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FORD

How did I get myself into this again?

Oh, yeah.

Andi.

Here I am in a suit and tie ready to go to an awards dinner where I will know nobody, except Andi of course, and listen to boring speeches.

And I’m edgy about not getting my cleaning done.

I keep thinking about it.

It’s important to get it done.

Thinking about it makes my skin itch.

I take a deep breath.

I know it’s a cognitive distortion that not getting my laundry done is a catastrophe.

I know how to challenge that thought.

My therapist will be proud of me for questioning myself.

The world won’t end if I don’t wash my floors today.

I’m holding myself to an unreasonable standard.

I can do this.

Especially for Andi.

I’m even wearing one of my tamer suits tonight—navy blue, with brown brogues.

I had to add some fun with my shirt—red and blue paisley—and solid red tie.

I don’t care what people think about how I dress, but even a selfish prick like me knows tonight is about Andi.

At least my hair looks good.

I grab my phone, wallet, and keys and head out.

And stop dead in my tracks upon seeing the woman standing at the elevator.

I guess I’ve never seen my neighbor like this before.

After a rough few post-divorce months when every time I saw her she was wearing baggy sweats or pajamas, she’s been looking better.

She mostly works from home and dresses in casual clothes.

She also volunteers at an animal shelter and wears jeans and T-shirts for that.

She has a banging body, when it’s not shrouded in sweats, and tonight…

that body is unmistakable.

She’s not just a snack, she’s a whole goddamn meal.

And I am here for it.

I mean, as a friend.

The sleeveless red dress hugs her curves, and when she turns to face me, the front of the dress is wrapped across her, leaving an opening above the knees that reveals those absolutely stellar legs.

Her pouty lips match the color of the dress—my favorite color.

Her glasses are absent, showing off tawny brown eyes and long eyelashes.

Her caramel-colored hair doesn’t look much different—it’s always in a loose wavy style that brushes her shoulders—but the whole package is giving Little Caesar’s Pizza—hot and ready.

“Hi.” She smiles and gives me an up and down look that I might think is checking me out except for when she says, “Thank God you’re not wearing the plaid suit.”

I heave a sigh.

“You have no faith in me.”

She grins.

“Of course I do. I’m just kidding.”

“Bust my balls, sure.” I smooth a hand over a lapel.

“I look great and you know it.”

“I suppose.”

“You also look decent,” I say with a quick appraising look that isn’t necessary because I already took in every detail of her appearance.

“Decent. Thanks for that effusive praise.”

I grin and push the elevator button.

“You’d look even better in my bed.”

“Oh my God.” She rolls her eyes and it’s cute.

“How’s my hair?” I tilt my head.

She studies it.

“It looks fine.”

“Fine.” I shake my head.

“It’s perfect tonight.” I may have a slight obsession with my hair.

The car arrives out front of our building just as we do, and I open the back door and help Andi in, getting a flash of leg as a reward.

It’s about a twenty-five-minute drive to the hotel in Midtown Manhattan where the dinner’s being held.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she says on the way, as I try to ignore the scent of her perfume that fills the car—sweet, almost like caramel, with a light flowery note as well.

Sexy.

“Okay. What is it?”

She presses her lips together briefly then says, “Trevor is going to be there tonight.”

“Oh.” I pause.

“Why?”

“His new girlfriend is in the business.”

“Right.” I remember hearing this when they split up.

Andi actually worked with the woman Trevor left her for.

So fucking shitty.

She nibbles her bottom lip.

“So I really appreciate you coming with me.”

Yeah.

Now I get why she didn’t want to go alone.

Seeing her ex and his new woman has to suck.

“Free dinner and drinks is never bad.”

“Er… I don’t think the drinks are free. We’re not rich professional athletes.”

“Damn. Well, I hope you have your credit card.”

She gives me a chiding look.

“Yes, I do.”

Like I’ll let her buy me drinks.

I assume she makes good money.

Condos in our building aren’t cheap, she has a nice car, and works a lot.

I sort of understand what she does but not really—some kind of online marketing work.

She started her own business shortly after Trevor cheated on her, working out of her home mostly, and now she’s nominated for an award so she must do well.

She can probably afford to buy me a few drinks, but that’s not happening.

Once we’ve been dropped off in front of the hotel, we take the elevator to the fifth floor where the dinner’s being held in one of the ballrooms.

The room is subtly lit by fancy chandeliers hanging above round tables topped with flower arrangements.

Once inside, Andi stops and greets people with smiles.

It seems like she knows everyone, getting congratulations on her nomination.

She introduces me and I smile and shake hands with people I’ll never see again.

Some of them recognize my name and their eyes widen.

One guy wants to have a whole conversation about the upcoming season for the New Jersey Storm, but I manage to disengage and follow Andi.

“We’re at table twelve.” Andi peers at a sign on one table.

“Oh, right there.”

“Who are we sitting with?”

She gives me the low down on the dinner companions she knows.

“There’s the bar.” She points to the end of the room where people mill about an elegant glass and chrome bar with illuminated shelves of bottles behind it.

We both order glasses of red wine and I nudge her aside and tap my card to pay for them, ignoring her thwarted pout.

“Thank you,” she says with a crooked smile.

“But I owe you for this.”

“Cheers.” I touch my glass to hers and move away from the bar.

We pause at a small high-top table by a window.

Andi keeps looking around the room, clearly uneasy.

I want to make her feel better.

“You’re obviously going to win tonight. Do you have an acceptance speech prepared?”

She presses her lips together and meets my eyes.

“No. I was afraid to jinx it by preparing.”

“I didn’t know you were superstitious.”

“Not like you.” She tilts her head.

“I’ve never met anyone as superstitious as you.”

“Thanks.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

I laugh.

“Oh. I thought it was.”

“Superstitions are irrational.”

“True.”

“So you know that but you still act on them.”

“Yes.” I drink more wine.

“They serve a purpose.”

“Like what?”

“Why did you not prepare a speech?”

“Because…” The small furrow between her eyebrows deepens.

“I said, I didn’t want to jinx winning.”

“But why? Did it make you feel better?”

She tilts her head.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You’re probably nervous about the award. It helped you deal with that. It gave you a sense of control.”

She purses her pretty red lips.

“Right.”

“That’s why superstitions are always about something we’re insecure about, or afraid of. Something we don’t have control over.”

“Hmmm. Also true. I don’t have control over the award.”

“Exactly. There’s a lot in life we don’t have control over.” Which pisses me off.

But I’m working on it.

“Yeah. But I want to control it.”

I smile.

“Don’t we all? I’d like to control every shot that comes at me so I can block it, but that’s not how it works. And not having that control creates anxiety.”

She looks at me searchingly as she lifts her wine glass to her lips, then says, “You get anxious about games?”

We’ve known each other for a while, but our friendship is pretty casual.

We’ve never had a conversation like this.

“Sure. Nerves are normal. You have to learn how to use them to your advantage.”

Nerves are normal.

Anxiety is a normal reaction to stress.

I learned that from the therapist my parents made me see years ago, when they got concerned about how stubborn and obsessed I was about having a routine.

How I got so focused on hockey to the exclusion of everything else.

I think they were worried about a neurodevelopmental disorder, and maybe I do have a disorder, but it was never bad enough that it was diagnosed as that.

I did a bunch of cognitive behavioral therapy and talk therapy.

I got medication for anxiety and learned why I needed so much routine and structure.

“Also,” I add, “superstitions can enhance performance.”

She bites her lip and her eyes dance.

“Are you talking about athletic performance or sexual performance?”

Damn.

I respond to her playful question with a smile.

“I’m not superstitious about my sexual performance.”

“Ohhhh. Okay. I get it. Confident in the sheets, anxious in the crease.”

I burst out laughing.

“Hey, that was good.”

She grins.

“Thanks.”

“Although I am not anxious in the crease. I’m the Net Ninja.”

She bites her lip on a smile.

“Okay, then.”

“But seriously, there is evidence that the psychological benefit of reducing anxiety can improve performance.” I lift one shoulder.

“Even little things like saying ‘good luck’ or ‘break a leg’.”

She nods, lips pouting thoughtfully.

“Hmmm. Interesting.”

“And then if it works, you don’t want to tempt fate by not doing it anymore.”

“So that’s why you have so many. They work for you.”

I nod.

“Of course, my natural talent and hard work help, too.”

“Of course.” She tucks her tongue into her cheek.

I seem to have distracted her from her nerves.

“The lucky socks? Those work?”

“Well, even if they don’t, they don’t hurt anything. It’s easier to wear the lucky socks than take a chance on things going horribly wrong.”

“Sure. But could it get to a point where superstitions can become a fixation? Could it actually interfere in your life?”

Ugh.

Nailed me on that one.

I shift my gaze across the room.

“Sure. It could happen.”

“That would be terrible if you missed a game because you couldn’t find your lucky socks.” She says it with amusement, but it’s not really funny.

“Terrible,” I agree uncomfortably.

“So you don’t have any superstitions?”

“Well… I do always make sure my bra and panties match.”

Oh, Jesus.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

She immediately regrets saying that, I can tell.

Her eyes dart around.

“Uh…”

“What color are they tonight?” I ask, trying for smooth operator, and not a drooling dork.

“Never mind!”

“Hi, Andi!” A woman approaches us with a bright smile.

I immediately sense Andi tensing up.

But she smiles too and turns to greet the woman.

Her smile freezes, though, when she takes in the woman’s pregnant belly.

Oh, no.

Is this Trevor’s new girlfriend?

“Look at you!” the woman says to Andi.

“You look so nice when you make an effort!”

My face stiffens.

I set my hand on Andi’s mid-back and gently rub.

“Thank you!” Andi says, as if that were a real compliment.

“Haven, this is Ford Archibald. Ford, this is Haven Gray. We used to work together at Design Edge.”

Haven turns her attention to me, eyes widening.

“Ford Archibald? You play for the Storm!”

“I do.” I smile and shake her hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, wow, this is amazing! Andi!” She slides Andi an arch look.

“I heard you have a hockey player neighbor.”

Yep.

This has to be the girlfriend.

So where’s Trevor?

Oh, there he is, walking toward us across the room, carrying two glasses.

He’s first looking at Andi in her sexy red dress, his eyes wide with appreciation, then he sees me and breaks into a smile.

“Hey, Ford,” he says.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” His forehead creases and he looks at Andi.

“Hi, Andi.”

“Hi.” She’s doing a really good job of hiding her discomfort.

“Ford was nice enough to accompany me tonight.”

“Huh.” Trevor divides a still-puzzled look between us.

Then his gaze lingers on Andi.

“You look really good.”

“Thanks.” This smile is stilted.

Haven blinks and also looks at Andi.

“Congratulations on your nomination. I was so surprised when I saw your name.”

My jaw tightens.

I’m ready to deck this lady.

(I would never hit a lady, just so you know.

)

“Thank you,” Andi says.

“And congrats to you as well!”

Wait.

They’re both nominated.

For the same award?

I try to keep a poker face.

Why didn’t Andi tell me that?

Haven gives a light laugh.

“Thanks. We’re really pumped about it.”

A few more people join us and soon there’s a small group around us chatting.

They’re all talking business so I don’t have much to say, but that’s okay.

I’m not one to fade into the background but I can handle it for a little while.

I keep an eye on Andi and Trevor to make sure she’s okay.

Her smile is bright and brittle and I can tell she’s putting on an act.

That conversation we had earlier went deeper than I expected.

I was trying to ease her nerves but she’s easy to talk to.

I’ve never hidden my weirdness from her, since we’re just friends, and I like it that she seems to like me even though she knows how weird I am.