Superfan, Page 2

  The room goes silent. All eyes are finally on the screen. Forty seconds later, L.A.’s Gábor scores again, tying up the game.

  The Slovak player pumps his fist, and my living room erupts with excitement.

  “Told you they could do it!” Leo says, earning a punch from me. “Ow. Kidding!”

  “Boys!” Georgia says. “Look.”

  The camera pans wide, and there’s my girl again. Now she’s wearing a black jersey and laughing. She takes her phone from the woman sitting beside her, and taps something on the screen.

  “This is her tweet!” Heidi says a moment later. “‘Apparently I’m magic,’ it says. ‘Who knew?’ Now her feed is going to be full of Dallas fans begging her to change back into the other jersey.”

  “She can’t!” O’Doul yells at the screen. “This is finally getting interesting.”

  Heidi nudges me with her elbow. “Look, Silas. She thanked you.”

  I grab that phone so fast that I hear laughter.

  @SilasKellyGoalie Thank you for the jersey. It seems to be working.

  I type back quickly. @DelilahSpark Had to be done. If you could leave it on until the end of the game, it would be much appreciated.

  “Oh, my heart!” Heidi coos. “Silas is flirting with a rock star on Twitter.”

  “L.A. still probably can’t win,” O’Doul says, just to infuriate me. “They’ve switched up the lines to rest Myerson. That tendon of his isn’t gonna magically heal before the buzzer.”

  Unfortunately, he has a point.

  The next forty minutes are brutal. When there’s just five minutes left—and still a tie score—I’m as tense and exhausted as if I’d played the game myself.

  I don’t know much about hockey, tweets Delilah Spark during the Dallas time out. But five minutes isn’t long, right? What happens if they tie?

  “The poor girl doesn’t know the rules,” Heidi says. “She needs private hockey instruction from you, Silas.”

  “Yeah,” Jason says with an evil grin. “That’s what Silas wants to give her. Private instruction in hockey.” He takes the phone out of his girlfriend’s hands.

  And here’s where I make a big mistake. I look away, watching the faceoff instead of watching Jason. It isn’t until after the play travels down the ice and into a corner that I notice he’s typing something on my phone.

  “Hey!” I lunge for it, but he holds it out of my way. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m helping you,” Jason says, cocking an eyebrow. “This is what you should say next—‘Let’s make a bet, Delilah. If L.A. scores in the next five minutes, you’ll go out on a date with me.’”

  “No,” I say calmly, measuring the short distance between me and my phone. The only problem is that Heidi’s in the way. I need to get it back without clocking her in the struggle.

  “This is a great idea,” Jason says, his grin devilish. “You’ll thank me later.”

  “Dude, yes!” Leo agrees. “Let’s vote. Who wants Silas to ask Delilah out?”

  Everyone in the whole goddamn room raises his hand.

  “Not funny,” I say through clenched teeth. I glance away, but it’s just a fake-out. Quickly, I turn back toward Jason as I shoot to my feet.

  It should have worked, but when you tussle with professional athletes, anything can happen. Jason and I are well-matched for both strength and sharp reflexes. My hand darts toward the phone, but he anticipates me, his fingers closing around the screen.

  Where the SEND button is.

  “Did you just hit Send?” I demand.

  “I… Um… Let’s see.” Jason looks at the phone in his hand and lets out a nervous laugh. “I’m afraid to look.”

  “Oh dear,” Heidi whispers.

  I lunge for the phone.

  Three Years Earlier

  Silas

  It’s four o’clock, and there’s nobody sitting at the bar. The outdoor tables will be filled to the gills all day and night, and the dining room will start its dinner rush in another ninety minutes.

  But since it’s summertime, the dimly lit bar area will be dead until later. I use the quiet time wisely—cutting up lemon and lime wedges before the happy-hour rush. Restocking the beer and wine.

  Oh, and kicking myself for recent disastrous events in Ontario.

  When I was still in college, Toronto chose me as their second-round draft pick. Early-round draft picks always find a spot—even if it’s on the team’s minor league affiliate. This past May I graduated. Which means that four weeks ago I was living the dream—skating with the pros at a Toronto training camp.

  My agent told me their contract offer was forthcoming. This was my moment. I was ready to conquer the league.

  Or not, as it turns out. The pressure got to me, and I choked in Ontario.

  The contract never arrived. Toronto’s new goalie lineup did not include me—either at the NHL level or on the affiliate team. And they released me, unsigned.

  Now I’m back behind the bar at Roadie Joe’s Bar and Grill, cutting up limes to shove inside bottles of Mexican beer.

  The fact that Mr. Dirello gave me a summer job is a blessing. It wasn’t charity on his part, though. Darlington Beach is a fancy town and host to a six-week-long music festival from August into September. It’s the busiest time of the year for Roadie Joe’s.

  It’s not the Ritz, but at least I’m employed. And I can live with my mom. (Like only a loser does.)

  I’m right in the middle of this private pity party when I become aware that someone is now seated on a bar stool in front of me. I glance up, and my gaze collides with the most arresting young woman I’ve ever seen.

  The girl’s eyes are dark brown and almost too large for her face. They’re round and doe-like with long lashes. They ought to look innocent. Except they’re framed by a pair of arched eyebrows that lend her a mistrusting expression.

  And there’s just something about that gaze that makes it difficult to breathe. “Hi,” I wheeze.

  “Hi,” she says. And her voice catches me off guard all over again. I’m so startled by its unexpected texture that the knife I’d been using actually slips off the lime, nicking my thumb and my fingernail.

  “Shit,” I hiss. “I’m sorry. What did you need?”

  A few seconds tick by, while she’s trying to figure out if I’m sane. “Is the bar open for business right now?” Her voice has more depth than a person that size usually has. And there’s a grit to her tone that’s almost as captivating as her face. “Because if it’s not, I need to know that. Please.” She taps a large watch on her slim wrist. “I’m on a schedule here.”

  “Sorry. Yes. Sorry,” I stammer. And then I look down to see blood running off my thumb and onto the cutting board.

  “Ouch,” she says, her voice softening. “Better take care of that first.”

  There is no end to life’s petty humiliations. “Better not order a margarita, I guess.” I tilt the contents of the cutting board into the trash, then dump the board and the knife into the sink. I run water over my cut and then grab a paper towel and squeeze it around my thumb to stop the bleeding.

  “I only wanted a beer, anyway,” she says. “A really cold one, preferably a lager. And it has to cost less than eight dollars including tax and tip because that’s exactly how much I have.”

  “I can work with that.” With my good hand I aim for the reach-in, plucking a bottle of von Trapp Vienna from deep down in the bed of ice, and setting it on the bar.

  “No glass,” she says as I reach for one. “I’ll take it from the bottle.”

  “Sure.” Another brilliant utterance from me. I make a move to open it, but she stops me with a raised hand.

  “I’m sorry. I know this is weird, but I need to open it myself.” She holds up her key chain. It has a church key on it.

  “Okay,” I say slowly. I can’t stop staring at her. She has dark, wavy hair and delicate features. But there’s nothing delicate about her bearing.

  “It’s just my odd little ha
bit.” Her gaze challenges me to argue with her.

  “Go for it.” I hand over the bottle, and she pops off the top.

  “Thank you,” she says. “Is your thumb okay?”

  “Absolutely,” I lie. But I don’t want to talk about how distracting I find her, even now.

  She leans an elbow on the bar and inspects the place, starting with the garage-door-style windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, then taking in the beer taps and the liquor shelf.

  And then me. When those big eyes sweep all the parts of me that she can see, I feel weirdly electrified.

  “Thank you—” She focuses on my name tag. “—Ralph.”

  “N-no problem.” My hand covers the name tag before I realize what I’m doing. So I drop it again.

  I spend a half second wondering if I should explain that Ralph isn’t really my name. The tag is a joke. I went to high school with the owner’s son—Danny Dirello. And Ralph is the nickname he gave me junior year when I ralphed all over a parking lot after my first kegger.

  But you just don’t tell the most stunning girl you’ve ever seen that your nametag is a vestigial reminder of the time you puked in front of all your friends.

  And anyway, she has her drink, and my work here is done. I need to find something else to do with my hands and maybe also my brain. Otherwise, I’m just going to stare at her and measure all the ways that she’s beautiful.

  It’s not easy to look away, though. Even as I locate a Band-Aid and slap it over the gash on my thumb, I’m stealing little glances at her. She’s lanky, with long arms and a smooth neck that I study as she lifts her beer and takes a swig. But her edges are softened somewhat by waves of thick, dark hair.

  She’s wearing a simple black T-shirt that says, Kind of a Big Deal. And it makes me smile.

  “What?” she demands, putting down the beer, and proving that I’ve completely lost my ability to be subtle.

  “Nothing. Just amused by your shirt.”

  She glances down and frowns, as if she’s never seen it before. “You have to laugh at yourself in this town, right?” She looks up again and pins me with a gaze that stops my blood from circulating. “Everyone takes themselves so seriously. I thought Northern California was supposed to be laid back.”

  “Oh, we are,” I promise. “I go surfing whenever I get a day off. You can’t surf and be uptight. They’ll run you right out of town.” I hear myself babbling, and I don’t even care. So long as she keeps looking at me. “Unless you’re here with the music festival people. They turn this place into a different planet during the summer.”

  “So you’re saying I’m here with the wrong crowd?”

  “Um…” She takes another sip of beer, and I watch helplessly as her elegant throat swallows. “Maybe. Not a lot of music executives on surfboards. Just saying.”

  She smiles at me, and her expression is wicked. “They might get their Rolexes wet.”

  “Those are actually waterproof,” I say pointlessly.

  “Figures.” She rolls her eyes. “Well, Ralph, you’ve been very enlightening. The fact that I’m working every day for slave’s wages kind of proves your point.”

  I pick up a rag and wipe down a bar that doesn’t need wiping. “What do you do for the festival?”

  “Well…” She chuckles. “I play whenever they’ll let me. I’m background music at some very fancy catered lunches, and I’m given slots on the main stages at awkward hours.”

  “No way.” She’s a performer. I hadn’t expected that, probably because she looks so young. Early twenties, I think. “That still sounds fun.”

  “Oh, it is. I would be loving every second of it. But the point of playing all those little gigs is to try to get important people to notice me. So that’s stressful. And my manager wants to talk shop all day and all night.” She rolls her eyes. “I just need a lucky break. And maybe a day off.”

  “Well…” I’m about to offer a hand with that, but I don’t get the chance.

  “Ralph!” my buddy Danny calls from the kitchen. “Bring us some wine for the coq au vin!”

  Seriously? He can’t just come out here and get it himself? “Oui monsieur!” I yell back. “Does sir require anything else? A fresh drink? A foot massage, maybe?”

  A hand appears in the passthrough window between the kitchen and the bar. It gives me the finger.

  The most gorgeous girl in the world laughs.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell her. As if she cares. Then I grab a bottle of pinot noir and duck around the back of the bar where a door leads to the kitchen.

  Danny is stirring a giant pot with a wooden spatula as long as a Louisville Slugger. He studied hospitality management in college and seems to be settling in to work with his dad. “Having fun today?” he asks me with a smirk.

  I drop my voice to a whisper. “You’re a giant dick.”

  “Maybe.” He chuckles. “But I still need the wine. Open ’er up and let her rip.”

  I pull a corkscrew out of my pocket before he’s even finished speaking. The faster I get this done, the faster I can go back to her.

  “Date tonight?” he asks as I work the cork out of the bottle.

  “We’ll see,” I mutter.

  Danny grins. He grabs the bottle and unceremoniously starts pouring it into the pot. “Better get back to it, then,” he says. “I’m pulling for you.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  But now a new voice comes through the pass-through window. A loud one.

  “Don’t tell me they don’t like the cover in Germany! It’s a great fucking cover, and I used their photographer. They can bite me. That cover tested well in two quadrants, and we’re never pulling women over thirty-four for that artist anyway.”

  Danny and I both turn around at the same time and bend over just far enough to look through the window. “Fuck,” he whispers.

  We both see a blond, preppy guy wearing shades and a crisp shirt, Bluetooth in his ear, chattering away at top volume, like the asshole that he is. Anyone would take one look at him and guess: he’s probably a superdick.

  But I don’t have to guess. I already know this particular superdick. He is—without exaggeration—my least favorite person in the world. And that’s saying something, considering my violent father is serving prison time for assault.

  Brett Fucking Ferris. It’s my first time seeing him since I landed back in Darlington Beach. His family owns this town. And his mother runs the music festival. I’m tending bar at one of the busiest restaurants in town.

  Seeing him was inevitable. But that don’t make it right.

  “Easy,” Danny whispers. “You want me to take his order?”

  “No,” I grunt. “You really think I can’t control myself when that asshole comes in here? Like I didn’t already learn that lesson?”

  “I didn’t say that,” my oldest friend says. “But he won’t make it easy.”

  He’s probably right. But it doesn’t make sense for me to change a single minute of my day for that prick. And at least I don’t have to see his mug every day, like I did when we attended the same private school.

  I was there on a tennis scholarship, although hockey was really my sport of choice. But this is California, and the prep schools will give you tuition money to beat the other prep schools at tennis, not hockey.

  So I did both—captaining the tennis team and minding the net for the best club hockey team in Northern California. Because diving for flying objects is my forte, whether I’m in white shoes or black skates.

  Brett Ferris had also played varsity tennis. He fancied himself a star and that meant he’d hated me from the second my scholarship ass walked through the door. I didn’t worry about it, though.

  But I should have.

  In the stockroom, I grab the case of Dos Equis that I need to restock and then reenter the bar. Ferris doesn’t even look up. Not that I’m surprised.

  What’s more surprising is the way he snaps at the lovely creature drinking her beer on the barstoo
l. “Been looking everywhere for you. Let’s go.”

  And just like that, my blood boils. I think I hear Danny groan from the kitchen.

  But my girl just lifts her bottle and takes a leisurely sip of her beer, as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

  Not that many people ignore Brett Ferris, so I laugh.

  That’s when he notices me, his expression turning to distaste, and his eyes narrowing. He’s still on the phone. “Did you hear back from the Aussies?” he asks the unfortunate soul on the other end of the line. “Well, wake them up! Jesus. I need those numbers by Friday. Gotta run.” He taps the screen and then turns to her. “Let’s roll.”

  She does not seem the least bit put off by his rudeness. “I need a minute,” she says to him. Then she waves a hand toward the door, as if to nudge him outside.

  But he doesn’t budge, frowning down at her T-shirt instead. “That’s what you’re wearing tonight?”

  A flash of irritation sparks in her giant eyes. “It’s funny! God.” She shakes her head. “I’ll follow you outside. Ralph, here, doesn’t need to listen to your calls.”

  “Ralph, the bartender.” Brett smirks at me. “Nice career choice.”

  “It’s honest work,” I say. Note the emphasis. But that’s as far as I’ll let myself go, even if he’s already killed every happy thought in my head. Not like that’s difficult these days.

  “You two know each other?” she asks.

  I am spared hearing Brett’s answer, because his phone squeals again. It practically splits my eardrums. I didn’t even know you could set a ringer that loud.

  She winces and then points at the door. “Outside with that. Let me finish this in peace.”

  “Hurry up,” he says. As he turns around, I notice that he’s wearing the biggest, shiniest gold Rolex ever made. Of course he is.

  No wonder this girl is having a rough summer, if she has to spend it with that tool. His phone rings again, but mercifully he answers it. All we can hear is his barking as he recedes toward the door.

  “High school,” I say to answer her questioning gaze. “He didn’t like me very much.”