“You guessed it,” our other goalie, Scarlet, says. “She’s raring to go.”
Bess pulls up the hood of her Brooklyn jacket then crosses the asphalt to talk to us. “Just a few more minutes, ladies. The bus is almost ready.”
“Okay,” Fiona says. “Should have brought my mittens. Do you mind if we wait inside?”
Bess checks her watch. “Sure. Stay close, though. This will only take a second. And leave your bags—I’ll watch them.”
“Thanks.” Fiona takes my forearm. “Let’s go. I’m freezing.”
I follow her into the corridor, because I need a moment of her time. “Guess who has a new plan to stop sleeping on your couch?”
“Yeah?” She brightens. “I knew something would come through for you.”
“That hasn’t exactly worked yet,” I say carefully. “I’m still hoping to find somebody who needs a roommate. But I found a youth hostel I can stay in for a while, if I could leave just one large box in your apartment for safekeeping.”
“A youth hostel.” Fiona frowns. “Like, bunkbeds? With a bunch of college kids from Europe?”
“With whoever.” I shrug. “It’s cheap, but I don’t want to leave any valuables there while I’m at work or at practice.”
“No way,” she says. “You can’t move to a youth hostel! Where is it?”
“Um, the Bronx.”
“Why would you ever do that?” Sylvie asks, rubbing her cold hands together. “Do we snore?”
“No!” I say through a clenched jaw. “But I don’t want to be that friend who won’t leave. It’s rude.”
Fiona looks at me like I’m the world’s biggest idiot. She opens her backpack and pulls out a single key, shiny, like it was just cut at the hardware store. “You know what else is rude? Assuming that we don’t want you there, even after we said we did. Look, I made you a key this morning.” She presses it into my hand.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “But I don’t like owing favors.”
She rolls her eyes. “So what if you owe me one? I’m hoping to cash in someday when you invite me to stay at your Italian villa on Lake Como.” She shrugs. “But don’t be a twatwaffle, Charli. You’re not going to a damn youth hostel.”
“My Italian villa?” I snort. “You must be confusing me with another girl.”
“Nah, I’ve been googling your husband.” She leans back against the wall and gets a dreamy look in her eye. “He has a seven-bedroom villa with a travertine hot tub on the patio. Don’t tell me you haven’t found that article.”
Slowly, I shake my head. “I spent the last few years avoiding the Drake family.” Once I verified that Neil was Paisley’s brother, I never looked him up again.
“Wow.” Sylvie shakes her head. “There is nobody quite like you.”
“So I hear.” I take up a position against the wall beside her, and my thoughts go to Neil. Again. I can finally admit that Neil is not at all what I expected. When this is all over, I’m going to tell him that.
I unlock my phone and check my messages. There’s a bank notification, and those always make me queasy. But since it’s Friday, the update announces that my paycheck from the diner has landed. So that’s awesome.
In less exciting news, there are three increasingly urgent text messages from my brother Denny. From this morning: I need to ask you a question, he says. I’m not asking for money, I swear.
I don’t trust it, though, so I haven’t replied.
He subsequently wrote: I got a job, Charli. I’ve stayed away from the poker table. I’m doing what I need to do. But I still have to talk to you about something.
That does sound promising, and if I don’t talk to him about whatever it is that’s so pressing, I can stay here in my happy place and believe that he’s pulled himself together. My optimism is a fragile thing. I’m trying to hold onto it without crushing it.
Lastly, I check the time. It’s 2:02, time to ride the bus to Boston.
Coach Sasha comes into the hallway after a couple more long minutes and claps her hands. “Gather round, guys. Let’s go! Team huddle.”
I’m sorry, Neil. I really am.
THIRTY-SIX
LOOK IT UP
Neil
File this under first-world problems.
It’s only a twenty-foot trek from the car to the entrance of the New York headquarters of Drake Enterprises. But the leather soles of my Ferragamos are no match for the slick sidewalk, and I nearly fall on my ass trying to cross the pavement.
A hockey player who almost slips on the ice? It’s not a good look.
Nothing about this meeting will be fun. Mom and Paisley and I will sit across the table from Harmon, his wife Christina, and my cousin Fred. With the help of the foundation’s CEO, we will compromise our way through another quarter’s contributions and expenditures.
Philanthropy can make a guy more cynical than you’d think.
I take the elevator up to the 32nd floor. The doors part into a plush reception area, draped in thick imported carpets and dark wood. A polished receptionist straightens up in her chair the moment she sees me. “Hello, Mr. Drake, you’re right on time. The boardroom is all set up for you. Can I bring you a coffee drink or a cocktail?”
“A cappuccino would be lovely, thank you.” Although I’m half tempted to ask for a cocktail. I wonder if they’d actually bring me one.
I show myself into the meeting room, which is situated in the corner of the building. Most days it has a killer view of midtown. But today, gray clouds hug the plate-glass windows, giving the room an aura of a damp cave with very expensive furniture.
Christina is seated and waiting, as is my sister, on the opposite side of the table. They aren’t conversing, because the chasm between us all runs pretty deep. Christina gives me a stoic nod, though.
Paisley gets up. “Hi Neil. How have you been? Long time no see.” She lifts her pretty eyes to me. She’s looking for forgiveness.
But there’s a reason I haven’t spoken to her since the evening of the gala. “I’m fine, Paise. But I haven’t felt like hanging out with you.”
Her chin dips. “I’m sorry. I know I was out of line that night. But Iris was so upset. You strung her along for years.”
I want to argue with her, but the truth is that I was lazy where it came to Iris. It was easier to date her on and off than to acknowledge my real feelings. “Maybe I could have been quicker to figure out that she and I were a disaster, but that’s between her and me. You owe my wife an apology.”
Paisley eyes the door. “Where is she?”
“Well…”
Before I can explain, my mother sweeps through the door, counts the number of people in the room, and stops dead in front of me. “Where is Charli?”
“On a bus to Boston,” I say tightly. “Like I told you she would be.”
A scowl takes over her face. “Oh, Neil. This is a disaster. How could you let this happen?”
“Yeah, it’s my fault for not noticing the meeting date had changed. But Charli can’t help her game schedule.”