“That reminds me—” Mark starts, cut off when there’s a light knock on the door. Seconds later, it swings open.
“Good evening gentleman, my name is Richard. Apologies for the delay in introducing myself. Normally, I would’ve been here when you arrived but I was personally overseeing the delivery for Mr. King.”
“A delivery,” Andrew echoes, eyes honing in on the box in Richard’s hands.
“Mr. Whitmore asked that this be in the suite when you arrived, but the carrier was delayed in traffic, and there was some confusion about which suite it was to be sent to. Please convey our deepest apologies to Mr. Whitmore that it was late.”
“It’s fine,” Andrew assures him. “But what is it?”
“I couldn’t say.” Richard crosses the room, laying the box on the counter in front of Andrew. “The instructions were clear: it was to be hand delivered to you, unopened. Does anyone need anything else?”
“We’re good,” Mark says, waving some kind of fried appetizer in the air.
“If anyone needs anything, don’t hesitate to let me know. I’ll coordinate with the waiter to ensure your meal is brought to you as quickly as possible so you don’t miss the start of the game. Puck drop is in fifteen minutes.”
“Shit, we gotta get seats.”
“We don’t gotta do shit, dude, The seats are right there.” Steve shakes his head. “I just wanna see what Andrew got.”
Flashbacks of birthdays and Christmas where Andrew smiled and thanked everyone for the gifts before secretly hiding in his room or bathroom to cry, confused why he was upset by perfectly good gifts or overreacting to being given things he didn’t want, assault him. He has no problem with receiving gifts, if he’s prepared and not being watched.
“Open it,” Mark prompts.
Even at thirty-two, opening gifts in front of people on holidays is only tolerable because Charlie is such an attention whore, making it easy for Andrew to discreetly open his own gifts without being noticed. There’s no Charlie here now, and it occurs to Andrew how much he relies on his twin brother as a shield. He really wishes Charlie had come tonight to take some of the attention off him.
“Show us what your sugar daddy got you,” Santiago demands.
“He’s not my sugar daddy,” Andrew repeats.
“I don’t know, dude.” Steve leans over Andrew’s shoulder, his warm breath on Andrew’s neck. Gross. “Luxury suite, fancy wine and now gifts. Sounds like a sugar daddy.”
“Or you’ve never had a healthy relationship where the other person actually likes you enough to take time to care about what you need,” Andrew replies, his snark slipping out once again.
“Damn,” Santiago snorts. “I didn’t know Andrew was so funny.”
“Fuck off,” Steve groans, flipping Santiago off.
“Well,” Mark says, staring at Andrew with an unreadable expression. “Are you going to open it?”
“Yes,” Andrew says, deciding to rip the bandaid off, so to speak, and pulling off the ribbon that has the box secured. Thesecond he opens it, confusion wars with surprise. There is aDesigns by Denisecard on top of something wrapped in very familiar diamond printed tissue paper. What on earth did Nicki have Denise make him?
Setting the card on the table beside him, he peels back the tissue paper and barely holds back the urge to snort. A jersey. Of course it’s a fucking jersey. But if it came from Denise, it’s not a regular jersey, and Andrew pulls it out of the box curiously, surprised to realize that Nicki took his hatred of polyester to heart because the inside of the jersey has been lined in silk. When he lifts it from the box to hold it up, another note flutters out.
Bending to the floor to pick it up he finds a simple white notecard with two words on it.You’re mine.
This time Andrew does snort. Nicki is such a possessive fucker. A thoughtful, possessive fucker though. There wasn’t a chance in hell Andrew would wear a regular jersey, knowing the shape of the jersey and the material would be a sensory nightmare. This though? Denise has made enough custom pieces and tailored enough of Andrew’s clothes to know exactly what he likes, and it’s clear from the flattened seams and widened collar so his throat isn’t touched that no detail has been spared.
“Damn,” Mark whistles.
“What?”
“I just didn’t realize it was so serious.”
“It’s—” but Andrew stops. He can’t say it’s not because that would ruin their entire fake dating plot. They want people to believe it’s serious, that it’s real. And apparently, it’s working since Andrew let himself think it was for a moment.
The suit, the wine, the jersey. All of it felt real, like Nicki really wanted to do those things for Andrew. Like Andrew washis. Except, maybe it was all just part of the game. Nicki knewhe was coming with the guys from work. Maybe it was a power move?
“Aw, Andrew is so lovesick, he can’t even think.”
