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I almost want to lose a hockey game so the three of us can stop eating sushi.
Almost.
I’ve had raw fish far too much over the last two weeks of wins, and Gavin’s superstitions are just about killing my love of dragon rolls.
“I’m just saying, I don’t reckon it would ruin our streak if we ate curry. Or Thai. Or a fucking sandwich now and then,” I point out as we walk through Russian Hill with—surprise, surprise—sushi leftovers in a small paper bag. The regular crew went to the same sushi place tonight following an afternoon victory. Gavin, Hollis, and me. Again.
“Don’t mess with a streak, man,” Gavin says, implacable in his superstitions.
“But you change your socks, right?” Hollis asks with genuine curiosity.
“I’m not a savage,” Gavin answers, but the question gives me an idea—a new tactic I mull briefly as we turn onto Polk Street, since we’re going to do a walk-by of a building we’re thinking of buying some rental property in.
I turn to Gavin, meeting his stoic gaze. “That’s a fair point. Do you truly think the thing we eat after a win contributes to the streak?”
Before Gavin can even speak, Hollis brings a hand to his forehead, like I’ve blown his mind. Good. We don’t call Hollis the Magician for nothing. He can work his magic on our broody teammate with his charm.
“Rhys has got you there,” Hollis says, revving himself up apparently as he makes the case. “Now, if we were eating sushi before a game, maybe that’d be what caused the streak.” He snaps his fingers. “Hey, idea. And this is borderline brilliant. But what if we tested the Viscount’s theory by getting fish tacos before the next home game?”
Hollis has been calling me that since I joined the team. He decided I’m secretly royal on account of being from London, and I don’t dispel him of that notion. As for his proposal, that’s still a lot of seafood, but tacos are tacos, and at least it might set Gavin free of his streak superstitions.
“I’d be amenable,” I put in, like I wasn’t trying to architect this in the first place.
But Gavin scowls, his motorcycle boots clomping against the sidewalk. He’s as good at scowling as he is at blocking shots. “Too risky.”
Of course it wouldn’t be that easy to move a brick wall. “So is too much of a good thing,” I add as we near the building we’re meaning to check out.
“Like winning?” Gavin retorts, but the question dies when we reach the parking lot, his gaze snapping instantly to the far end. “Is that woman doing parkour off her balcony or is she trying to break into an apartment?”
At the end of the second-story row of apartments, a blonde woman is gripping the bars of the railing and trying, but failing, to hoist herself American Ninja Warrior style onto the balcony.
She’s wearing pink yoga pants, bright white sneakers, and a mint green cropped hoodie. Her long, sleek ponytail is poised high on her head, and a purple backpack is looped over her shoulders. Granted, I don’t keep up on the latest fashion trends among robbers, but I’d have figured head-to-toe black and perhaps a beanie in the same shade would be suitable if she were nicking something.
“Maybe she was locked out of her place,” I posit.
As she tries to swing her other foot up onto the ledge, scrabbling for purchase, something about her form feels familiar. Like I’ve seen that ass before. Where though?
“We should stop her…or help,” Gavin adds.
It clicks. She’s not a random woman. She’s someone we all know. “That’s Briar.”
The bright, upbeat, confident yoga teacher whose classes I go to as religiously as a man can. Well, it feels pretty fucking religious the way she downward dogs.
Hollis smacks my arm, recognition clearly dawning for him too. “Dude, you’re right,” he says, since he’s friendly with her as well. She used to teach classes for our team before the rival Sea Dogs lured her away.
I don’t know who takes off first, but in no time, the three of us are jogging across the lot, heading straight for her.
“New workout, Briar? Or are you trying to break into your boyfriend’s place?” Hollis asks.
Boyfriend’s place? I guess he knows a little more about her than I’d realized, but he’s been with the team longer. He’s also the most social cat I know.
“Ex,” she huffs out, hanging in a U like a monkey, but her hands look dangerously close to slipping.
Without a second thought, I step under her, reach for her waist. “Let go. I’ll catch you.”
With an aggrieved sigh, she drops into my arms for a quick second before I set her down on her feet right next to a suitcase loaded with several pink, pastel blue, and ruby red paperbacks, as well as a dastardly looking gnome. There’s a story here, all right.
“What the hell is going on, Pretzel?” Hollis asks with friendly concern. And they’re even close enough for a nickname.
