Page 165 of Fake As Puck
It’s the same reason I’m sitting in the stands wearing his jersey, cheering so loudly that Tessa keeps giving me concerned looks like I might damage my vocal cords.
It’s the same reason he looks up at our section after every goal, every assist, every good play, searching for my face in the crowd like he needs to make sure I’m still there.
It’s happiness. Pure, uncomplicated happiness.
“That’s my brother!” Tessa screams as West scores his second goal of the night, his celebration skate taking him right past our section.
“Go Uncle!” Charlie adds, bouncing in her seat.
“That’s my boyfriend!” I shout and immediately feel ridiculous for yelling it like a teenager.
But I don’t care. Let everyone know. Let the entire arena know that West Carmack is mine and I’m his and we’re disgustingly happy about it.
The third goal comes in the final minute, sealing the win and completing West’s first hat trick of the season.
The crowd goes insane. Actual hats rain down on the ice. The goal horn blares so loudly I can feel it in my chest.
And West, my beautiful, talented, perfect boyfriend, skates straight to our section and points directly at me.
At me.
Like I’m the reason he’s having the best season of his career.
Like I’m the reason he’s flying around the ice like he could play forever.
Like I’m his good luck charm and his celebration and his everything all rolled into one.
“Oh my god,” Tessa says, nudging me with her elbow. “You two need to get a room. So gross.”
“We’re not gross.”
“You’re the grossest. Look at your face. You look like you’re about to cry from happiness.”
“I am about to cry from happiness.”
“Gross.”
But she’s smiling when she says it, and when West blows a kiss toward our section, she cheers just as loudly as I do.
After the game, after the interviews and the team celebrations and all the post-game chaos, I text him from the parking lot:Come home fast. I’ve got a surprise.
His response is immediate:On my way. Give me twenty minutes.
Take your time. I need to get ready.
Ready for what?
You’ll see.
Tessa and the kids go their Airbnb, and I drive home with a plan forming in my head. A ridiculous, probably insane plan that involves his jersey and his old equipment and the kind of celebration that definitely can’t happen in public.
At home, I dim all the lights and put on music that’s soft and sexy and perfect for what I have in mind.
Then I go to our bedroom and strip down to nothing.
Well, almost nothing.
I put on his away jersey. It’s the white one with his name and number across the back and nothing else except for one crucial addition.
