“Or—here’s a suggestion. You could find a different apartment.”
“You know, I wondered how long it would take for the rich boy to throw shade on my place.” I fake a glance at my watch. “Ten minutes. Not bad.”
“But there have to be better options. Most of your teammates live closer to the practice facility.”
“It’s not that simple, Neil. Most landlords want three months upfront. The security deposit, first month’s, and last month’s rent. And when I arrived in New York, I had zilch.”
Less than zilch, actually. I’m still in debt, thanks to my idiot brother.
Neil nods as if he understands. But a billionaire really can’t. “If things are better now, maybe you should try again? Maybe Bess will get you another modeling job.”
“God, I hope so.” I once made some quick cash modeling clothes for a sportswear company. But that was last year, and lately I’m always broke. Everyone thinks that professional athletes are well paid.
That’s really only true if you’re a man.
So my first weeks in New York were hard. Not only did I take the first apartment I could afford, I took the job with the quickest access to cash. For those first couple months, I tended bar at a strip club.
Yup, strip clubs are open at lunchtime. And when you’re topless while making drinks, the men tip pretty well. It paid the bills until I could afford to get the kind of job where you can keep your clothes on.
It had been a stupid risk, and I shouldn’t have done it. I hope nobody finds out. Not even Neil.
Especially Neil.
“Maybe you can find a landlord who likes really ugly engagement rings,” Neil suggests, a smirk in his voice.
“Not likely.” I pull the ring out of my handbag and hold it up to the light. We both stare at it for a long time.
“It’s kind of mind blowing,” he says. “Someone’s job was to design that.”
“Right? One day the designer woke up and asked himself—what would it look like if a unicorn sneezed? And this was the answer.”
Neil lets out a belly laugh, and I join in.
What a pity drunk me didn’t have more sense. Eleven thousand dollars. That’s just disgusting. Maybe I can get them to take it back.
Neil’s poor credit card. Ouch. “Here.” I offer him the ring. “You should obviously keep this, for whatever that’s worth.”
“No way.” He pushes my hand gently away. “That’s your party favor. Obviously, you picked it out.”
“I did not,” I argue vehemently. “There’s no chance.”
“Well, I sure as hell didn’t.” He laughs. “That thing is so tacky.”
“Hold on,” I bellow. “Did you just call me tacky?”
“No,” he backtracks. “It’s just… I don’t have opinions about jewelry. So I wouldn’t have made the choice.”
I snort. “Here’s a plan—how about we just assume the salesperson suggested it? Because I don’t think you meant to imply that this gaudy disaster reflects a personal lack of taste on my part.”
He gives me an amused smile. “Sure, wifey. Let’s go with that.”
“Thank you,” I grumble.
“Was that our first marital fight?” he asks.
“Nope. Our first fight was when I said we needed to fix this in Vegas, and you said don’t be silly. Then, if you recall, the lawyer agreed with me thirty seconds into that call.”
“Okay, yup.” Neil winces. “That’s on me. But I’m not taking the fall for this ugly ring. Sell it. Or keep it as a reminder of why drinking is a bad idea. Whatever floats your boat.”
I tuck the ring away and sigh. It should make a fine reminder. This is what happens when I let my hair down—bad, bad things.
Neil checks the time. “I can still make it this session. I’ll give you my keys. You can take a nap before your practice.”
“Thanks,” I whisper. “Hey, look—let’s not tell management yet? We can wait until the lawyer gets back to you, right? Just give us one day before we reveal ourselves to be idiots?”
“Fine.” He tucks an arm around me, which shouldn’t be a comfort but somehow is. “Maybe nobody will have to know that we fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.”
“Every. Last. One,” I agree.
FIVE
POSH INDUSTRIAL
Charli
The limo pulls up at the practice facility at one minute past four. Neil is almost on time.
“Here’s my key card,” he says, one foot out of the car already. “I just texted Miguel, so he’ll let you go up. I’m apartment 613. Leave the card with him when you leave for practice, okay? Gotta bolt.”
He tosses the card, and I catch it. Then the door closes after him with a well-engineered click.
I lean back against the leather and let out a long breath. The car slides onward toward his apartment building, which is only two blocks away on Water Street.
When we stop again, I hop out of the car before the driver can open the door for me. “I’ll get the bags,” I offer.
“I’ll help,” she says easily. “There’s a lot.”
She isn’t wrong. I grab my own, and she takes Neil’s. Miguel, the concierge of the Million Dollar Dorm—as we refer to the luxury renovated condo building where many of the Bruisers live—emerges to stack all the luggage on a trolley.
“Thank you,” I say uselessly. The people who live in this building are used to this level of service. They hand out fat tips at Christmastime.
Across the street there’s a line of smaller, walk-up buildings where some of my teammates rent apartments. There aren’t any doormen across the street, but the Bombshells are still grateful for the two-block walk to work and the below-market rent that the team owner charges.
I wish I’d taken one of those places. I’d tried to save money, and now I live in a dump, and I can’t evict my brother’s creepy pal.
Fun times.
“Raphael will help get these upstairs,” Miguel says as I follow him into the glamorous lobby and across the marble floors to the elevator. “He’ll be down in a moment.”
“No, I can do it,” I insist. “Can I just leave the trolley outside of Neil’s door?”
“Sure,” he says. “Have a nice afternoon, Charli.”
Wow. He even remembers my name. “Thank you, Miguel.”
It occurs to me that he probably makes more money than I do. My salary on the hockey team is about twelve thousand per year, and my waitress job pays about sixteen dollars an hour after tips.
I should ask if they have any openings here in this building. I’d look fine in a navy jacket with gold buttons. And I already know the names of everyone who lives here.
The elevator arrives, so I file that idea away for later.
On the sixth floor, I carefully steer the luggage cart out of the elevator, so as not to ding up the walls, which are papered in a paisley pattern.
I’ve visited this building before. My teammate Sylvie’s boyfriend Anton has a loft apartment a couple floors below this one. So after I unlock Neil’s door and enter the apartment, I’m expecting more or less the same space as Anton’s.