Page 36 of His Jersey

“What am I going to do with you?” I ask.

He doesn’t make a sound as if afraid of the answer. I wasn’t looking for a best friend, but you know what they say about dogs and all that.

“So, you’re sticking with me, huh?”

He rewards me with a lick on the hand.

Or maybe I’m sticking with him.

I ask, “Am I cuckoo for asking Ella to wear my jersey to what may very well be my last hockey game?” I’ve been questioning myself all night.

If the mastermind behind this plan to get me out of the league or off the team sees that I’m the star player and am loyal and committed, as evidenced by a woman in the box wearing my jersey, perhaps they’ll have second thoughts.

Sure, it’s falsely sending a signal that I’m serious about relationships, meaning I’m serious about hockey, but I can’t imagine leaving the Storm. They’re all I’ve ever known.

Usually, I sleep like the dead, but last night my mind would not shut down. Good thing I’d taken a nap earlier.

This afternoon, I fly out with or without Ella, and I can’t figure out why I’m leaning so hard toward the former when all I’ve wanted to do these last few months is avoid women—or at least make sure they understand that anything between us is ahandsituation and not aheartone. In other words, no strings attached.

I tell myself that’s what this is between Ella and me, too. We’re just two adults who’ll be in hockey jerseys. If she actually goes through with it.

It’s to show the coach and whoever else is paying attention that I’m serious about my game and my life. That maybe I’ve been distracted by a woman (not true), but now I’m back and all in (very true.)

The thing is, I want to remain on the Storm. Been with them my whole career. Retirement is not an option. If it’s a no, that leaves the Knights. They have a reputation for being a family-friendly organization—they’re like the Disney World of hockey.

But I didn’t come this far only to be the second string on a new team. This is my last-ditch effort. I can’t come up with another plan before it’s time for me to meet Ella. If she shows.

I wait on a velvet couch in the lobby, my ankle resting on my knee, browsing hockey scores and stats on my phone.

Who am I fooling? I’ve been scanning the room for any sign of a woman with long silky hair, warm brown eyes, pillowy lips, and curves that a Renaissance painter would appreciate.

Puffing out a breath, with my luck, I fear she’s going to disappear and I’ll have to wait another year to see her.

Last night was fun—I haven’t laughed so much in ages. Have I mentioned she’s hilarious—dry and sarcastic and not afraid to be silly—but also super smart? She’s pretty andflirty, for sure, but also funny and I don’t think she means it, which is adorable.

Also, she has a healthy appetite. I’ve been on countless dinner dates. Not bragging. Facts. I don’t expect the average woman to have the same caloric requirement as a professional athlete, but it’s uncomfortable when I’m chowing down on some good grub and the woman across from me picks at her plate like she’s too good for a nourishing meal.

Aston comes to mind and a trio of lookalikes breeze past once, twice, and giggle the third time. I accidentally make fleeting eye contact with one while I’m scanning for Ella. It must embolden her because she clicks over in her high-heeled sandals and sits next to me, resting her elbow on the back of the couch, getting so close I can see the makeup creases in her skin.

“I thought I recognized you, Jack Bouchelle. I’m Sasha.” She boops my nose.

The others giggle. Bark Wahlburger yips with disapproval.

I don’t so much as chuckle.

Sasha asks, “What brings you to Jewel Island?”

Had she asked that last year around this time, I would’ve said something dark about my mother and then escaped into Sasha’s embrace. Or not. Last year, around this time, I was kissing Ella in the pool.

Sasha leans in closer, anticipating the answer to my question.

My gaze flicks up and lands on Ella. The corner of my lips twists into a smile. “What brought me here? She did.” I get to my feet and cross the room to meet her.

Ella pauses by the mermaid fountain. When I was a kid, I’d toss a coin in, wishing the mermaid would come to life and let me kiss her on the cheek.

But Ella is more beautiful than anyone I could’ve dreamed up. She’s wearing a pair of dark pants, a wide-neck, pale pinkcashmere sweater, and white tennis shoes. She must like the hoop earrings because she has them in again.

“Good morning,” I say, unable to stop the smile that, minutes before, had been an annoyed grimace.

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