Page 32 of His Jersey

This means I’ll also need to have an answer to his peculiar request for me to wear his jersey to a game. I flip through the hockey romance novel, scanning the pages, hoping that I’ll glean some insight, but I don’t want to be late for work, er, the spa, which I do not have to clean for once. Lucky me, I have today off.

I opt to keep things simple—a relative statement when I know this wardrobe collectively costs more than I make in a year. I slide into a cream-colored Chanel bathing suit with gold detail and a colorful Pucci wrap. I’m not sure what the spa treatments will entail, but I’m not going to be caught in my underwear in front of a coworker.

When I exit the suite, tension rushes through me. I involuntarily slip back into employee-who-wants-to-go-unnoticed mode. The fabric’s loud print is not helping, but the Armani strappy sandals don’t flip or flop on my feet, making my walk down the hall on the plush carpet as quiet as a whisper.

On the upside, I probably don’t have to worry about Slater anymore and no one seems to recognize me without my wig. Jack didn’t even realize it was Jasmin—the girl who rescued him from the dunes—when I was lying on the floor next to his bed, staring him in the face. All the same, the nerves duplicate themselves.

On the downside, am I really that invisible? I disappeared from my life as I knew it, but am I fading completely into a workaholic just to make ends meet? This isn’t my first choice, but what other option is there? I can’t very well abandon my father.

Before Slater, I had a boyfriend during my senior year of high school. The frog. We did all the cute things young couples do, including prom … where he dumped me. After having a blast going out to dinner, dancing afterward, and taking goofy and adorable photos in the prop booth, he said we had to talk. That we were going in different directions. Me to UPenn, only a few towns over, and him several hours away in Pittsburg. It’s not like we would’ve been in different countries. But perhaps we already each had one foot planted in different worlds. He had his sights on being in finance and I was going to study hospitality.

The irony of my current situation isn’t lost on me.

What made him a jerk was that a week later, he was dating a girl from my AP calculus class, meaning he either wanted to ditch me for her or just wanted an excuse to break up and move on.

My entire life could use a self-help book. The relationships section would be highlighted and annotated.

14

ELLA

As I findmy way back to the main section of the resort building and the spa wing, I pass a familiar face. Forgetting I’m not wearing a wig, I wave and say, “Good morning, Edwina.”

She offers a friendly but somewhat vacant smile—the kind we all use when interacting with guests.

Jack did mention in his note that I could charge anything I wanted to the room, so before I go to the spa, I stop by the gift shop. I’ve heard guests rave about how silky these confections are.

Pointing to the largest gift box, I select an assortment of chocolates, scoot back to Edwina’s hallway, and leave the box tucked in her cart with a note that says,Thank you for being a friend. Don’t leave these in the sun. Trust me.

It almost feels like a goodbye, but I’ll be back in my hallway, pushing my cart later this week.

I don’t know what Jack’s request to wear his jersey entails, but I doubt it’ll lift me out of poverty or provide me with a sustainable income to pay off my father’s medical bills and put down first, last, and security on an apartment.

Just saying. It’s a hunch.

The notion fills my body with tension so when I get to the spa, I inquire about a massage.

“Appointment?” asks Brandy, the woman behind the desk. She’s friends with Yvonne. In this place, the people who work behind counters think they’re better than the rest of us. I don’t create the rules. I just suffer as a result of them.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t make one.”

“Room number, please?” She makes a subtle little cluck with her tongue.

Clearing my throat, I say, “The Jewel Suite.”

Her lips drop slightly as if she doesn’t believe me and she clicks away on the keyboard. “Name, please.”

“Ella?” I say as if I don’t know my own name.

She reviews something and then says, “Right this way, Mrs. Bouchelle.”

I nearly choke. Jack doesn’t know my last name, so he listed me as a relation. His sister? His wife?

“Can I offer you some water?” Brandy asks, all smiles now.

I lightly tap my chest. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

Forget the fact that I don’t have an appointment. I don’t even have a body. The next sixty minutes turn me into a relaxed puddle—after I convince myself that Jack merely added a last name to the account because he had to or because only members of his family with that last name have access to the Jewel Suite. Surely, it was just a matter of protocol.

---