Page 99 of Brooklynaire

As the final buzzer rings, I am shamelessly hugging Heidi Jo andsquealing.

The scoreboard glows withDetroit: 1, Brooklyn, 3. And my boys are going to the finals for the first time inyears!

We run up to the box, where everything is mayhem. Nate is surrounded by well-wishers. Heidi Jo hands me a half glass of champagne, and I drink it with a grin on myface.

The Cup! My boys could win the whole thing! I loved them even when we didn’t make the playoffs these last two years. But this is soexciting!

It takes me a couple of minutes of champagne slurping and back-patting to realize that I’m still at work. I get out my phone, jam a finger in my ear, and call the hotel. We’re going to need a private meeting room and some food and drinks for an impromptucelebration.

The hotel is happy to oblige, because they know we won’t balk when they add twenty-five percent to their already usurious prices for “rushservice.”

“C’mon, rookie,” I say to Heidi Jo. “We have a party to throw. Find us an Uber back to the hotel, and step onit.”

She delivers. My intern is actually quite competent. When I’m in a good mood, I can admitit.

But nobody throws an impromptu party like I can. It’s my super power. We don’t plan these things ahead of time because athletes aresuperstitious.

Nevertheless, I use the next ninety minutes to negotiate the price of beer and wine and order finger foods for eighty people. Ergo, I am standing amidst a spread of foods, drinks, and players’ families when the bus returns triumphantly from the stadium. When the first players enter the room, Heidi Jo lets out a whoop of joy a little too close to my ear. But it’s hard to blame her perky little ass, because we are all feeling the lovetonight.

“We’re going to Dallas!” someone shouts, and the room erupts in morejoy.

I start handing out champagne flutes, and because this is the specialist of special occasions, I take one formyself.

“Should you be drinking that?” Heidi Jo asksimmediately.

“Should you be nagging me?” Ireply.

“I guess not. Cheers, then,” she says, and wetoast.

From all the way across the room, I feel Nate’s eyes on me. When I turn around, I find his smile immediately. I raise my glass to him, and he does thesame.

I work the room, congratulating my friends as they get deeper and deeper into their cups. There will be hangovers tomorrow, but coach won’t complain, because they were amazingtonight.

“Good hustle, Castro,” I say to mybuddy.

In reply, he picks me up and spins mearound.

I give a little shriek of surprise, but he completes several rotations before setting me on my feet. “Hey! Watch the champagne flute,” I complain. I’m clutching his arm with my freehand.

“I’m just doin’ you a favor,” he teases. “Don’t you have to spin around a lot at those therapy sessions you’re going into debtfor?”

Still holding onto the hockey player, I count the seconds until the dizziness passes. Ugh, it’s not a good number, either. Maybe because I’m tired. And I’ve had at least two glasses ofbubbly.

Or—and I hate this idea—maybe I’m backsliding because I haven’t been to therapy. Not that I’m going back. I’ve already put three thousand dollars worth of therapy sessions on my credit card. I can’t possibly add more. The playoffs have given me a terrific excuse to cancel sessions,too.

Castro wraps an arm around me and gives me a squeeze. He’s chatting up Silas, the backup goalie, who did an ace job minding the net during the first period tonight. It was one of those rare games when everything went right. Tomorrow all our faces will hurt from smiling sohard.

That’s when I feel eyes on me again. I glance up, and Nate is frowning at me from only a few feet away. He’s in the midst of a conversation, too. Hugh Major is talking to him with animatedhands.

But Nate’s attention is on me instead. He looks grumpy, which is weird, because tonight went exactly the way he’dhoped.

I glance down at Castro’s arm, the one slung casually around me. He’s an affectionate guy, and we’re friends. He hugs the other players, too. It’s notsexual.

It’s just dawning on me that Nate doesn’t see it that way. His eyes are narrowed. He’s ignoring his G.M. to stare lasers at Castro’s hand on myarm.

Nate isjealous.

Mindblown.