Page 92 of His Jersey

“Hockey Days sounds fun.”

“I hope it will be. We’ve been working hard to make it happen. The proceeds will be evenly divided between a children’s charity and helping to fund the museum.”

Leah’s vision seems so razor sharp and amazing that I suddenly feel like the biggest loser, having been duped by Slater, living at a resort in secret, and working a job as a housekeeper when I’d studied to be the manager. Now, I’m little more than someone’s fake fiancée.

“We’ll come back for lunch, but our first appointment is in twenty minutes, so we’ll go to the car,” Leah says.

“You probably have loads to do. You don’t have to come with me.” I don’t want her to feel like she’s my assistant like her brother is for Jack. It’s not like I can pay her.

“I wouldn’t miss tours of the poshest houses in Cobbiton. Plus, don’t I make good company?” She winks.

“You do.” I’m grateful to call Leah a friend.

“But there’s such a thing as bad company and I don’t mean the band on the jukebox at the Fish Bowl.”

I follow Leah’s gaze to a couple of women approaching, reminding me of our encounter on aisle five in the department store. Bark Wahlburger stands his ground as if awaiting orders.

“Puck bunnies incoming in three, two, one. Let me handle this,” she says.

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here. The Puck Princess and her watchdogs.”

Leah’s jaw drops. Instead of giving them a piece of her mind, which she offers in a one-size-fits-all-all, she takes me by the hand and rushes down the sidewalk. Bark Wahlburger rushes ahead. When we get to the car, I pause to catch my breath, extra winded since I’m barely recovered from that bug.

“Just ignore them. Ignore them all.”

A nearby door of the back entry of what I realize is O’Neely’s Pub opens and someone calls, “There she is.”

“Word spreads fast,” Leah says.

I look around dumbly as several women around our age approach.

Leah starts to say something but is cut off by shouts of, “The Puck Princess!”

Another commands, “Take a selfie with us.”

Then one hollers, “What do you think of your fiancée and those girls the other night?”

A third adds, “You should keep him on a shorter leash and I don’t mean that mongrel.”

I cover Bark Wahlburger’s ears. “Don’t listen to them.”

“Dogs always stray,” yet another woman says glibly.

Over the hubbub, Leah shouts, “Ella, you don’t listen to them, either. Get in the car.” She hesitates as if preparing to come over and put me in the driver’s seat if I don’t comply.

But I get in, and we both slam the doors. The women outside have their phones lifted and are filming.

“What is going on?”

Leah sighs. “I was hoping we could avoid this. Pull out of this lot and then take your first right.”

“Are you going to explain?”

“Yes, but not here. You’ve been to a couple of games now. Hockey fans can get rowdy.”

I follow orders, and Leah directs me to a residential street lined with bristly maple trees that will be covered in green leaves during the warmer months and beautiful, rich reds in fall. We pull into the driveway of what can best be described as a McMansion. There was a neighborhood near the house where I grew up and these houses sprouted around a cul-de-sac one at a time. My father said Mom would’ve loved to live in one instead of our ranch with the leaky roof and sagging shutters.

Leah says, “Good. We’re still early.”

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