Chapter 41
Forty-One
Sawyer
“It’ll just be a few more minutes,” Bri says, glancing down at her phone. “I don’t think anyone expected traffic to be this bad.”
I resist the urge to check my watch, know it’ll only have been a few minutes since the last time I looked.
I still have time.
I still have time.
But all I can think about is Ollie and those burgundy suspenders.
“Bri,” I say. “If they’re not here in the next ten—”
“Hey, girl!”
We both turn to see a trio of women hurrying over.
“We’re so sorry we’re late!”
Bri glances at me, worry in her eyes.
I push out of my chair and move over to greet them. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Sawyer.”
The first of the trio—the one who apologized—winks at me and bypasses my hand to pull me into a tight hug.
And considering she’s all of five feet six, that requires some contorting.
“Oh, honey,” she says, pulling me back and kissing my cheeks, “we know who you are.” Her smile widens. “I’m Rhonda. And this is my best friend, Rebecca, and—”
“I’m Amy,” the younger woman with them says. “Rhonda’s daughter.”
Her smile is predatory and when she comes in for a kiss, it lands dangerously close to my mouth.
“Hi, Amy,” I say, quickly extracting myself from her hold and greeting Rebecca.
Then glance at Bri.
Pointedly.
“Right,” she says, jerking her hand to the side. “We should eat.”
The host escorts us to our table, and it’s not long before we’re seated at the table and Bri is excusing herself to let the kitchen know we’re ready for the first course.
“Come and eat with us,” I tell her before she leaves.
Her gaze slides around the table.
Then she nods, slips away.
Leaving me in awkward quiet.
And…fuck, but these people paid a lot of money for this lunch.
I slap a smile on my face, tamp down my impatience, my eagerness to get this the fuck over with. “It was so generous for you all to donate to the youth shelter. They really are doing great work.”
Rebecca smiles. “I was just glad to do my small part.”
“It’s not small to us,” Bri says softly, sitting back down. “Your donation is helping to fund one entire quarter of the work-training program.”
“Pish,” Rhonda says. “We’re happy to help.” Her eyes come to mine and they turn predatory—like mother like daughter. “Now tell us about you, Sawyer. You know, we saw that ad you did last winter for the watch brand. Whose choice was it for you to take those photos with your shirt off?”
“Um...”
“Mom,” Amy interjects. “Stop.”
But she does it while stroking her hand down my arm. “Tell us all about you, Sawyer,” she says. “I want to know everything about you.”
“Um…”
Rebecca winces. “Or we could—”
“How long have you been Grizzlies fans?” I interject hastily.
“Oh, ever since that yummy Gray Roberts joined the roster,” Rhonda says. “But his auction prize was far too expensive, even with the three of us pooling our funds.”
“Two,” Rebecca corrects quietly. “Amy didn’t—” She shakes her head and smiles at me. “I’ve been a Grizzlies fan from the beginning. Gosh”—she looks up, as though counting—“it must be twenty-something years now.”
“And without a Cup,” Amy says. Then laughs and makes as though to reach for me again. “At least the roster’s gotten hotter over the years.”
Bri flinches, her face going pale. “I think we should focus on—”
“Our first course,” I say as the waiter comes over. “Oh, wow,” I add deliberately. “Asparagus, that’s my girlfriend’s favorite vegetable.”
Amy’s eyes flare in irritation.
I just take the opportunity to scoot my chair away, far enough that Amy would have to have Inspector Gadget arms to reach me.
“I’m so sorry,” Bri murmurs as the plates are placed in front of us.
“Not on you,” I murmur back.
And then I deliberately turn the conversation back to hockey—and not the hotness factor of the Grizzlies’ roster. I learn that Rhonda and Amy know enough about the game to have favorite moments and players and that Rebecca actually played growing up.
“Just a bit of pond hockey,” she says a little shyly. “God, those were the days.”
I smile at her, and push back my empty plate, hoping that the waiter will get the hint and start moving us toward the second course.
Unfortunately, the women—Bri included—seem to be eating at a sloth’s pace.
I glance at my watch. One-forty.
There’s still time.
Still plenty of time.
So, why’s my stomach churning?
“Which game did you guys decide you want to see?” Bri asks into the quiet that falls.
I want to tell her to be quiet, to let the women eat.
But that doesn’t seem to be the priority for anyone but me.
Thank God, though, the first course is eventually swapped for the second.
One more course. Then dessert.
Then I’m out of here.
I barely taste the wine-braised chicken breast and carrots, can’t stomach more than a bite of the next course of steak and mashed potatoes.
The individual apple pies with fresh caramel and homemade ice cream are probably delicious.
But I can barely even look at mine.
Two-fifteen.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” I say, pushing back my chair. “I have another commitment I need to get to.”
“Oh! But we haven’t even taken any pictures yet,” Rhonda exclaims.
I glance at my phone, see that Lainey’s texted me.
She’s already at school and is saving me a seat.
“Right,” I say. “Let’s do that.”
That takes five minutes. Then ten.
Then I waste another five when I have to argue with them about paying for lunch.
“It’s my treat,” I tell Rebecca. “That’s the deal, remember?”
Amy smooths her hand down my arm. “If things don’t work out with your girlfriend…”
The waiter comes by and thankfully, I manage to sign the receipt, get my card back, and tell Bri I’ll catch up with her later.
Worry clings to her eyes, but she merely hugs me and promises to see them out.
“Thanks, kiddo,” I whisper before I hurry out of the restaurant and to my van.
Two-thirty-five.
“Gotta go,” I whisper, turning on the ignition and then starting to back out.
Then stopping.
Freezing.
Because the swag packs from the team are sitting on my back seat.
“Fuck,” I grit out, throwing the transmission into park and getting out. I grab the bags and run them into the restaurant, brushing off their thanks…and their offer for a drink.
Back to my car.
Engine on, reversing out of the spot, and onto the road.
Two-forty-five.
“Okay, this is fine.” I’ll be right on time. It’s not early like I wanted. But I’m sure the performance won’t start right at three. They’ve got to give parents at least five minutes of a grace period.
I turn onto the main drag, zip through several signals, and am less than a mile from school when it happens.
Pop!
My car veers suddenly to the right as the tire blows, sending me careening toward a power pole.
I slam on the brakes, manage to bring my car to a halt.
Then sit there for a second.
And breathe.
Two-fifty-eight.
“Fuck,” I hiss then pop open the door and get out, surveying the shredded front tire. “Fuck,” I growl, kicking at the useless hunk of metal and rubber.
Buzz. Buzz.
I yank my phone from my pocket, glance at the message on the screen.
LAINEY: They’re starting. Where are you?
I grab the keys, the congratulatory present for Ollie from the back seat.
And then…
I start running.