Page 5 of Big Stick Energy
That managed, I reply to a handful of queries from the travel department and the box office. Then I open Instagram for a little harmless scrolling. My feed is full of the usual—cats behaving badly, hockey memes, and designer handbags that I can’t really afford.
A moment later, though, the universe decides to plop Eric Tremaine’s maddeningly attractive face in front of meagain. His photo rolls into my feed, and before I can help it, I let out a little sigh. The new pic is so dreamy. He’s leaning against a leather chair in a softly lit room, wearing a tuxedo. He’s giving the camera a secretive smile.
The caption:I’ve got a new tuxedo, and I’m ready to party.
For a long moment, I just gaze at the photo, because I feel less guilty ogling him on my phone than in person. That’s what Instagram is for, right? His publicist wouldn’t post pics of him makingsmoothies in his penthouse kitchen or squatting six hundred pounds in the gym if they didn’t want people to look.
But I hate myself a little anyway, because this photo fills me with an uncomfortable yearning. I’m tired, and I’m only human. So I tap the screen to share it with Zoe.
Doesn’t my future ex-husband look yummy in his tux? New fantasy: Our captain also has to attend the Randolph-Fletcher wedding, so naturally, we’ll go together. Which means I’d have a date for this horror show. And as a token of my gratitude, I’ll peel the tux off E-Train afterward and lick him everywhere. Then he can tie my hands to the bedpost with his new bow tie.
You’re around for dinner, right? In the Palmetto Room?
Send.
I collapse against the expensive hotel sofa and close my eyes. But I’m in danger of falling asleep again, so I sit up straighter and finish my tea. It’s already quarter past six. I must remain conscious at least through dinner, after which I can fall into my hotel bed.
The playoffs are the hardest part of my year. My schedule doesn’t ease up until July, when I’ll work only part time and take two college courses. I’m twenty-six years old and only halfway to my business degree. My goal is to get it by thirty. Then I can get a better-paying job with a boss who isn’t so grumpy.
“Hey! Is dinner ready yet?” I look up to see Zoe hurrying toward me. “I’m starved.”
I give her a once-over. She has flushed cheeks, and her makeup was recently reapplied. “How come you look so cheerful?”
Zoe plops down on the sofa beside me. “I’m at a luxury hotel in Florida. What’s not to like?”
My eyes narrow further. “Chase was on the early bus back, wasn’t he?”
“So?” Zoe averts her gaze. “What’s on the menu tonight?”
“You two had aquickie,” I hiss. “That’s why you’re so smiley.”
“Shh!” Zoe looks over her shoulder. “Keep your voice down. Is it that obvious?”
I growl a little. “Only because I know you. The two of you are like caffeinated rabbits.”
She shrugs. “When the season is over, we’re finding you a boyfriend. A decent one. Not another one of those losers.”
“If you say so.” It’s true that I had a lot of terrible first dates this season. But finding a boyfriend isn’t even in my top five life goals.
“Darcy, you can’t just spend the rest of your life fantasizing about…” She’s too good a friend to risk saying it aloud in the team hotel lobby. So she just clears her throat instead.
“Yeah, yeah. But wasn’t that a great photo I sent you?”
She looks blank. “Photo?”
“Check your phone. I just texted it a minute ago.”
Zoe pulls out her phone and frowns. “No, you didn’t. The last message I have is you asking me if eye-rolling counts as cardio.”
“Well, it should. Andhere—I sent you…” I pull out my phone and open our text thread. But there’s no picture of Tremaine. “Oh, wait. I messaged you on Instagram. See?” I open that app next and tap on my messages.
But the message on top of the inbox is not with Zoe. It’s with Eric Tremaine’s profile.
I sent the message directly to Tremaine, not to Zoe.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. Because this is truly a disaster. So much worse than drooling on the bus. “Oh my God.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
