The back readsEASTON in bold white letters. Women’s fit. Perfectly cut. My new favorite number stitched onto the sleeve: 20. Though I’d never admit that to my brother.
A yellow sticky note is on top.
KitKat,
Will you wear this tonight? And sit in my section?
— S
My heart does a ridiculous, fluttery little somersault.
I pick up the jersey and press it gently against my chest.
It’s too easy to imagine I’m his real wife, that this isn’t temporary, and that I’m wearing his name because I belong to him.
I swallow hard at the thought of it. I fold the jersey over my arm and can’t stop smiling. But I can’t stop here; the girls are waiting for me at Serendipity’s. Scottie’s brunch stop has me wondering if he’s eaten enough or if I should ask if he wants me to bring him something by the stadium.
From the outside, Serendipity’s brick exterior, smashed between two much larger buildings, and red door look quaint, but the moment I open the door, I’m transported into a whatlooks like a fairytale cottage collided with a hipster bakery and then fell in love with an over-caffeinated artist.
Warm yellow walls. Plants everywhere. The smell of cinnamon rolls and espresso is thick in the air. Mismatched mugs hang from hooks along the counter. A chalkboard menu that looks like it was hand-lettered by someone with perfect calligraphy that I could only dream of being able to pull off.
Peyton throws an arm around my shoulder the second I walk in.
“There she is. First home game day as a Hawkeyes wife. How do we feel?”
“Excited,” I admit. “Maybe terrified… a little.”
“Normal,” Vivi says, passing me a latte the size of my head. “Wait until you hear the crowd when Scottie touches the puck. The stadium will vibrate so hard with cheers that your ancestors will feel it.”
We settle at a big table near the window. They talk about the game, the arena, and the seats they always sit in. It’s loud and wild, and I’m trying to keep up with four different conversations all happening at one time, but I love it, and even more than that, I feel like I belong.
Something I’ve had so little practice with, but it feels good.
Then my phone buzzes.
A push notification.
PNB CALLBACKS POSTED.
My stomach drops, and before I can think, I shoot to my feet, nearly knocking my coffee over.
The girls freeze.
“Kat?” Isla asks. “Honey?”
“Something just came up. I have to go. See you all tonight,” I say, rushing to the exit. The moment I step outside, I scan the list with trembling fingers while Seattle traffic whips around me in a blur.
Scroll.
Scroll.
Scroll.
Then I land on it–shock and goosebumps rippling through my body, from the tip of my nose to my toes.
KATERINA EASTON – ACCEPTED Pacific Northwest Ballet Company
I let out an unexpected scream and clamp my hand over my mouth.
