Page 43 of His Jersey

My original plan was if the team managers and Remy, or whoever is deciding to oust me, see that I’m the star, they’ll rethink this stupidity, but perhaps I want the Knights’ coach to see instead. That I’m a team player, committed, loyal.

Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. I send up a quick prayer, then get back to it, but not before taking a quick glance at Ella. She’s on her feet, cheering this time.

This may be my last game, but seeing her here somehow feels like the first day of the rest of my life.

17

ELLA

Despite Carlos doinghis best to make sure I’m comfortable and have everything I need in the VIP area—the guy is a snack pusher, which automatically makes me like him—I feel out of place.

It’s not just that I’m in Jack’s jersey, but when he winked at me after scoring the first goal, the other women in the room went strangely silent and stared.

None of them have introduced themselves, but to be fair, I haven’t made introductions either. I’ve spent the last year trying to be invisible, and it’s a hard habit to shake. My wig is in the bottom of the one bag I brought with me from the island, but that’s not going to help me now.

When Jack got the second goal, making it so the other team only had a one-point lead, I overheard his name along with the words,billionaire,puckbunny, and then the phraseThe Secret Life of Jack Bouchelle.

Does he have a secret life? I’ve seen the psychological thriller movies: am I a pawn in a game—not the one on the ice, but something else?

Last night, he seemed genuine. Our kisses, total fireworks. But I don’t understand this world, which makes me feel like I’m sitting on a chair with only three legs—and I don’t mean a stool. I mean the wobbly wooden kind. For the first time ever, I’d almost rather be livingmysecret life at Jewel Island. At least there, I knew what I was up against, but by the way these women in Storm merch keep looking my way while talking in a hush gives major mean-girl vibes. I thought I left the likes of Yvonne and her clique at the resort.

None of them wear Jack’s jersey, but there are loads of people in the rest of the arena sporting his number. One woman even holds up a sign that says,Call me back, Jackand has her number on it. That seems ill-advised. Four girls wear white sweatshirts covered in hearts with the letters J-A-C-K across the front. I’m pretty sure another flashed him.

He doesn’t try to get their attention. It’s all for me. Why, though?

When the buzzer sounds, my thoughts get muddled as the Knights return with a strong game, getting another point.

I quickly see that it’s a brutal sport and the players are warriors. When I’m not trying to keep track of the puck like a kitten on skates, I’m filled with shock and awe at the speed they move, the weaving, dodging, and the way the puck zigs and zags from stick to stick. Yet they make it look easy as if they’re all out for a winter stroll.

All of a sudden, a guy in the Knights black, silver, and red slams into the boards, and then gloves come off. I glimpse the last name Coleman on a Storm jersey and vaguely recall Carlos mentioning a few of the players’ names to watch, including Cole Coleman—unless he was messing with me, considering his proclivity to give people nicknames.

A fight breaks out on the ice like we’re in a bar brawl. The referees stand back until a stick lifts into the air. A shrill whistleblows and they break apart. Everyone regroups. Two of the guys go into a glassed-off area and the announcer explains the penalty. It’s all lost on me. Except Jack. My attention routinely lands on him. Without knowing much of anything about hockey, other than that Jack is extremely fast on the ice, I can somehow always locate him out there.

The game resumes and Jack gets his third goal. The arena goes wild. He skids around, arms pumping and cheering until he stops in front of the VIP area again. His glove lifts toward his mouth.

I freeze, but not in the same way as when the classy SUV brought us into the bowels of the building and I momentarily feared I’d made a grave miscalculation. For a second, I thought I was going to be auctioned off to polish trophies or something far more sinister.

I can just barely make out Jack’s face beneath his helmet, but he’s smiling and his eyes sparkle. He blows a kiss, points to me, and then himself before skating back into the huddle of players.

The massive screens overhead broadcasting the game display it. Then a graphic of an arrow shooting through a cloud transforms into a heart along with the #10. The crowd continues to cheer, but the nearby women stare.

So much staring.

I kind of miss the imaginary raccoon gang. Sort of. At least they shared their snacks.

Am I an interloper? Does Jack have a girlfriend? Wife? Ex-wife? Panic rises inside like an out-of-control helium balloon. Did I just accidentally embroil myself in some major hockey drama?

Do I have pit stains? I applied extra deodorant, but if I ruin this jersey, I’ll never forgive myself.

Once again, the game kicks back into gear. Thankfully, thewomen mostly turn their attention to it and I only overhear Jack’s name paired withMystery Puck Bunnya few times.

If these people are putting rabbits on the ice, with those sticks and the puck moving at speeds that look like it could knock someone out, I’m calling animal protective services!

A clamor comes from the rest of the arena and a buzzer sounds. The opposing team scored another goal. The clock says that only a couple of minutes remain in the game. So far, Jack is the only one on the Storm to get points, so if the other guys don’t show up big, the Knights are going to win.

But will they win player number ten? He explained his situation. Given what little I know about this sport and what I’ve gleaned while watching this game, perhaps he’d be better off with the Knights. They seem like nicer guys, though that might not be a reason to change teams. You want the best and strongest players. So far, that would be Nebraska. They work together, passing the puck, blocking shots, and seem to understand teamwork.

The timer ticks down and when it sounds for the last time, the Knights win. The women in the VIP area groan but quickly shuffle out. I follow, not sure where I’m supposed to be or what I’m supposed to do. Carlos was going to give me his number, but I still don’t have a phone.

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