Page 14 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

Having Father get his dream job, matched with Alexandra and me getting offered nurse internships, today was now the best day in a long ass time.

The red hair could be good luck.

That was the other eye-catching thing about me tonight that was rewarding me with plenty of saucy stares from men.

Heck, even women are checking me out.

There’s something about this blazing shade that’s magnetizing to everyone else. I feel like the new popular girl in school everyone wants to talk to.

“He’s still looking this way,” I finally acknowledge as I signal the bartender to bring us more shots. I was going to spend all my plasma donation money on shots at this point—counterproductive, I know—but I needed to be tipsy for my own sake if Jayce Winchester was going to continue staring at me like a hawk for the rest of the night.

“He’s just thinking of how much he regrets losing someone as amazing as you,” Mack declares and crosses one leg over the other. “Plus, Mkaykay, you look EXTRA hot tonight. Was this always your revenge dress?”

“Revenge dress?” I ask in horror. I’m wearing a very fitted ruched dress, which hugs me like a glove. It has a cute string tie in the front just at my very exposed cleavage and just barely covers my ass.

It was a good thing Dad went with Coach Cyrus to go drinking at an “adulterer” bar, or I wouldn’t have been allowed to leave his house wearing quote-unquote, “nothing.”

“I just wore it because it’s the only dress I haven’t worn yet.” I hadn’t needed a lot of clothes during my university years. As long as I had a collection of sweatpants, t-shirts, sweaters, and on occasion scrubs, it was all good. I bought this dress recently because it was a buy two get one free deal at the mall, but now I kinda wished I had gotten it in black.

I was like any girl who loved clothes and fashion, but when you watch your family lose all its fortune in a few hefty medical bills, you rather keep the money in the bank than use it on clothes that can’t be sold back.

“Well, you chose wisely,” my bestie praises me as the bartender returns with six shots.

“I only ordered two,” I remind the bartender, who smiles.

“A gentleman volunteered to cover your drinks for the rest of the night. Have fun.”

Before I can inquire who, he’s already gone on to the next customer waving for his attention.

“Obsessed ex alert,” Mack declares and whistles. “Buying us shots for the rest of the night. Red flag.”

“Clearly,” I voice with a shake of my head. “Left me on read and hates your guts but is buying us shots. Fun.”

“How long until he’s ready to jump ya?” Mack ponders.

“I’ll be out of here before he even tries.” I mean it. “It’s normally not this crowded, especially with tall, bulky jocks like Jayce. Is there a game tonight or something?”

“Nah. Most of these guys are on the new team from Saskatchewan. They’re called the Pincer Blades or something silly. Wyatt is the team equipment manager. He’s also on the roster to be on the team.”

“No way.” I’m surprised because Wyatt didn’t seem like he was going to play hockey professionally with his dad being a coach. He always helped with the equipment and stuff, almost like a manager, but it had been a very long time since I’d seen him strap on a pair of skates and glide along the ice. “I thought he wouldn’t consider the idea of being on the ice professionally.”

“Well, he originally wasn’t. However, one of their top players’ visa was delayed, so he’s stuck abroad. Even if he did arrive on time, I think they said a member would need to drop. Something about conflict of interest.”

“Conflict of interest?” I wasn’t following. “What? They were lovers or something.”

“Surprisingly, no,” Mack notes. “Siblings.”

“Siblings? You can’t be on the same team with your older or younger brother?”

“I’m as clueless as you are, bestie,” she says before taking a shot. “Could be twins.”

“Still don’t understand how that’s a problem.”

“They could both want to be forwards and rising stars, forcing them to play the ultimate game of…” she pauses just to emphasize her point. “Rock. Paper. Scissors.”

Any seriousness I had for the conversation is gone as I groan and take my shot glass.

“I can’t with you,” I conclude and watch her laugh hysterically because I was falling for her theatrics.

---