Page 41 of His Jersey

Bark Wahlburger looks up at me with his big brown eyes as if asking,Is this it or will you keep me?

Ella’s expression matches. She mentioned she always wanted a puppy since she was a kid.

I brush my hand down my face even though I already made up my mind. Bark and I are buds for life. But how that’ll fit when everything is up in the air is a problem for later. “I’ll think about it.” Accidentally adopting a dog was not on my skate card, yet here we are.

“He didn’t say no.” Ella jumps up and down then crouches to try to catch Bark Wahlburger while he turns in circles like I just promised him milk bones for life.

“This the fan who wanted the jersey?” Carlos asks, putting one in her hands when she straightens.

“This is Ella, and yes, the jersey is for her. But she’s not a fan.” I wink.

She frowns as if wishing she had the truth serum. It’s not that I’m keeping anything from her, but there’s a good chance people will think we’re together, given her position in the VIP box and wearing my threads. That’s just the way it goes.

And I’m okay with that. But is she?

However, tonight, I want whoever prompted this change in my employment to see that I’m not alone. That I’m serious. Committed.

Carlos says, “Nice to meet you, Ella. Hmm. En Espanol, Ella meanssheorher. That won’t do. How about Ella Bella? Cinderella?”

“You don’t even speak Spanish,” I tease him.

“I have the basics,hombre. Plus, taco,burrito,domingo. Marisol wants to raise our kids bilingual, so I’m practicing.”

“You’re not engaged or married yet. In fact, last I checked, she told you to grow up.”

Ella laughs, looking comfortable now.

But I’m not and it doesn’t have anything to do with Carlos because he’s one of the few people in the world I fully trust and would take a bullet for. He’s taken more arrows for me than is fair. It’s more like the realization creeps toward me that this could be it. My cheeks puff on an exhale and my attention returns to the room, to Ella.

Carlos smiles at her in a brotherly way and says, “I’m working on growing up.” Then, as if nicknaming everyone he meets isn’t juvenile, he adds, “We’ll go with Ella Bella.”

I lean toward her and say, “He grows on you.”

“Like a mold.” Carlos laughs, then to me, he says, “You need to warm up.”

“I’ll be right there.” I angle myself so only Ella can hear. “This might be my last one.”

Her eyes shine like she catches my meaning and lifts onto her toes, wrapping her arms around me in a hug I didn’t realize that I needed. Her breath whispering against my neck, she says, “Then make it your best one.”

She has no idea how much those words mean to me. Never mind a truth serum, they’re like an elixir.

Dropping down onto her feet, she adds, “Are you hungry for it?”

I take this to mean the game as a whole.

“Starved,” I say.

We exchange one long look that feels like a puzzle piece clicking into place or a sprinkle of cheese on top of a pasta dish—the finishing touch. The chef’s kiss.

Carlos assures me Ella Bella is in good hands. As I pass through the locker room doors, I realize the next time I see her will be in my jersey.

This puts a little skip in my step.

The team meeting, warm-up, and prep time are a blur of autopilot activity. I know what to do. How to win. But does therest of the team? I look around and realize I’m the last man standing. Not a single player I came up with on the Storm is still on the team. Some of them retired and others were out due to injury, but most moved on.

And the guys that are left, as they slap each other with towels, exchange locker room stories of their conquests with women, and are not acting like we’re about to play against arguably one of the top three teams in the league, I realize that I’ve been one of them all this time.

The locker room banter, the team culture, it’s all I’ve never known.

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