Page 49 of His Jersey

“Jack the Flash,” another says.

I thought I’d made my position clear when I blew that kiss after my third goal. I can’t claim this is a love-at-first-sight situation. Far from it. Probably. It’s just that something lit inside of me when I saw her there, cheering me while wearing my name, my number.

The decision hit me with the force of a puck slamming into the goal. I’m done with the Storm. A new team awaits and having Ella pose as my girlfriend could help with that.

There are only a few of my peers dumb enough to try to make a move on a woman wearing another player’s jersey—if he asked her to wear it. However, the puck bunnies aren’t so discerning. One drapes herself over my arm. Another tries to link her hand in mine. A third slinks her arm around my shoulders while trying to balance on the back of the chair where Ella sits and they nearly topple over.

Leah springs to her feet and bolsters the chair, muttering, “Hey, watch where you park that thing.” She runs interception, distracting the puck bunnies with shiny objects.

Ella gets to her feet, eyes wide and edges toward the nearest exit.

Following and in a low voice so only she can hear, I say, “Please play along.”

The space between her eyebrows bunches up. “Play along? That was my first hockey game. I don’t even know what counts as a penalty.”

I lean close, inhaling her cocoa butter scent. I whisper, “I mean pretend to be my girlfriend.”

“Your fake girlfriend?” she says the middle word slowly.

My nod is rapid as the women blast me with questions and suggestions that we take the party elsewhere. In the puck bunny culture, one will assert herself and the rest will scatter. But Ella doesn’t know that.

However, Leah is well versed in this strange ritual and hasa bunch of bossy siblings, so she doesn’t tolerate nonsense. Straightening to her full height—she’s an inch taller than Carlos, which has been a point of contention for them—she says, “Excuse me, ladies. Who is wearing Jack’s jersey?”

They fall quiet and look down at themselves as if they don’t recall what they have on. Then their attention turns to Ella. She raises her hand meekly, which is not a show of dominance to which these women will respond favorably. I don’t blame her. She’s been thrown to the wolves, er, puck bunnies, who can be just as vicious.

Ultimately, I have the last word here. “Ella is wearing my jersey, so if you’ll excuse us,” I say, attempting to be civil when really what I want to shout is,Stop being so petty and territorial. Find your own hockey player. I’m taken.

But I’m not … unless Ella wants me for more than my money. This is but one of the many things that makes me worry and wonder. But she seemed peeved earlier, so I’m not sure where we stand other than in the center of a circle of women whose perfume threatens to make me sneeze.

To be fair, I welcomed the puck bunny’s advances for years. Something shifted after Mom died. I was lost, wandering in grief, and then Ella appeared like an oasis in the desert, er, the dunes. Sure, I’ve dated since then, but I also spend a fair amount of time hiding in supply closets.

One of the women clicks her tongue. “So, she’s the new Puck Princess, huh?”

“You’re officially dating?” another asks me as if refusing to believe it.

Carlos barges his way through the crowd, impervious to the show of skin, given his unfailing devotion to Marisol. If only she returned his affections. But that’s a match to make at another time.

The Smith siblings form a human wall, stopping the puckbunnies from following us, but hopefully, they’ll get the hint and won’t take the snub too hard. They can be brutal on social media.

Ella and I cross the room.

“It was Carlos’s idea, mostly. I mentioned I asked you to wear my jersey, and he jumped immediately to a marriage of convenience, which is different from an arranged marriage, which is my father’s move.” I pump my hands, demonstrating that I put on the brakes even though my heart does something weird when I’m with Ella like it’s skidding ahead, careening toward her.

Pale, she blinks slowly as if the words are slow to compute. “Why?”

“As Carlos put it, my reputation needs repairing. An Rx. Also, my father wants me to marry a duchess.”

“So I’d be your decoy?”

“Something like that.”

“After everything that happened with Slater, I told myself that I would never be with a billionaire.”

Tension tightens along my neck at the mention of that loser. “I’m a real billionaire. Slater was an imposter, so technically, he doesn’t count.”

“But it’ll be fake?”

I take her hands in mine, realizing that if anyone is watching, this must look like the prelude to an intimate moment rather than an off-the-wall conversation.

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