“They could say D-man,” someone suggests. “Oh, wait…”

“Does this story have a punchline?” I ask. A guy could go all day without finishing a thought in this room.

“She ripped me a new one,” Drake grumbles. “She went off. And it didn’t help my case that in the middle of her telling me what a turd I am for treating her like a waitress or a puck bunny—her words—I basically staggered away from her, found Doc’s office, and grabbed my juice and chugged it.”

“Oh, man.” I just shake my head.

“So she thought I was an asshole twice—”

“Which you were,” Castro points out. “Even if you were not totally in control of your faculties.”

“Right. And I just kept on being an asshole, trying to stay conscious while she delivered a long lecture about making assumptions.”

“Assumptions you made,” Castro points out again. “And by the way, the women’s team officially starts today.”

“Wow, thank you for that timely information,” Drake grumbles. “The girl was pissed. Now I gotta watch my back every time I walk into this place.”

“Come to lunch with Campeau and me,” I say. “Sounds like you could use the calories. And we’ll guard your six.”

“Thanks, man.” Drake pushes himself off the doorframe. He still looks a little off. I’m thinking we’ll need to take a taxi over to our favorite pizza place.

The three of us leave the dressing room and troop down the hallway together. It still has that new-paint smell from all the work they’re hurrying to finish. We exit via a set of secure doors into a hallway that widens toward a glass brick tunnel. From there, the floor slopes upward from our practice facility to the Bruisers’ corporate offices.

Drake stiffens as we reach the tunnel. “Uh-oh.”

Glancing up, I see three women ahead of us. They’re stopped, as if waiting for someone else to join them. And, whoa, it’s like the Charlie’s Angels of hockey—a blond, a redhead, and the brunette beauty I can’t stop thinking about.

Her face lights up when she sees us, too. I’m just about to call out a happy greeting when my teammate Campeau says, in a shocked voice, “Sylvie! What are you doing here?”

This is a development I wasn’t expecting.

And if I’m not mistaken, her beautiful smile grows a little uncertain. “Um, surprise!” she says as we approach. “A week ago Bess Beringer called me and asked me to be the second goalie for the Bombshells.”

“You—” Campeau swallows. He looks stunned, and maybe a little pale. “Here?”

“Here,” she says firmly. “In Brooklyn.”

“In Brooklyn,” he echoes like a dummy. He takes a long beat to digest this news. “Where are you staying?”

She puts a hand on her hip. “With you, of course. You have a double bed, right?”

Campeau blanches.

She laughs. “Oh, monsieur crédule! I’m just teasing you. This is my roommate, Fiona. We have an apartment together.” She indicates the blonde.

Bryce finally breathes. “An apartment? Where? Is it safe? There are some places in Brooklyn where you do not want to live.”