I turn to find Gigi standing a few feet away, leaning against the doorframe of what I assume is the suite she’s sitting in tonight. She’s dressed impeccably as always, her dark hair falling in perfect waves. She looks like she walked out of a fashion editorial, while I look like I lost a fight with a frat party.
“It’s not ideal,” I admit, still holding the jersey between my thumb and forefinger to keep it away from my body.
Gigi studies me, wearing an expression I can’t quite read. “You can’t go into a suite like that.”
“I’ll just—” I wave a hand vaguely. “Find a bathroom and go buy a new jersey downstairs.”
“Don’t be stupid.” She pushes off the doorframe and pulls out her phone. “What size are you? Medium?” she asks as she taps at the device’s screen.
“I—what?”
“Jersey size,” she clarifies, glancing up at me. “I’ll have someone bring you a new one. Free of charge, of course.” Her words have a sharp edge to them, making my hackles rise, but I have no legitimate reason to turn her down. I need a new jersey, and she’s offering me one. I can’t just say, “You have a thing for my boyfriend, and I think you’re a sneaky snake, so no thanks.”
I mean, I could, but I shouldn’t.
“Large, please,” I finally reply. “Thank you.”
Gigi’s smile is perfectly polite. “No problem at all.” She taps a few more times, then tucks her phone away. “What suite are you in?”
“L-101.”
“Perfect. Enjoy the game.”
It’s a dismissal.
Fine by me. I reassure the petrified staff member one more time, then hightail it down the hallway. The moment I’m out of their sight, I let out a breath, my lungs burning. Gigi didn’t have to help. She could have pretended not to see. She could have easily gone back to her suite. Instead, she offered me a new jersey, turning a random accident into an opportunity to… what? Be helpful? Establish dominance?
I shake my head. Maybe I’m reading too much into a simple gesture because she’s Cameron’s ex and she’s been on my shit list since before we met.
Putting that out of mind, I continue walking until I find the suite. When I step inside, it’s already half full of people. I greet Maya’s brother and introduce myself to his coworkers before sliding into the empty seat to Maya’s right.
“What the hell happened to you?” she asks, taking in my sopping wet jersey and splattered jeans.
With a groan, I recap the spill and Gigi’s odd act of kindness, my spidey senses once again tingling. “Weird, right?”
“Suspect,” she agrees. “But at least you’re getting a free jersey out of it.”
I grumble under my breath and slump in my seat. Yes, I may be getting a new jersey, but I was excited about the one I wore to the game. It took me forever to find the vintage jersey online and it cost a pretty penny. I’ve borrowed Sophie’s Davies jersey before and have a ton of Bobcats merch, but this is the first Davies jersey that’smine.
A staff member shows up with a new (and thankfully, dry) jersey a few minutes after the puck drops, and I step into the attached restroom to quickly slip it on.Much better.
I return to our seats, but before I can sit, Maya turns me around, checking out the back of the jersey. “Who’s Linden?”
Head tipped back, I groan. Of course Gigi wouldn’t have them bring me a Davies jersey. Instead, I have some random-ass player’s name on my back. I call her an unsavory name under my breath, then shake it off and focus on the game.
The Bobcats are 2-0 by the end of the first period, and 3-0 as they near the midway point of the second. Cole and his linemates are playing like they’re men possessed. The Trailblazers are sluggish and disorganized in comparison. Every shift is filled with crisp passes and aggressive forechecking. It’s the kind of dominant performance that has every person in the arena on their feet screaming and cheering.
I’m leaning over Maya, chatting with Elliott, when the volume of the cheering and yelling in our box gets cranked way up. Confused, I look over my shoulder, out at the Jumbotron. The camera is on us. It’s zeroed in on our suite, and there I am in crystal-clear HD, mid-conversation… not wearing a Davies jersey.
My lungs seize up, and I spin around so fast that I’m dizzy, but I plaster on a smile and wave like absolutely is nothing wrong. The camera lingers for what feels like an eternity but isprobably only five seconds before mercifully cutting away to a kid doing a dance in the lower bowl.
“Thank God,” I mutter, dropping back into my seat.
My relief that all is well is short-lived.
Seconds later, a Trailblazer fires off a lazy shot. It’s pathetic, really. Even I saw it coming, but it sails past Cameron’s glove and into the net.
Cameron stands stock-still, staring at the puck in the net like he’s unsure of how it got there. Then he slams his stick against the ice, his composure cracking.
