Page 33 of His Jersey

“However, he did ask me to wear his jersey,” I whisper through the little head hole in the massage table.

“What was that, love?” the British masseur asks.

“Um, do you know much about hockey?”

“About as much as the next bloke. Footy is my thing.”

I take that to mean soccer. “What does it mean when a player asks a woman to wear his jersey.”

“Everything,” he responds while pounding on my back.

I try to ask a follow-up question, but my voice comes out in a reverberating echo.

After the massage, I have two skin treatments, one for exfoliating and the other for brightening, followed by a manicure and pedicure. I’m practically a new woman.

I tell myself I was long overdue. If I’m going to go to this wealthy hockey star’s game, I should upgrade from Flotsam and Jetsam to Fangirl in a Jersey.

But I haven’t decided how to answer Jack’s proposal. I need more information.

Now, it’s time for a haircut. The stylist who introduces himself asL’artiste, and hails from France, picks through my hair as if afraid that I have lice. I don’t, even though I have found sand on my scalp, but that’s a result of often sleeping on the beach.

With an accent, he says, “It’s been a while since you tended to this, eh?”

“Almost two years.”

L’artistetsks,and then without so much as asking whether I’d like a trim or other service, he brings me to the sink and goes to town, washing, brushing, snipping, and scoffing.

“Not too much. I like my hair long.” I think. I mean, I don’t really know. It’s not top of mind these days. It’s a vestige of the life I once led when my girlfriends and I would get ready for a night out, get appetizers at a restaurant, take a trip to the movies, or during senior year spring break, visit a place like this.

Plus, maybe if it were shorter, it would be easier to put on the wig without worrying about pieces falling out.

He swats my hand away when I try to itch my nose, whichmakes me have to wiggle it for the next two minutes to get it to stop tickling from the little hairs flying around.

“Nonfussing.”

I’m about to explain when he grandly spins me in the chair so I can face the massive mirror.

L’artiste says, “Et voilà.”

I gasp. He dusted the ends and blew my hair dry in a voluminous and silky style that almost makes me forget about the sun and salt damage.

“You like?”

“Very, very much.Merci.”

For the first time in a long time, I look like me. Running my fingers through my hair, I feel like me.

L’artiste shrugs like it was no big deal.

To me, it means so much I want to hug him, but he’s still holding the sharp scissors, so I smile and thank him again.

As I wander back toward the suite, trying to stick to the lesser trafficked areas so I don’t risk losing my job, I wonder what else a guest would do if they had a couple of hours free before dinner.

When I was here with Charity and Tiana, we went parasailing and snorkeling, took a charter boat to watch for dolphins, and, of course, lounged at the pool.

But I don’t want to risk ruining my hair just yet, so I do what a twenty-seven-year-old who is more tired than she should be would do.

I take a nap.

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