Because we didn’t.
He’s playing George flawlessly.
And just like that, the truth I’ve been trying to ignore all night rears its ugly head. I’m still that silly girl falling head-over-heels for her brother’s best friend, the one guy that could well and truly ruin me.
It’s too late to go back. The fair is too important, so I’m going to have to accept reality. Lydia Bennet, my sensible self, whoever I am, we’re well and truly doomed.
ChapterFifteen
Aulie Desfleurs
Play:A Kiss to Build a Dream On by Louis Armstrong
One hour, two pumpkin beers, and three shots later—I’m certain Jack has had more—the dizzying feeling in my gut rivals the twinkling lights overhead.
For the entire first period of the game, Jack draped his arm over my shoulders. Not that I minded. The chill of the night is creeping in, so the extra warmth from his side is soothing.
Sort of.
There’s a loud portion of my brain sounding the alarm that I like all of this—quietly watching a game in the crook of his arm—way too much.
With a content sigh, I let my head tip back during a commercial and admire the string of lights mirroring the stars above. Jack follows suit. “They did a good job with this back patio. I could see myself coming here a lot if I lived here,” he says.
“I love it. I’ve wanted to do the same thing in our backyard. But the lights are sitting in the garage collecting dust because Gus won’t let me climb a ladder alone, and he never has the free time to help.”
“Did you want them near the fire pit?”
“Yeah.”
“That would be nice.”
With our eyes locked on the sky above, a gentle hum vibrates through me. This, right here, stargazing with Jack, is another moment of perfection that I refuse to take for granted.
Jack hasn’t mentioned what today is, and I don’t know how to bring the subject up organically. Since the game started, we haven’t talked about anything. Jack muttered a few things, sure, but they’ve mostly been about Peter, the usual second-liner who’s filling his spot. He’s frustrated that Peter can’t anticipate the pass and is too meek establishing himself in front of the opponent’s net (personally, I think Peter’s doing a fantastic job).
After the first two periods end, the score remains zero-all, despite the Badgers putting a fair number of shots on goal.
Their opponent, Seattle, isn’t supposed to be good this season. So, this game should be a gimme. But even I can see the issue. The team hasn’t found their chemistry without Jack. If they don’t find it soon, the Badgers might have to fight for a playoff spot later in the season—even though they have the talent to clinch a first-place finish.
For intermission, the local sports station cuts to a panel of suit-clad men who dissect the highs and lows of the game. Earlier, when they were bashing Jack, Andrew turned the sound off the TVs, but once the game started, he turned the volume back up. Some sports are fine to watch without sound, but hockey should never be one of them. The sound of the skates cutting across the ice and the clash of the sticks in battle is some serious ASMR.
Scott, I think it’s obvious what the problem is with the Badgers. They’ve relied too heavily on Jack Parker, a guy who isn’t dependable, and now their chickens are coming home to roost.
Jack tenses next to me at the sound of his name.
“Oh, screw you,” I yell at the TV. A few faces turn in our direction. At the bar, Andrew frowns and immediately grabs the remote to mute the sound again. “Thank you, Andrew. You’re a gem.”
“Anytime, Aulie.” He waves.
“But seriously, Jack, don’t listen to guys like him. Like he’s ever played hockey or knows anything about you.”
“That’s Richard Brousseau.”
That name doesn’t resonate with me; I just see a crabby old man who’s been too hard on him. Why should he care?
“He played with my dad, and he’s my godfather,” Jack says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m going to get another beer. Want one?”
Jack’s arm slips from its perch on my shoulders, the ghost of his warmth lingers along my bare skin. I shiver through the sensation and furrow my brow while Jack rises from the booth. I can’t imagine how he’s feeling. If someone that close to me said something like that on national TV on an already rough day, I wouldn’t be able to cope. I’d be an absolute puddle. I shift in the booth, not knowing what to say or how to make any of this better.
