Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Plans are made for a small “soft launch” party for the track the next afternoon.
Meanwhile, Blue has continued to run into brick walls in his investigation and the AI authenticator firm said they won’t have more information for me until Monday.
But…that’s okay.
Maybe it’s Bea’s song or the phone call she has with Voodoo management Friday morning—the one she assures me went very well, and she really thinks will help end this unfair suspension sooner than later—that has me feeling Zen again. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m too high on happy love chemicals to feel any pain too deeply at the moment, but I’m not anxious anymore.
I’m just…peaceful, certain things are going to work out for the best.
And if they don’t, we’ll deal with that, too, with our friends and family behind us. Mom and Dad are on their way here from Scotland as we speak, with plans to stay with Beatrice at my place, while I’m at Charlotte’s, for as long as she needs them to be her buffer from the chaos.
All in all, we’re lucky people, and I think Beatrice is starting to feel that way, too.
She’s practically glowing as we step into The Spotted Cat on Friday afternoon, even though it’s a chilly day for New Orleans and the sky is full of gunmetal clouds. But inside the tiny dive in a quiet part of the French Quarter, a place with music soaked into the plaster and floorboards that groan with history, we’re feeling no pain.
It’s packed, but not with the usual jazz-thirsty tourists. This is a private event filled with NOLA music industry people, musician friends, and me, Charlotte, and Blue, who watches Charlotte perform with a focus we both usually reserve for the ice. But this is his zone of genius, too, and reverence is the appropriate response when you’re in the presence of a master in your craft.
Beatrice is a master, a fact she proves by following the debut playing of the track with one hell of an acoustic performance.
It’s just her, in a dark green flowing dress, on a stool on the small wooden stage with her guitar, but that’s all she needs. That and her voice, talent, and the kind of soul that leaves a room in stunned silence as her final note fades away.
The room is dead quiet for a long time. Not the polite silence of an audience waiting to be sure the song is over. No, it’s the stunned silence of people who just witnessed some seriously awesome, game-changing shit.
Then, the guy from the local radio station stands up and starts clapping.
A beat later, the room erupts in applause, shouts, and a long, sharp finger-whistle from the producer, who obviously couldn’t be prouder.
Or more eager to work with Bea on the rest of her solo album…
Soon, she’s surrounded by people courting favor and making plans, leaving Charlotte, Blue, and me to smugly sip our cocktails in our booth against the wall. I’m about to offer to grab us all another round before the music folks remember they’re thirsty, when the guy in charge of the “phone vault” waves at me from the door.
“Hey, man,” he calls across the room. “Hate to interrupt, but your phone’s been buzzing nonstop. Missed calls from someone named Merwood. Think you might have something urgent going on.”
My stomach lurches reflexively.
Urgent news from Coach is rarely good news, especially lately, but I nod and scoot out of the booth. Charlotte grabs my hand, squeezing tight. “Want me to come with you?”
I shake my head and return the squeeze. “No, but I’d appreciate another Mint Julep. I have a feeling I might need it.”
She nods. “Will do. You’ve got this.”
The faith in the words steadies me as I fetch my cell from the box where all our phones were locked away to ensure nothing about this event leaked before Beatrice and her team were ready, and head for the door.
Four missed calls, but no voice messages and no clue what this could be about.
I step outside, making a conscious effort to talk my pulse back down to a more reasonable bpm before I return the call. The noise level on Frenchmen Street is milder than usual at this time of day, but there’s still a group of drunk men down the block, loudly discussing where they should grab burgers, and a woman comforting a wailing toddler by the ice cream parlor across the street.
I move in the other direction, waiting until I’ve found a quieter side street before pressing Merwood’s contact number.
I barely have time to realize I’ve never talked to Coach on the phone before when he answers with a curt, “Nix. Glad you called.”
“Of course,” I say, voice only slightly shaky. “What’s up, Coach?”
“Consider your suspension over. Immediately. I know you have cleared travel plans, so there’s no need to come in right away, but you’re welcome at the gym and the facility. We’d like you back on the ice officially for Thursday’s practice at eleven a.m. sharp. I want you locked and focused before the L.A. game on Sunday.”