Chapter 3 Blink Twice for Yes
Blink Twice for Yes
Eric
Bathing suits on! DeLuca says in our friend chat. We can swim after dinner.
From the hotel bed, I glance toward my suitcase. Changing my clothes sounds like too much effort.
That means you too E-Train.
Hell. Not one to disappoint my boys, I finish my smoothie. Then I heave myself off the bed and look for my bathing suit.
Nice pic on social, captain, Chase Merritt chimes in. Sexy.
Honestly I thought he looked constipated, Weber chirps back.
I throw the phone down on the bed, not about to dignify those comments with a response. But after I change into my trunks, I open Instagram and check my profile.
Technically, I never have to open social media. “You have people for that,” my publicity assistant always says. “Leave it to me.”
But when the guys are making noise about a photo, I always pay attention. After all, it was Chase who spotted my hookup’s panties in the background of one shot last year. I deleted that one in a hurry.
Today’s photo is fine, though. It’s me in my new tux. I squint at it, trying to see what Weber was talking about. But the publicity people insist that a serious expression is part of my “brand.”
Gross, right? I refuse to become someone who says “my brand” with a straight face.
Since we’re deep in the playoffs, my account is particularly active this month, with thousands of comments. And somehow I’ve got over a hundred unread messages. I tap on the inbox. People send the weirdest shit to a stranger:
I’ve analyzed your game stats and concluded that your slap shot improves by 7% when you wear blue laces.
Do you think hockey players would survive a zombie apocalypse? Asking for science.
I crocheted a life-sized pillow of you. My cat is sitting on your face right now. Marry me?
I just know your favorite cereal is Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Am I right? Blink twice for yes.
These people are probably drunk. Or maybe they know I only read 1 percent of the mail, and they’re just amusing themselves.
I’m about to close the app when my eye snags on one particular message… the Randolph-Fletcher wedding…
Okay, weird? I open the message and read it twice. But I’m still confused. Who the hell is @D10011?
There’s a sharp knock on my hotel room door. “ET? You ready for dinner?” The voice belongs to DeLuca, one of our goalies.
Still staring at my phone, I cross the room and open the door. “What’s going on here, you think?” I thrust the phone at my buddy. “Does this person know me or not?”
He reads the message, frowning. “Hmm. So there’s some babe who wants to take you to a wedding and then let you tie her up. That’s just Tuesday on the internet. I don’t see the problem here?”
I point at the last line. “The Palmetto Room is where we’re eating in five minutes.”
“Ohhhhh shiiit!” He squints at the screen. “Who is this woman. Or, if we’re being objective, it could also be a man.” He taps on the sender’s handle.
The profile pic doesn’t show a face, though. It shows the Flatiron Building instead. “That’s six blocks from the rink.”
We both lean in for a better look. But there are very few photos in the feed.
No selfies, either. These pics are artsy.
There’s a photo of a mosaic I recognize from the Twenty-Third Street subway station—a portrait of a dog by William Wegman.
And another of Eighth Avenue on a rainy night, the neon lights reflecting on the wet pavement.
“Clues!” DeLuca says, sounding delighted. “He or she lives in our neighborhood.”
“Right?”
“Oh, look—those shoes!” DeLuca jabs a thick finger at the photo of some sidewalk chalk, which also captures the photographer’s feet. “So this is a woman’s profile. And… don’t those look familiar?”
I squint at the photographer’s shoes. They’re cute—a pair of leopard print heels. And when something clicks, I inhale.
“Bro?” DeLuca says. “You’ve seen ’em, too, right? They’re hot.”
“Those are… Darcy has those shoes.” I can picture her in one of her pencil skirts striding into work, a leather bag over her shoulder, hips swinging. Long, smooth legs.
And those heels.
DeLuca lets out a gleeful hoot. “Holy shit! Darcy’s sliding into your DMs? Who knew she had it in her?”
I straighten up, stunned. Somehow, it’s hard to align the Darcy I saw fifteen minutes ago with this message. She wants to peel me out of my tux? What?
Unbidden, my body flares with heat.
“Except…” DeLuca takes the phone and reads it again. “Here’s the thing—this message wasn’t meant for you, dude.”
“What?” That makes no sense. And why am I suddenly offended?
“No, buddy. It’s about you. But it’s not meant for you to read.”
“Oh shit.” I lean in and read it again. “I see what you mean. My future ex-husband…”
DeLuca chuckles. “I like her style.”
But now I can see that he’s right—this message was probably meant for different eyes. It’s too familiar.
Besides, the time stamp is only a few minutes ago. And Darcy was practically asleep on her feet when we got off the bus. She must have made a mistake, hitting the reply button instead of forwarding it to… “Zoe,” I say suddenly. “She must have been talking to Zoe.”
DeLuca snaps his fingers. “Oh yeah! Totally. And you can tell it’s not the first time you’ve come up, amirite?”
Another little bomb goes off in my brain. “Darcy is attracted to me?”
DeLuca laughs. “Bro, isn’t it obvious?”
“But… she doesn’t even like me.”
He laughs harder. “Um, I think she does.”
“She’s snippy with me, though.”
My buddy puts his hand on my shoulder. “Sometimes, when a kid on the playground is a little mean to you, it’s because she likes you. My mama taught me this in first grade. Got your key? It’s time for chow.”
Numbly, I check my pocket to make sure my card is still there, then shove my feet into my shoes. But my mind is still blown. “How am I supposed to play this?” I ask on the way to the elevator. “Pretend I never saw it, right?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” DeLuca demands, slapping the button to summon the car. “Invite her for a private viewing of your new tux.”
“I’m not going to embarrass her. Jesus.”
“Nah. She wants your attention,” he points out. “So give it to her. You’re in the market for a new fuck buddy. Or at least you should be. Everyone thinks so.”
I frown. And when the elevator arrives, our ride downstairs is silent. Lick him everywhere is playing on repeat in my brain. How am I supposed to forget that I saw that?
“Kinda blows your mind, doesn’t it?” DeLuca says. “So unexpected. Don’t get me wrong—she’s got that hot secretary vibe with those heels she wears. And legs for days.”
My poor tired brain lights up with the image of Darcy’s long legs. We’re in Florida, so she was wearing a short skirt today…
Stop it, brain. “It’s a real mindfuck,” I admit. “And now I have to look her in the eye and pretend she didn’t say she wants to…”
“Lick you,” DeLuca says with a smirk.
I feel another flash of heat. Christ. “Not sure my poker face is up for this challenge.”
“Oh, it isn’t.” He chuckles.
“You know what’s funny?”
“All of this? Best gossip nugget I’ve heard in a long time.”
“Hey.” I give him a sober glare. “You can’t spread this around. She does not deserve that.”
“Yeah, okay. I wouldn’t want to embarrass Darcy, she’s great. And if we piss her off, we’ll probably get the worst hotel rooms next season.”
“Right. Focus on that.” I rub my temples.
“But what’s the funny part, then?”
“I do have to go to that wedding.”
DeLuca only looks confused.
“The one she wrote about in the message. Darcy and I grew up a few towns apart in Massachusetts, so it’s not that weird, I guess.”
DeLuca’s dark eyebrows rise. “No shit? Who’s getting married?”
“Um…” The thought of this wedding makes my stomach hurt, which is why I vowed not to think about it at all until after the playoffs. “So, before my brother died…”
DeLuca’s expression drops immediately. Everyone I’m close to has already heard the sad story of how my brother died in an accident when I was in high school.
“He had a girlfriend, Maribel. They were real high school sweethearts. We were all close, she even lived with my family for a while. It’s her wedding. This July.”
“Oh shit.” He flinches.
“No, it’s great,” I say firmly. “She moved on with her life. She’s found a path forward.”
“Yeah, but you have to watch her say I do to someone else?” The elevator doors part. “That’s rough, man.”
It is rough, but mostly because my parents are taking it so hard. Unlike Maribel, they’re stuck in the past, so this wedding is going to be a family ordeal. It doesn’t help that it’s a huge wedding, too, the kind that lasts several days. “I’m kinda dreading it,” I admit.
“At least you have a new tux. And a date, if you want one.”
“A date,” I repeat slowly, and I try to picture sitting with Darcy at the reception while my parents weep into their champagne glasses. Ugh.
“She offered. Sort of.” DeLuca smirks. “Maybe that’s how you two get past Darcy’s little faux pas.
You can bring that team-dad energy you’re so good at, make her laugh, and tell her that you really do need a date for that wedding.
I mean—you can’t bring Mona to this wedding. Merritt and I will riot.”
I sigh, because my friends aren’t shy about the poor choices I make with my ex-hookup when I’m drunk and horny. But he has nothing to fear in this case. “Mona and I are done for good. And I’d never ask her to a family wedding. She’d get the wrong idea.”
“Damn right,” he agrees. “She meets your parents, you might as well start picking out a flatware pattern.” He punches me in the arm.
I shiver as we approach the Palmetto Room. “Why do they even call it that? It’s not flat.”
“Who knows. But you’re better off going to this wedding with a friend who’s less needy. Darcy is perfect, and you can bang her as a thank-you.”
“Don’t talk about her that way. She deserves our respect.”
“I got all the respect for her. She works for the worst man in hockey and still manages to smile. But apparently there’s another side to Darcy, and she only wants to show it to you.
If it were me, I’d hit that. Two consenting adults just trying to survive a weekend of family drama and rubbery chicken. ”
“Sure,” I scoff. “Now there’s a simple conversation.”
He laughs. “Didn’t say it would be easy. Just said it would be worth it.” He pulls open the door to the Palmetto Room, and we walk in.
“Remember—this is in the vault,” I say sternly.
“And maybe it won’t come up at all. She might not even see that her message went to the wrong person, right?
” I scan the room, looking for Darcy’s smile or a flash of her ginger hair.
She’s easy to notice. I notice her all the time, come to think of it.
DeLuca wasn’t wrong—she does have a sort of hot librarian vibe, and I dig it.
Sure enough, I spot her almost immediately, even in a busy room where two dozen people are milling around and talking loudly. But there’s Darcy. She’s holding a notebook and standing over the GM, who looks to be mid-rant about something. The guy is a hothead on his best day.
The moment I spot her, though, Darcy’s chin lifts, and her gaze locks on mine. And then she turns the color of the Calgary Flames logo.
“Uh-oh, I think she knows,” DeLuca says. “Hope your tux is ready for action.”
“Stop,” I hiss.
Poor Darcy takes a step back from her boss’s table, and then another one. The grouch barks something at her, but Darcy doesn’t even seem to hear him.
She turns and flees instead.