to hear everything. I bet it was exciting.”

“It’s a small deal for GNU, a snow board company, but anything that pays in the thousands is big for me. I think they paid extra because it involved parachuting out of a helicopter.”

“Oh my God. I thought you were kidding about that.” She laughs. “But that didn’t scare you I suppose.”

I wince involuntarily. “About that. I wasn’t supposed to do the ad until after the Olympics, but since I need money now, I might have begged Chuck to allow it.”

“You got him to go along with it?”

“He made me promise to use a stunt double. But when I got there, I told the director I’d be doing the jump myself because I want to be authentic. I’m no pretender. So he went along with it. The guy was thrilled because he was all over getting a shot of me in the air. Turns out he’s wicked into authenticity, too. And that’s the stupid sad story about why and how I hurt my ankle, shooting a commercial while sky diving onto a slope.

“How bad is it?”

“The slope-side emergency med tech said my ankle could take anywhere from two to eight weeks to heal. He said I’d need an ultrasound to determine the severity. Nothing I didn’t already figure. I called my agent, and she said she can fudge a two-week injury with the official line that I’m in Boston for personal reasons—for Mamma’s health.”

The drive only takes ten minutes, and I park in the Garden practice facility’s garage. When I head to the elevator, Suzie takes my arm.

“This way.” We go through a door and down a stairwell and end up walking through a maze of underground hallways. My ankle starts complaining and I wish I’d wrapped it in an ace bandage, but I don’t want to make a big deal of it with Suzie and Mamma. “This is the short cut to the dance studio where we practice. We share the facility with the basketball and hockey teams.”

“So, this is how you met Ted? Wandering around the hallways looking for your studio?” She pretend-pushes me, but giggles all the same. She has no shame about her love of men, which is all well and good, except she romanticizes them. Me? I love them for who they are—a decidedly unromantic lot with tempting bodies and lots of exciting hormones.

“In fact, yes, it is how I met him. The practice rink is right around that corner.” She points in the direction of a hallway, and smiling, because she’s incorrigible, I glance that way. There’s a sign with an arrow that says Brawlers Training Room bolted to the cement wall.

And just beyond the sign, appearing from around the corner, a very large man dressed in a hockey uniform steps out, heading our way. I stop short to avoid colliding.

Then I look up.

And I almost run smack into my hunky dream from last night, standing real as day, tall on his skates and staring down at me. Zak. The so-called banker.

He’s a fucking professional hockey player. And a liar.