Page 34 of He Has MVP (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“Now what?” Pink asks, her serious-as-hell frown back, her face pale as moonlight under the cloudy sky. Her hair is combed sleek and held in place in a tight knot behind her neck, ballerina style. It should look severe, but I see the softness in her eyes and her mouth.
I shrug. “Arnie will fix it up and deliver it back to the house when he’s finished. I gave them my credit card. O’Rourke’ll be pleased. He’ll owe me one.” I give her a wink.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says, rolling her eyes. She shifts her feet and I see she’s back to wearing the designer boots she arrived in, tight pants and a soft sweater. Not hurricane clothes. Not Nantucket clothes. She’s wearing her Boston clothes.
“I meant what about getting off the island? What about the ferry? Or the airport? When can we leave?” Her hands are wrapped in front of her like she’s holding herself together. There’s a desperate note in her voice, but not the same as before. Before it was all about practical considerations. Now, there’s a raw note to her desperation, like getting off the island—and away from me—is an elemental concern.
Or maybe I’m imagining that because I can’t stand the notion that she’s all buttoned up and serious again and ready to leave. As if what we’ve had is no more than a one-night stand.
It wasn’t. I should know. I’ve had hundreds of them in the past few years. And last night with Pink was nothing like any night I’ve had with another woman in . . . longer than the past four years I’ve been with the Brawlers. Maybe since my first crush back in high school.
“Don’t worry. I hitched a boat ride off the island. Our car will be by to pick us up in about—” I check my phone for the time because I know that damn Dane Blaise wasn’t kidding when he said to be on time. He’d be a scary dude if I was one to be afraid of tough dudes. But how can I be when I’m one of them? “Twenty minutes,” I say. “Let’s get everything ready to go.”
