Under the hot spray, I’m still thinking about Neil. If I’m being fair, I’d admit that my view of him is evolving. He was an ass to me the first time we met, and I’ve always assumed he was a spoiled brat.
It’s that school he went to—Parkhurst Prep. It was just around the curve in the road from Miss Draper’s School, where I went.
Both those schools are dead to me. I won a lot of hockey games and got a good education in the woods of Massachusetts. But I was friendless there for three solid years.
High school was a long time ago now, but sometimes it’s hard to leave that stuff behind. When I look at Neil, I see a hardworking athlete. But I also see his rich-guy smirk and his Parkhurst diploma.
It’s confusing.
I shut off the water, because I’m turning into a prune, and I don’t want to be late for work. Neil’s towels are like fluffy white clouds. I didn’t even know a towel could be so thick.
He doesn’t wake up when I tiptoe through the room in a towel to collect my clothes. Or when I slip into the kitchen to guzzle water and put on my shoes.
I wash and dry my glass and put it back in the cabinet. I’ve had a lot of training at how to be a nearly invisible houseguest. I know how to make myself look small and less inconvenient.
This kitchen is unlike any other, though. Light shimmers through the window as I park my butt on a kitchen chair and tie my shoes.
I’d love to linger here on a quiet morning, drinking coffee. And for a moment, I contemplate making a pot before I leave. The machine is so shiny, and it would make this kitchen smell fantastic. Neil could wake up and pour himself a cup.
But that’s so domestic, like a real wife would do.
I can’t play house. I can’t pretend this is my kitchen. I’m just a visitor.
And I’d better not forget it.
My shift at the Orion Diner starts at seven thirty, but the walk to work is even shorter than I’d thought, and I arrive fifteen minutes early.
“Charli!” Sal calls from the cash register. “Grab an apron, baby doll. Table seventeen is shootin’ daggers over here because I haven’t brought out the coffee.”
“Sure thing, Sal. But I’m clocking in early.”
“Fine, fine.”
For the record, Sal is the only man on Earth who’s allowed to call me “baby doll.” In his defense, he’s about a hundred and forty-seven years old. His mother opened the Orion Diner just after World War II, and he’s been running it for fifty years, according to a newspaper article on the wall.
The write-up came about when Sal hired some design students from Pratt to redo the interior of the Orion—keeping the fifties feel of the place but smartening it up.
And then he hired some cooking-school kids to give the menu a modern makeover.
Now Sal gets fourteen dollars for a plate of eggs or an avocado toast. And I get fat tips, because everyone loves the Orion Diner.
I tie on an apron and hustle the coffee pot out to table seventeen. They order complicated omelets and ask for a side of mesclun salad.
“Coming right up,” I promise them.
“Keep the coffee flowing,” is their parting shot.
Whatever. I’m happy to dart around the sunlit diner, topping up cups and taking orders. My first job after I landed in Brooklyn was a huge mistake, but this one is solid.
I’d found this place when my teammates had demanded that I come out for brunch with them. I never have enough money for restaurant food, but I’d given in that one time, because there are only so many times you can say no before people decide you’re aloof.
We’d had a great brunch at table eleven. On my way out, I’d spotted the Help Wanted sign in the window, and I’d turned around to ask Sal for an application.
I’ve been working here ever since. This place is a mere seven-minute walk from the practice facility, plus I get a free meal during every shift. I could probably earn more at an upscale lunch spot. But Sal tolerates my scheduling constraints—no nights or weekends. I need those hours for hockey.
Plus, he’s a hoot.
“Good news,” I tell him during a quiet moment between orders. “You can schedule me a half hour earlier in the mornings if you want to. I’m staying in this neighborhood for a couple months.”
“Yeah, chickie! Did ya finally leave that dive out in East New York?”
“For now,” I say, omitting the complicated details. But I’m happy to pretend to belong in a gorgeous neighborhood for a little while, anyway.
“Good call. How was your trip to Vegas, kid? Glam?”
“A little too glam. You wouldn’t believe the hangover I caused myself.”
“Oh dearie. I got aspirin in my desk drawer. Your girls are here, though,” Sal says. “Just walked in.”
I swivel my head to find out which girls he means. It could be any number of my Bombshells teammates. Sal refers to all of them as “your girls.”
Side note—Sal is the only one allowed to refer to a team of fierce female hockey players as “girls.”
When I head over to the circular booth in the corner, I don’t find any hockey players. Instead, it’s Rebecca, the team owner, Bess, an agent who helps Becca manage the team, and also Heidi Jo and Georgia from the front office.
And? Sasha, my coach.
“Wow, it’s power hour,” I say, sliding menus onto the table. “Three coffees, one ginger tea?”
“Thanks, Charli!” they say, and I hurry off to grab their cups.
The next table to sit down contains the Bruisers’ goalie Silas Kelly and the other goalie—Mike Beacon—who’s also brought his two-year-old son, Mikey.
“One booster seat, please, two coffees and two orders of the scrambled egg tacos,” Silas says without a glance at the menu. “Thanks, Charli.”
“Don’t mention it.”
This pattern holds. More of the Bruisers trickle in, and from their oversized orders I can tell they’re having a meeting today before morning skate.
No man eats two eggs, two pancakes, and a side of sausage hash immediately before practice. That’s just asking for trouble.
Lucky me, too. The Bruisers are great tippers.
On weekdays, you won’t see many Bombshells in here during breakfast. They’re at work. Women have to work to support their pro-hockey careers while the men’s team are like pampered thoroughbreds with only one job—winning.
I’m pouring coffee like it’s going out of style when I catch Georgia beckoning to me from the corner booth.
I grab a fresh pot and hustle over there. “Careful, ladies, Sal likes his coffee strong.” I’d just refilled them five minutes ago.
“Oh, we’ve had plenty,” Georgia agrees. “But Charli, I have news.”
My stomach drops. “What? Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” she says. “Sports Illustrated has it.” She thrusts her phone in my direction.
STANLEY CUP-WINNING PRIVATE-JET HEIR MARRIES FEMALE HOCKEY PLAYER.
“Omigod,” I gasp. “I always wanted to be in Sports Illustrated. But not like this.” I swallow hard. “I’m sorry. Wow. This is going to be a huge distraction, right? I’m really sorry.”
When I glance up, I’m afraid to make eye contact with the powerful women at this table. I’ve just brought tawdry gossip to the team. And as I glance from face to face, I see nothing but…