I guess this isn’t her first retail rodeo. “Yes,” I say, relieved.
“It’s super cute,” she says, “but there’s another one I like better. It’s kind of a V-cut.”
I perk up as she guides me back to another shelf in the same section and shows me my jersey in a V-neck style.
“I don’t know your…friend, of course, but I’d like this.”
“Thank you, Jacinta,” I say, grateful and then some.
I buy it, then ask her to hold it for a woman named Mabel. “I’ll text her and tell her to come here before the game starts?”
“Of course,” she assures me.
“Perfect.”
A smile teases at Jacinta’s lips as I say that. “Mabel,” she says quietly as she writes it on a Post-it note, like she’s been entrusted with a secret. She sets it on top of the jersey and pats it when she looks up. “It’s safe and sound.”
And a little bit secret.
Especially considering I kind of can’t wait for Mabel’s reaction. Even though I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be buying clothes for my business partner. But I probably shouldn’t be thinking about all the dirty things I want to do to her either.
I thank Jacinta, then leave, texting Mabel as I return to the personnel area.
Corbin: There’s something waiting for you at the gift shop. You should go before the game.
It’s not over till it’s over, but we’re up by three when we return to the ice before the third period. None of those points are courtesy of me, but who cares? They belong to the Foxes, and that’s all that matters.
Actually, that’s a lie. I’d really like at least one to be mine.
I’m centering the line for the face-off. The ref drops the puck, and I tie up their center’s stick, kicking the puck back to Ivan. He snags it, then passes it back to me two seconds later. The ice opens up ahead, and I hit the blue line with the same—no, more speed—than I used when I raced myself on the bike earlier. It’s just the goalie and me now. He’s sliding out ahead of the posts, playing the angles.
So am I. I fake the shot high, and he bites, going for it, then I hit it low and precise. The puck screams right past him.
The lamp lights.
I thrust my stick in the air, and the tension I’ve been carrying for weeks starts to unknot. Riggs and Lake crash into me along the boards as the crowd goes wild. It’s louder than a concert in here. The cheers reverberate in my bones.
This is what I love—when it comes together. For the team, the fans, and me.
Through the noise, I scan for Mabel, and there she is with a friend in the seats at center ice, jumping up and down and wearing my jersey.
She’s not working on her tablet. She’s just looking good in lilac and being my good luck charm.
The Foxes close it out with a 5-2 W that feels really fucking good.
So do the texts she sends—or accidentally sends, since they arrive in multiples. In the locker room, I look away from my teammates as I read the exchange while stripping off my jersey. Don’t want anyone to see my face.
Mabel: You didn’t have to.
Mabel: You seriously didn’t have to.
Mabel: Even though this jersey does make me look kind of sexy, doesn’t it?
Mabel: Maybe I should ask Alexa? Alexa, does this lilac low-cut jersey make me look sexy?
Alexa: I can’t see it, but sexy is in the eye of the beholder.
Mabel: Alexa, even you can’t get me down.
