It’s a team jersey—but not just any jersey. It’s Dex’s number and name, ‘MALONE’ stitched across the shoulders. Official. The exact kind that costs a small fortune in the team store.
“MINE HAS SPARKLES!” Blythe announces, holding up her own jersey. Sure enough, hers is also a personalized Dex jersey, the same name and number on the back and, somehow, subtle silver sparkles incorporated into the lettering. I have no idea how he managed that, but Blythe is beside herself with joy.
“Open yours, Mom!” Tyson urges, already pulling his jersey over his head.
My package contains—unsurprisingly—my own personalized jersey. What catches me off guard is the note tucked inside.
For my three favorite fans. Directions to private entrance to follow—I told them you’re my family. See you before the game.
My heart stutters at the word “family.” It’s just a convenient explanation for the tickets, I remind myself. Not a declaration. But still.
“Are we wearing these to the game?” Tyson asks, admiring his reflection in the microwave door. “Because this is the coolest thing ever.”
“I think that’s the idea.” I hold up my own jersey, oddly touched by the gesture. “Game’s not until three, though, so maybe don’t wear yours to breakfast.”
“Too late!” Blythe spins in a circle, her jersey hanging to her knees. “I WILL NEVER TAKE THIS OFF! I’M GOING TO SLEEP IN IT FOREVER!”
“You’ll change your mind when it gets syrup on it,” Tyson predicts with brotherly certainty. “Or when you realize it doesn’t go with your sparkly tutu.”
Blythe gasps, clearly having not considered this fashion emergency. “MOM! Where’s my silver tutu? I NEED TO COORDINATE!”
And just like that, the jersey-induced euphoria shifts into pre-game outfit planning chaos. I sip what remains of my coffee, watching my children transform into whirling dervishes of excitement about an activity that, six months ago, wasn’t even on our radar.
Hockey. Jerseys. Family boxes.
Dex.
How quickly he’s become woven into the fabric of our lives, bringing with him this whole new world of experiences. Part of me still waits for the other shoe to drop—for him to realize that dating a single mom with custody drama and two high-energy kids isn’t exactly living the professional athlete dream.
But then he does something like this—sending personalized jerseys at 8:30 on a Sunday morning, arranging family box access, leaving notes with words that make my heart flip—and I allow myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this unlikely connection is the real thing.
My phone buzzes on the table. Speaking of the man...
Jerseys arrive?
Blythe may never take hers off. How did you get SPARKLES on it?
Team equipment manager owed me a favor. Worth every second of begging. What do you think of yours?
I glance down at the jersey in my lap, running my fingers over the stitched letters above his number. There’s something unexpectedly intimate about it—wearing his name. My stomach does a little flip at the thought.
It’s perfect. Thank you. Though I’m not sure what the other hockey moms will say when they see us all wearing your number.
Hopefully “wow, that Golda has excellent taste in hockey players.”
More likely “wow, that Golda sure moves fast.”
Not nearly fast enough, if you ask me.
The suggestion in his words sends a flush of heat through me that has nothing to do with coffee. Our goodnight kiss from last week is still embarrassingly fresh in my mind—the way he’d pulled me close, the barely restrained hunger in his touch, the reluctance with which we’d finally separated.
Game day focus, Malone.
You in my jersey IS my game day focus.
“Mom! Blythe won’t let me in the bathroom and I need to brush my teeth!” Tyson’s complaint pulls me back to reality.
“Coming!” I set my phone down, tabling the delicious flirtation for later. Parent duties call.
