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“So we’ve reached the talking-to-yourself part of the festivities?” Nola asked, her tone thick with concern. “I’m gonna need to go get shots if that’s the case.”
“Shots sound perfect,” Astrid said, breathing through the invisible vice grip squeezing her lungs to the point that sucking in a deep breath was impossible. “We can make it a celebration.”
And maybe after a shot or four hundred, it would actually feel like it.
“We’re celebrating?” Thea asked as she slid into the booth on Astrid’s other side and started dividing up the thick stack of bingo cards she’d brought over.
“We are.” Astrid nodded, forcing herself to smile even if there was no way it would reach her eyes—not after what she’d overheard Monday when she’d gone into the arena. “The Yeti put out an official job offer to Cal.”
A heavy silence fell on the table that seemed to smother the chatting from the other tables and the song coming from the jukebox. Astrid swallowed past the lump clogging her throat and took her time arranging the bingo cards in front of her, her hands shaking just the slightest bit.
“Is he going to take it?” Thea asked after a few beats.
“No idea, but he should,” Astrid said, not trusting herself to look up from the cards. “He’d be a fool to turn it down.”
Nola let out a loud snort. “So you don’t care that taking the job means him moving across the country?”
“Of course not.” Astrid realigned her bingo cards for the millionth time. “It’s a great opportunity.”
Thea laid her hand on Astrid’s and waited until she looked up before she asked, “And you won’t miss him?”
Her stomach did the thing, falling like an elevator after the cables had been severed, and for a second, she couldn’t hide just how much she would. Fighting to keep it together, she clamped her jaw tight and blinked away the rush of tears threatening to spill over onto her cheeks. It took her a second, but she finally got there.
“Why would I?” Astrid asked, almost sounding like she meant it. “We were just having fun. I’m in the middle of my worldwide dick tour, remember?”
Thea narrowed her eyes in disbelief. “As easy as that? After you broke all of your rules about dating, you’re just all big shrug about it?”
The truth of it burned like battery acid, and she flinched before she could stop herself. That was bad, but the flash of sympathy in Thea’s eyes was somehow worse.
“It was time for me to revise my rules,” Astrid managed to get out, each word of it sounding like a lie even to her own ears as she edged toward her breaking point. “Cal was just in the right place at the right time. If it wasn’t him, it would have been someone else—and now it will be.”
Neither Thea nor Nola looked like they believed her, but Andy grabbed the mic and announced the first bingo number, effectively saving her from saying out loud what she couldn’t even admit—that she didn’t believe herself, either.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Cal was four blocks away from the Penalty Box so he could avoid the reporters who’d shown up at his apartment building while he was out getting an egg sandwich when the text from Blackburn came in. He tapped the notification on the touchscreen in his car’s dash.
“Avoid the bar. Reporters,” the computerized voice reading the text said. “New location incoming.”
The next text to come through was a share-my-current-location link to another part of Waterbury. Following the turn-by-turn directions past the bar, Cal ended in a neighborhood of one-story ranch houses on a tree-lined street. He double checked the address Blackburn had texted to confirm he was at the right spot and pulled up alongside a red Impala so he could start to parallel park between it and a dark blue classic Chevelle convertible with two black racing stripes on the hood that would have put his sister Roxy into a state of classic car catatonic bliss at first sight. He’d just put his car in reverse, turned the wheel, and gave his sedan just the right amount of gas when he glanced in his rearview and swapped his foot to the brake instead. Blackburn, with a redheaded little girl perched on his shoulders, stood in the middle of the open spot.
Cal lowered his window and hollered out, “Are you trying to get run over?”
“No,” Blackburn said. “Are you trying to let the reporters know where you are by parking directly in front of the house?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but the second he did, he realized leaving a car with Minnesota license plates might be a tipoff for the enterprising reporter who gave up on staking out the Penalty Box and went looking for other hideout options. Not that Cal had any idea where he was, but since Blackburn was the one who told him to come, the media would probably check out any places tied to the former Harbor City defenseman.
“Where should I park?” Cal asked.
Blackburn jerked his chin toward the house’s two-car garage door that was rolling up.
“Daddy!” the girl squealed as she smiled at the massive redheaded man walking out of the garage.
While the two men exchanged custody of the kid, Cal pulled into the garage, cut the engine, and got out of his car. The garage was borderline obsessively neat, with tools hanging from hooks on pegboards and metal shelves lined with half-used cans of paint, motor oil, and a massive stock of paper towels. Next to the door leading into the house sat a beat-up folding chair, a small TV, and a dartboard with a paper target featuring the Cajun Rage logo on it. Blackburn and the giant, carrying the kid, walked into the garage, and then the girl smashed her chubby hand against the button, closing the door.
“Again?” the girl asked.
The big guy shook his head. “The next time is Trey’s turn.”
