“A woman shot you down?” Otto’s head bent back in laughter. “That makes my day.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“What’s so special about this woman that she’s got you acting out of sorts?”
That was a damn good question. She had big, green eyes, smooth, pale skin, and a long, thin, delicate neck that made me feel like a damn vampire. But those felt like bonus points with Georgia. What I liked best was that she seemed to know who she was, and while she could poke fun, she was also proud and unashamed. Too many women wanted to be someone else.
I shrugged. “She’s just kinda real.”
Otto nodded. “Real is good. But listen, Pretty Boy. Nothing good comes easy. When I met my Dorothy, I was working security at a nudey bar downtown. I was young and handsome back then, having the time of my life with the ladies who worked there. I had to get a new job just so Dorothy would go out with me.”
“I ain’t buying the young and handsome part. But I get what you’re saying.”
“You players have no idea what it’s like to work for a woman. I see the half-naked women who cozy up to you any chance they get. It’ll do you some good to have your redwood-sized ego chopped down a bit. I like this woman already. I bet you she’s a smart one.”
“Might be too smart for me. Graduated from NYU business school and runs a successful company she started on her own.”
“My Dorothy has been a librarian for thirty years. She’s read more books than I’ve had beers. And you know how much I enjoy my Coors Light. So let me give you some advice.”
“What’s that?”
“Smart women don’t believe the things you say. They believe the actions they see.”
I nodded. “Good advice…for a change.”
We sat side by side for a moment watching the ten-thousand-dollar Zamboni ride.
“He’s doing a pretty good job.” I jabbed my elbow into Otto lightly. “You better watch out. I bet he can afford to pay fifty K to replace you.”
Otto scowled.
I laughed. “That’s payback for the Philly comment. Now tell me how your treatment’s going.”
He flexed both his hands open and closed. “Not too bad. Except my hands and feet tingle all the time. Doc said it’s nerve damage from the chemo. It better just be temporary.”
Otto had been diagnosed with stage four colon cancer last year. He was getting treatment, but the outlook wasn’t great, especially since it had spread in the months after he’d stopped his first round of treatments.
“Anything you can do for it?” I asked.
“More drugs. Doc said physical therapy might help. But I hate that shit.”
I smiled. Hockey players lived in a PT office. I always dreaded going, too. Just tell me the exercises, and I’ll be on my merry way. “What about acupuncture?”
“Pins and needles? That’s what I’m trying to get rid of, jackass. But you know what might help?”
“What?”
“Warmer weather. If you happen to know anyone looking for a facilities manager out on the West Coast, put in a good word for me.”
I shook my head with a grin. Otto had no intention of going anywhere, and we both knew it. But I hadn’t yet told him I was in talks with the LA team, though somehow he must’ve gotten wind. “I would say these walls must talk, but I’ve never had a conversation about another team in this place.”
Otto stood. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “No fucking selfies while driving that thing!” He grumbled as he sat back down. “Bunch of morons with those phones.”
I smiled. Yep. There was no better way to start my Saturday than time with Otto.
• • •
“Thank you for helping me.”
Jenna set a tray of veggies on my dining room table. She smacked her hands together, cleaning them off, and looked around. “Helping would imply you did something to contribute.”
I reached to take a carrot from the tray, but she swatted my hand. “Those are for the guests.”
“So I can’t eat any before they come?”
“I’ll let you eat one. But don’t dip it in the dip. You’ll mess up how nice it looks.”
Jenna’s husband, Tomasso, walked over. He grinned. “She won’t let you dip, huh? I warned you she was bonkers about shit like this when she offered you help.”
Jenna’s hands flew to her hips. “You called me bonkers? Next time you want to have people over, you can order and make things look nice. I’m sure everyone will love Ritz crackers with Cheez Whiz.” She was all of about five-two, a solid foot shorter than her tree trunk of a husband.
Yet he shoved his hands into his pockets with a sulk. “Sorry, babe.”
I chuckled.
“What are you laughing at?” She wagged a finger my way. “Go do something about that little furball over there. He keeps trying to get up on the coffee table where the charcuterie board is.”
I lifted my hands in surrender. “Yes, ma’am.”
I took the dogs into the kitchen and fed them, even though it wouldn’t stop them from trying to swipe something.
A little while later, the first guests arrived. I’d invited twelve people—or rather Jenna had. She’d said it was the perfect number to qualify as a party, but also not so many that I’d have to spend all night playing host, which would take away from my time with Georgia. I didn’t argue, since she was doing all the work, but the people coming were my friends—they wouldn’t give a crap if I ignored them. Which was exactly what I’d be doing once Georgia got here. The woman had gotten to me.
At about eight, almost everyone had arrived, except the person I was throwing this sham of a party for. My cell was on the charger in the kitchen, so I went to go check if maybe she’d texted.
There’d been a missed call around six thirty and then a text around seven.
Georgia: Hey. I just wanted to make sure you got my voicemail. I’m sorry for canceling last minute.
Shit.
I swiped into my voicemail and hit play next to her name.
“Hey. It’s Georgia. I’m sorry to call at the last second, but I’m not going to be able to come tonight. I wasn’t feeling so hot yesterday, and this morning I woke up sort of achy and wiped out. I took some Motrin a few hours ago hoping I’d feel better and laid down for a little while, and I actually just woke up. I never nap, so I didn’t expect to pass out for almost three hours or I would’ve called sooner. Now my throat is a little sore, and I’m running a low fever. I feel awful for canceling on your birthday, but I’m not going to be able to come. I’m sorry, Max. I hope you have a great party.”
I frowned. This sucks. When I read the text, I assumed she was blowing me off. But she didn’t sound so good, and that caused an ache in my chest. So I hit Call Back and leaned against the counter, waiting for her to answer.
On the third ring, I thought I was about to go to voicemail, but then she answered. Her voice sounded worse than on the message.
“Hey,” she croaked.
“You don’t sound so good.”
“Yeah, I don’t feel too hot. It hurts when I swallow, and my head weighs a hundred pounds. I’m really sorry I can’t come.”