Page 110 of Brooklynaire

“Yes, MissRowley?”

“Call me Becca.” I’m sort ofdrunk.

“Yes,Becca?”

“I just left a long voicemail for Nate. Could you erase it,please?”

“I’m sorry, but that is not within my powers. Voicemail resides with the cell phone carrier. KTech phones employ the carrier’s software for thisfunction.”

“Well, that is a bug, sir,” I complain. “I can’t believe Nate didn’t write that softwarehimself.”

“I will tell him you’redispleased.”

“No!” I sit up quickly and the room spins. “Don’t do that. Don’t ever tell Nate I’m displeased aboutanything.”

“All right, miss. One word from you shall silence meforever.”

“That’s a little dramatic.” I yawn. “Good night,Bingley.”

“Pleasant dreams,miss.”

* * *

Nate obviously listenedto my voicemail. Now that we’re back in Brooklyn for games three and four, he’s giving me space. Lots ofit.

Which I asked for, I guess, when I said I needed to “take a damned deepbreath.”

Lesson learned. No drunk-dialing ever again. He’s obviously avoiding me. Or maybe he’s busy running the world and I’m an idiot for assuming he was thinking about me atall.

I go to therapy two days in a row, and it kicks my ass. Ramón makes me jump on that damned trampoline forhours.

Then, during game four, my heart does a few rounds on the trampoline, too. If we win this one the series will be tied 2-2. I watch from a seat in row B, courtesy of injured veteran player DavidBeringer.

He sits beside me, his hands white-knuckled on the armrest. If I’m in agony watching our boys play, his pain could only be double, knowing he should be out there helping themwin.

Note to self: there’s always someone who has itworse.

“Man on!” Beringer shouts to Castro. “Trevi’sopen!”

I give a nervous little shriek as Castro makes the pass. “Come on, boys, you can dothis!”

And yet the first period ends scoreless. I spend the intermission touching up my makeup in the bathroom and pretending it’s not because I want to look pretty for a certain technologytycoon.

Meanwhile, Heidi Jo is in the corporate box, blowing up my phone with nattering questions.Should I offer Nate another Diet Coke? What does Stewdrink?

Don’t bother, I reply grumpily.They both have two functioning hands. They can pour itthemselves.

You know the game is tied, right? Why so glum,chum?

I don’t answer because it won’t be a friendlyresponse.

My mood improves during the second period, though. We pick up two goals, and ultimately Dallas can’t catch up. It’s a sweaty, fast-moving third period but we finish the game 4-2.

I am weak with relief. Dave is hoarse fromyelling.

“Thank fuck,” he says, squeezing my shoulders. “That took a year off my life, Bec. Come to the bar with us for acelly?”

“Okay,” I say immediately. Blowing off steam with my friends sounds like a fine idea, especially since I’ve discovered I can have a drink or two now without face-planting. “The Tavern onHicks?”