Page 77 of His Jersey

His eyes shine. “That one was Mom’s idea, too. Half the fun of being at a marina is reading the boat names.”

“Sounds like she had a sense of humor.”

He nods and taps his chin. “How about Hockey-rella? Do you have a Jaq and a Gus?”

I tip my head back with laughter. “How do you know about Cinderella’s woodland creature friends?”

“I’m not an ogre. I’ve seen the movie. Who are your wicked stepsisters?”

“My debt and bank account. They refuse to reconcile.”

Jack clicks his tongue. “I’ll take care of that.”

“You and that magic hockey stick.” I shake my head, wondering how I’ll ever be able to pay him back.

He waggles his eyebrows and leans close, tickling the baby hairs by my ears, “It’s all yours, Hockey-rella. All of it. And me.”

My eyes close and the chatter of the dueling voices in my head gets louder until I blurt, “Jack, I can’t accept all this.”

“I understand that you’re independent and it’s difficult to ask for help, so think of it as a gift.”

“I already owe too much. You have to let me repay you.”

“That’s not how gifts work. Just because I give you something doesn’t mean you owe me.”

But my mind spins because that wasn’t our agreement. Bark Wahlburger yips, but not as if he’s backing me up. More like reminding me to mind my manners. I toss him a treat and he catches it in his mouth.

Jack’s nostrils flare as if preparing for an argument. “I said I’d support you.”

“I’d rather be poor and know the truth.”

He frowns. “About what?”

The wordsusandyou and me, are on my tongue, but I can’t say them. Maybe I do have something to lose. Perhaps I don’t want to know because of the disappointment the truth is sure to bring. Does that mean my feelings for Jack go beyond fake?

He says, “It doesn’t have to be either or. Money doesn’t make someone honest or dishonest. It’s whether they let themselves believe it makes them better than people without it.”

“What do you believe?” I ask.

“That I like spending time with you more than any of this.”He gestures vaguely around the private jet. “If you asked me to wear your softball jersey and wrote a check, I’d tear it up and tell you that all I’d want is another night like that first one at the resort.”

His words come close to touching a deep place inside of me, but I shrink away, afraid that if I let him in, there will be no turning back. No repairing my heart once it’s broken.

Were the women in aisle five wearing Carolina Storm jerseys, right?

“Easy for you to say. You’ve never been poor.”

“Ella, money doesn’t keep you company. Money doesn’t go to sleep and wake up with you in the morning and share all the meaningful moments in between.”

Tears brim in my eyes because what he’s saying is what I want to hear, but fear makes me tremble inside because it would be so easy to believe him.

I glance out the window so he doesn’t see. Instead of amber waves of grain or whatever fills the center of the country on the way to Nebraska, I spot water. Lots and lots of it.

My hopes sink because this has all been a game, a great deceit. He’s bringing me back to the island. I get Slater PTSD and my stomach lurches and my skin prickles.

“Where are we going?”

“A surprise.”

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