My stomach gives another angry lurch, and I start praying again. Dearest Lord above, I’ll never drink again if you could just make it stop. No more tequila. No more darts. No more climbing into hockey players’ laps in the backs of cars and begging them for sex.
That mortifying memory brings the taste of bile to my throat. I swallow hard, feeling sweaty. If I could just get off this bus, everything would be fine. I need to stand outside in the sunshine and breathe the fresh air.
I check the map on my phone for the tenth time. We’re still twenty minutes away from East Hampton. I’ve almost survived the trip, but these last miles are crawling by. If I don’t find some relief, I’ll lose my mind.
There’s a text from Castro, checking on me. I should answer the man, but I’m not feeling well enough to think of something pithy to say. How does a girl beg for forgiveness in this situation?
In charm school, I learned to write condolence notes and thank-you notes. But they didn’t prepare me for this situation. Dear Jason, I’m sorry I got senior-prom-drunk and then begged you for nookie.
Every time I remember the words I used, I want to die all over again. I thought I was living life out loud, and being true to myself. But I was only humiliating myself.
The dot on my phone’s map creeps forward too slowly. I need air.
Rising onto unsteady legs, I shoulder my handbag and then lurch toward the front of the coach. The only saving grace is that Jason Castro is not on this bus. Some players opted to drive to the Hamptons instead.
Thank you, Baby Jesus. I couldn’t face him right now.
I toddle forward. In the second row, there’s an empty seat beside Bayer, who’s dozing with his head against the window. I slip into the empty seat and fix my eyes on the road.
And it’s a little better up here. There’s less motion, and I can see out the giant front windows. I take a deep breath in and then exhale slowly.
“Hungover?” Bayer asks without opening his eyes.
“Seems so,” I grunt. It’s not the most ladylike response, but I can’t afford to be polite right at this moment. I can barely breathe through my misery.
There’s a chuckle from the seat beside me. “Have you eaten anything yet today?”
“Lord, no. Didn’t seem like a good idea.” Not to mention that I was pressed for time. I took a five a.m. subway ride back to Manhattan. I snuck into my father’s apartment, quiet as a mouse. After a hasty shower and some frantic packing, I snuck out again while my father was in the shower.
I barely made the team bus, saving myself the embarrassment of missing it. Although, if I barf everywhere before we arrive at our destination, the point will be moot.
Bayer rises in his seat and fishes a hand into the duffel bag at his feet. “Here.” He hands me a small bag of pretzels. “These are the perfect hangover remedy. I always have some handy.”
“You are a prince among men,” I gush, which makes him laugh.
I tear open the bag and put one of the pretzels in my mouth and chew. Even the first bite of salty, bland carbohydrates is restorative.
He reaches into the duffel again, then hands me an unopened bottle of water. “Now have some of this, with two of these.” He fishes out a bottle of ibuprofen and takes the cap off.
“That settles it,” I say gratefully. “I’ll name my firstborn after you.”
Bayer laughs. “Learning to cope with a hangover is just part of hockey. I have to keep up with these youngsters around me.”
“I hope you’re not sacrificing your best weapons for little old me.” Later today I will find a bag of pretzels and a bottle of water to replenish his stock.
“I’m good.” He chuckles. “I had just one shot last night. No need for the arsenal today.”
“If only I’d stopped at one.” I could have saved myself a full helping of mortification. I distinctly remember straddling Castro’s lap and asking him if he’d tie me up. And it’s possible that I said the word “clitoris” out loud at some point.
Even if the bus driver opened the door of the moving bus and tossed me out, I don’t think I could be any unhappier than I am right now. Every time I think about last night, I want to die all over again.
There should be a charm-school course on how to hold your liquor. Gather ‘round ladies, tonight we’re drinking tequila! The idea would be funny if I weren’t so distraught right now.
I fix my gaze on the highway as the miles roll by. I eat a few more pretzels, sip the water, and count down the minutes until our arrival.
At last the bus leaves the highway. We begin to roll past carefully manicured properties and tidy little shops. You know you’re in the Hamptons when everything is decorated with beachy paraphernalia and expensive landscaping.
Beside me, Bayer is poking at his phone. But he’s also stealing glances at me.
“What?” I finally ask. “Something the matter?”
He opens his mouth and then shuts it again. “Suppose not.”
“Thank you again for your kindness,” I say as the bus comes to a stop outside a hotel. “I feel worlds better.”
“You’re welcome. Anytime.”
Before we can exit the bus, the doors open to admit Rebecca Rowley, who will soon become Rebecca Kattenberger, as well as the new team owner. She and Nate Kattenberger announced their engagement right at the end of last season.
And—if I’m lucky—Rebecca will become my permanent boss. She’s going to hire someone to replace herself as the office manager. I plan to be first in line for that job.
“Morning, champs!” she says. “We have a full day ahead of us. You have forty-five minutes to check in to your rooms and prepare for practice. This bus will leave at ten for the rink. You’ll practice, eat lunch, have a meeting with the coaches. And then you’ll scrimmage for the public at three thirty. Veterans against the younger guys and rookies. Then it’s back on the bus, and back to the hotel for two hours of rest before the black-tie cocktail party. Everyone attends. Any questions?”
Bayer’s hand shoots up beside me. “What do the veterans get if we beat the rookies again this year?”
“My undying respect,” Rebecca says with a smile. “And free drinks at a stuffy cocktail party. Now off you go.”
I practically launch myself off the bus, I’m so happy to breathe the fresh air. I know I’m not the first stupid girl to ever have a hangover, but I sure do feel like I survived three hours of torture.
“Heidi Jo? A word?” Rebecca waves me over, using the name my father calls me.
But I don’t correct her. If I can interview for the office manager job, I don’t care what she calls me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, stepping out of the way of the players who are streaming toward the hotel.
“You ma’amed me?” Becca says with an exaggerated gasp. “Did I age significantly over the summer?”
“Oh, stop. I’m just feeling humble this morning. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Rebecca’s smile fades quickly. “Are you okay?”
“Absolutely,” I say quickly. Not only do I feel loads better now that we’re off the bus, I never want to show weakness to the boss. “What can I do for you first?”
“Well…” She makes a grim face. “I have two items of news for you, and neither of them is good.”
Oh, dear Lord. My stomach dives for the hundredth time today, and it’s not even nine o’clock. “Did you fill the position already?”
“No,” she says quickly. “It will be a couple weeks before I get around to working on that.”
I relax a little, but then I notice that she does not.
“Look, I need you to step inside and speak to our publicists for a moment. Would you follow me?”
“Of course,” I say, feeling sick all over again. I can’t imagine what they want with me, unless they want me to do a publicity rotation as part of my internship.
She ushers me inside the East Hampton Lawn and Golf Club, and as we head for a small conference room open off the lobby, I get a quick glimpse of dark wood paneling and chandeliers. It’s a fusty, old-money look. Our blood is bluer than yours, it whispers. We’re too gentile for bling.
The co-heads of publicity are already seated at a table when we enter. There’s Tommy, who I don’t know very well. And Georgia is a real sweetie, but today she looks grim. “Hi, Heidi Jo,” she says. “How are you today?”