“Okay,” Luca says slowly. “Who are you and what did you do with Merry-Go-Round Malone?”
“Seriously,” Rodriguez adds, looking genuinely confused. “You’ve never given a shit about what we said about your women before.”
“She’s not my woman. That’s the point.” I slump onto the bench. “She won’t even have coffee with me.”
“And now you know why,” Roman observes.
“Thanks for that.”
The room stays quiet for a moment. Finally, Barrett claps his hands.
“Alright. We lost to firefighters. It’s embarrassing, but it’s over. Everyone shower, go home, pretend this never happened.”
As the guys start moving, Brody slides over to me.
“You know,” he says quietly, “Elliot might have some perspective on this whole situation.”
“Your wife doesn’t know me well enough to offer relationship advice.”
“She knows women. And she’s got opinions about guys who chase women they can’t figure out.” He pulls off his jersey.“Come over tonight. Bring wine. Let her tell you what you’re doing wrong.”
“I already know what I’m doing wrong.”
“Do you though?” Brody studies my face. “Because from where I’m sitting, you just realized you don’t know anything about women at all.”
He’s not wrong. Everything I thought I understood about attraction and pursuit and getting what I want just got destroyed by a hockey mom who sang the national anthem.
“Fine,” I say. “But I don’t see what good this will actually do.”
He ignores me before adding, “And bring decent wine this time if you actually want Elliot’s help.”
Brody’s housesmells like the cookies Elliot stress-bakes when she’s pissed off. She answers the door with a wine glass already in hand, wearing leggings and an oversized Puckaneers hoodie.
“You look like shit,” she says, examining the bottle of wine I hand over. “This better be the good stuff, because I just watched you get humiliated on live television.”
“It’s a 2018 Caymus.”
“Smart. You’ll need it.” She turns and walks away, leaving me to follow. “Living room. Brody’s ordering food because apparently we’re having an intervention with a professional athlete who forgot how to skate.”
Their living room is all exposed brick and comfortable furniture that actually looks lived-in, unlike my sterile condo. Elliot drops into her chair like a queen holding court.
“So,” she says, taking a sip of wine, “you had a complete mental breakdown because a woman sang a song.”
“It’s more complicated than?—”
“Is it? It seems like you discovered that the hockey mom you’ve been chasing has actual talent, and it broke your tiny brain.”
“Elliot,” Brody warns as he appears with takeout bags. “Maybe go easy on him.”
“Go easy?” Elliot’s eyebrows shoot up. “Your team just lost to firefighters because this idiot can’t handle a woman being good at something. I’m not going easy on anyone.”
“It wasn’t just the singing,” I try to explain.
“Oh, what was it then? Did you realize she’s a real person with thoughts and feelings? Revolutionary concept.”
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Then again. And again.
“Jesus Christ,” Elliot mutters. “How many apps do you have on that thing?”
