Across the street there’s a line of smaller, walk-up buildings where some of my teammates rent apartments. There aren’t any doormen across the street, but the Bombshells are still grateful for the two-block walk to work and the below-market rent that the team owner charges.

I wish I’d taken one of those places. I’d tried to save money, and now I live in a dump, and I can’t evict my brother’s creepy pal.

Fun times.

“Raphael will help get these upstairs,” Miguel says as I follow him into the glamorous lobby and across the marble floors to the elevator. “He’ll be down in a moment.”

“No, I can do it,” I insist. “Can I just leave the trolley outside of Neil’s door?”

“Sure,” he says. “Have a nice afternoon, Charli.”

Wow. He even remembers my name. “Thank you, Miguel.”

It occurs to me that he probably makes more money than I do. My salary on the hockey team is about twelve thousand per year, and my waitress job pays about sixteen dollars an hour after tips.

I should ask if they have any openings here in this building. I’d look fine in a navy jacket with gold buttons. And I already know the names of everyone who lives here.

The elevator arrives, so I file that idea away for later.

On the sixth floor, I carefully steer the luggage cart out of the elevator, so as not to ding up the walls, which are papered in a paisley pattern.

I’ve visited this building before. My teammate Sylvie’s boyfriend Anton has a loft apartment a couple floors below this one. So after I unlock Neil’s door and enter the apartment, I’m expecting more or less the same space as Anton’s.

But that is not what I find.

I roll the trolley through a generous foyer, and into a vast living space with impressionist paintings on the walls.

Yikes. I hope I can spend a couple hours here without breaking anything.

I carefully unload the luggage into the foyer, and then steer the trolley back into the hallway.

And then I go back into Neil’s apartment and sit politely in a chair for two hours.

No, that’s a lie. Who could resist snooping around a billionaire’s bachelor pad? Taking my time, I walk slowly around Neil’s luxury apartment. I’m not going to open any drawers, or anything. But I pace every inch of the shiny wood floors.

First, I tour the living room, which is the size of a soccer field. It’s a corner unit, so the windows provide views from two directions—the cutest streets in Brooklyn with the Manhattan Bridge looming in the distance.

New York is prettier from up here. When you’re down at street level, hurrying to work, things look a lot less romantic.

The apartment’s interior is just as impressive as the view. Everything looks like it belonged to a Roosevelt or a Carnegie. It’s beautiful, but not comfortable.

The super-formal-looking living room furniture consists of a big leather sofa with buttons all over it and a couple of stiff-looking armchairs. There’s a bronze sculpture of a horse on the coffee table.