Page 53 of His Jersey

I point to the black SUV waiting. “Our ride.”

Bark Wahlburger hops inside and settles in the passenger seat.

“Does one of those follow you around, waiting to know where you want to go and when?”

“Something like that. I have an app. One of the perks of being a Bouchelle.”

“Even after you and your father exchanged words?”

“That was nothing, but keeping the money faucet running is how he controls me.” Sad, but true. Mostly. He could cut the line and I’d be fine, but I want to have a good relationship with my dad. He’s all I have left.

Ella asks, “Where are we going?”

“To have some popcorn.” I hold open the door for Ella and she slides across the seat.

We drive in silence for a few moments before I say, “Thank you for that back there.”

“He’s a real bear, huh?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“I can see there’s a soft teddy inside, though. He cares about you.”

“Has a funny way of showing it.”

“Yeah, but when he’s not around anymore, you’ll even miss the flaws,” she says softly.

I nod an exhale. “You’re right about that. One hundred percent. My mother could be wicked when she wanted to be, passive-aggressive and diabolical, but she had many redeeming qualities, especially if you told her she looked pretty in the morning.”

Ella chuckles.

Up until now, all I was focused on was my career and the adjacent benefits—nice stuff, good times, and puck bunnies. While playing hockey still matters, I want somethingmeaningful outside of it that isn’t about earning more money or spending my father’s.

I lace my fingers through Ella’s. “Thanks again for wearing my jersey and playing along. What you said to my father was epic.”

“It was all true.”

We drive in silence and I realize, possibly for the first time in my life, that I can’t have a relationship with nice stuff, good times, or puck bunnies. When I die, my friends and loved ones won’t remember me if my focus was on anything other than them.

When we reach my penthouse condo in the heart of the downtown area, just ten minutes from the arena, Ella is quiet on the elevator to the top floor.

Bark Wahlburger dashes inside, laps up some water from a chest height pedestal style bowl, and then flops onto the floor as if he just played a pro hockey game. Some life, buddy.

“Hungry? Thirsty?” I ask, taking off my shoes.

“Are you going to call room service?”

I frown. “This is my house.”

She looks around at the open concept space with a sectional leather sofa, big screen television, and sleek décor. “Someone lives here?”

“Yes, I do,” I answer, not sure where she’s going with this.

“Where’s your stuff?”

Funny, considering I was just thinking aboutthings. I point. “There and there and there.”

“No, I meanyourstuff. Those are generic things like in the rooms at the resort.”

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