Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
I thank her profusely, then tuck my phone into my purse and head for The Librarian’s Bar a few blocks over, where I’m meeting some music friends for happy hour at five. I won’t be drinking, of course, but I will be networking.
And scheming.
And continuing to plot the very best kind of revenge—the kind that comes from succeeding when the bullies are sure you’ll fail.
With that in mind, I tug my phone out again, composing another text as I wait at the crosswalk. I can’t lean on Blue as a romantic partner, obviously, and Clover and I are both leaning on him hard as a friend, but he is the one who connected me with the New Orleans music scene.
He’s also a successful recording artist who grew up making indie music. His kirtan albums were breakouts before social media and streaming were even a thing.
And yes, he came from a unique background. Some of the lessons he learned about launching grassroots style might not apply in this day and age, but if even some of them do…
Assuring myself this has nothing to do with wanting an excuse to spend more time alone with Blue, I text—No rush to reply, I know you’re at practice, but I was wondering if you might want to meet up at Thai Me Down for dinner at seven? Shelby is with Clover until she leaves for her D.J. gig at ten, and Thai food sounds amazing.
I’d also love to pick your brain about something for work. The meeting with Checkers was…interesting. It got me thinking about alternative paths.
If you have other plans, it’s no big deal, but if not, dinner’s my treat.
I briefly consider elaborating on just how “interesting” the meeting was, but decide that’s a conversation best had in person. Across the street, I pop into an old school drugstore on the way to the bar. I always do my best brainstorming with pen and paper, and Mitchell’s Soda Fountain has an incredible stationery aisle.
An hour later, I’ve finished a pot of The Librarian Bar’s honey mint tea, filled several notebook pages with ideas for an indie launch, and written the chorus to a song about feminine power.
The real kind.
The kind I’m going to use to keep going, no matter how many obstacles are thrown in my way.
Chapter Sixteen
BLUE
I’m having another fire practice.
I don’t know if it’s the win last night that has me so locked in—or the fact that I’m desperate to blow off steam from the sexual tension always about ten seconds from boiling over with Bea—but I’m not about to complain.
I pivot hard, skates shrieking as they bite into the ice.
Grammercy comes in hot, too focused on threading a pass to Dean in the slot to see me coming. I read the tell in his shoulders and the hungry angle of his stick. His eyes flick toward Dean, already counting the goal.
As he telegraphs the move, I lunge first, cutting into the lane, stick down, angling my body, and driving him wide. He tries to throw me off his scent, faking a pass to the inside, but I don’t bite. I lean my shoulder into him at the blue line, meeting him with force. The vibration travels up through my pads, rattling my teeth. I have a good thirty pounds on the kid, but he’s a fighter, and one of the best offensive players in the league.
I’m lucky to have him on my team, and I know he would never want me to take it easy on him during a scrimmage.
So, I give him everything I’ve got.
Finally, the puck breaks free, and Nix scoops it up clean.
The machine transitions, and we fly the other way, a finely tuned engine firing on all cylinders.
I’ve been locked in all practice. Playing harder than even my usual scrimmage standards require, pushing my body past the point of strategy into something that feels more like an exorcism.
Four nights of sleeping across the hall from Beatrice. Four days of watching her move through the apartment in silky fabrics that cling to every curve. Four nights of making dinner together and sitting on the couch with her shoulder brushing mine as we watch movies and pretending the wanting isn’t driving me crazy.
And it’s not just the physical wanting.
Yes, I want to be back in Bea’s bed, making her come for me, more than I want another chance at the cup. But I also want to kiss her forehead in the kitchen, while we wait for the kettle to boil. I want to pull her feet onto my lap on the couch and rub her swollen ankles.
I want to know what she’s thinking of naming Bean…
I want to know if she’s going to put my name on the birth certificate.
I want to be as close as we once were—closer—but all I can do is wait for her to decide. Wait for the time to be right…or not.