Chapter 15

15

JACK

Bark Wahlburger leans into me and I scratch his head. His tail wags as if this is the greatest day of his life.

“What am I going to do with you?” I ask.

He doesn’t make a sound as if afraid of the answer. I wasn’t looking for a best friend, but you know what they say about dogs and all that.

“So, you’re sticking with me, huh?”

He rewards me with a lick on the hand.

Or maybe I’m sticking with him.

I ask, “Am I cuckoo for asking Ella to wear my jersey to what may very well be my last hockey game?” I’ve been questioning myself all night.

If the mastermind behind this plan to get me out of the league or off the team sees that I’m the star player and am loyal and committed, as evidenced by a woman in the box wearing my jersey, perhaps they’ll have second thoughts.

Sure, it’s falsely sending a signal that I’m serious about relationships, meaning I’m serious about hockey, but I can’t imagine leaving the Storm. They’re all I’ve ever known .

Usually, I sleep like the dead, but last night my mind would not shut down. Good thing I’d taken a nap earlier.

This afternoon, I fly out with or without Ella, and I can’t figure out why I’m leaning so hard toward the former when all I’ve wanted to do these last few months is avoid women—or at least make sure they understand that anything between us is a hand situation and not a heart one. In other words, no strings attached.

I tell myself that’s what this is between Ella and me, too. We’re just two adults who’ll be in hockey jerseys. If she actually goes through with it.

It’s to show the coach and whoever else is paying attention that I’m serious about my game and my life. That maybe I’ve been distracted by a woman (not true), but now I’m back and all in (very true.)

The thing is, I want to remain on the Storm. Been with them my whole career. Retirement is not an option. If it’s a no, that leaves the Knights. They have a reputation for being a family-friendly organization—they’re like the Disney World of hockey.

But I didn’t come this far only to be the second string on a new team. This is my last-ditch effort. I can’t come up with another plan before it’s time for me to meet Ella. If she shows.

I wait on a velvet couch in the lobby, my ankle resting on my knee, browsing hockey scores and stats on my phone.

Who am I fooling? I’ve been scanning the room for any sign of a woman with long silky hair, warm brown eyes, pillowy lips, and curves that a Renaissance painter would appreciate.

Puffing out a breath, with my luck, I fear she’s going to disappear and I’ll have to wait another year to see her.

Last night was fun—I haven’t laughed so much in ages. Have I mentioned she’s hilarious—dry and sarcastic and not afraid to be silly—but also super smart? She’s pretty and flirty, for sure, but also funny and I don’t think she means it, which is adorable.

Also, she has a healthy appetite. I’ve been on countless dinner dates. Not bragging. Facts. I don’t expect the average woman to have the same caloric requirement as a professional athlete, but it’s uncomfortable when I’m chowing down on some good grub and the woman across from me picks at her plate like she’s too good for a nourishing meal.

Aston comes to mind and a trio of lookalikes breeze past once, twice, and giggle the third time. I accidentally make fleeting eye contact with one while I’m scanning for Ella. It must embolden her because she clicks over in her high-heeled sandals and sits next to me, resting her elbow on the back of the couch, getting so close I can see the makeup creases in her skin.

“I thought I recognized you, Jack Bouchelle. I’m Sasha.” She boops my nose.

The others giggle. Bark Wahlburger yips with disapproval.

I don’t so much as chuckle.

Sasha asks, “What brings you to Jewel Island?”

Had she asked that last year around this time, I would’ve said something dark about my mother and then escaped into Sasha’s embrace. Or not. Last year, around this time, I was kissing Ella in the pool.

Sasha leans in closer, anticipating the answer to my question.

My gaze flicks up and lands on Ella. The corner of my lips twists into a smile. “What brought me here? She did.” I get to my feet and cross the room to meet her.

Ella pauses by the mermaid fountain. When I was a kid, I’d toss a coin in, wishing the mermaid would come to life and let me kiss her on the cheek.

But Ella is more beautiful than anyone I could’ve dreamed up. She’s wearing a pair of dark pants, a wide-neck, pale pink cashmere sweater, and white tennis shoes. She must like the hoop earrings because she has them in again.

“Good morning,” I say, unable to stop the smile that, minutes before, had been an annoyed grimace.

“Fan club?” she asks.

“Only if you’re the president.”

She gives her eyes a playful roll. “Do you get swarmed often?”

I shrug. “You get used to it.”

“Seriously?”

“No, more like numb.” I tell her about my recent stint in the supply closet.

She nods with understanding or is it resignation? “Desperate times call for … and all that.”

I eye the bag hanging from her shoulder, after her uncertainty last night, I hardly believed she’d agreed. “So, are you really coming?”

Her chest rises and then slowly deflates. “Is there any fine print that I’m missing?”

“You said you have great vision. The only print is Bouchelle , Number Ten on the jersey.”

“So that’s it? Fly with you to the game, wear your jersey, and—?” She leaves me to finish the sentence.

“After the win, there’ll be a party. Good food, music, that kind of thing.”

“How do you know you’ll win?”

“Usually do.”

She laughs and shakes her head like she doesn’t know what to do with me.

“Also, it’ll be fun,” I add, nudging her with my elbow.

“How do you know that?” she asks.

I wink. “Always is with me.”

She tips her head back with laughter, drawing eyes from around the room—Sasha and her friends along with Yvonne at the front desk and other guests.

Catching Ella and my reflection in a nearby mirror, I take a mental snapshot. We look good together and for the first time in a long time, my smile is genuine. It only grows when she bites her lip as she glances at the glass automatic doors.

“Are you in?” I ask.

As if letting out the rest of the breath she’d taken earlier, Ella says, “Let’s go.”

We take a shuttle to the landing strip where one of the private planes from the Bouchelle fleet awaits. Dad has five jets: one each for him, me, and Aston—which used to be Mom’s, and then two backups, usually for transporting his business associates.

Ella climbs the stairs ahead of me and pauses in the doorway. Her gaze holds on the edges of the resort as if she’s saying goodbye.

“I’ll have you there and back safely,” I whisper, then recall her peculiar situation, working at the resort and living like a stowaway. It’s untenable, and now, knowing more about her story, I realize this trip is a big risk for her.

I add, “I’ll make sure it’s worth it.”

At dinner, we “negotiated” a dollar amount, and she was very stubborn. Adorably stubborn about wanting to be “reasonable” and saying a thousand dollars is too much. I’m paying her to wear my jersey, not do anything inappropriate. What she didn’t realize is that I added a zero to the end of the number we settled on. Plus, I’m a great tipper, as she saw last night when I left a few large bills on the table for the server. I’ll make sure she has a place to stay and a job when she gets back, too.

We sit in a pair of buttery leather seats with Bark Wahlburger nearby. The cabin attendant brings us warm cloths, water, and asks if we’d like any other refreshments before takeoff. There are a few treats and chew toys for the dog, to. He goes to town, in happy dog heaven.

“Truth serum?” Ella asks.

The cabin attendant blinks a few times.

“She’s joking.”

We all laugh lightly and then get underway.

“Do you want truth serum because there’s something you’re not telling me?” I ask.

“Or something you’re not telling me. It can’t be as simple as you only wanting me to wear your jersey.”

As the plane taxis onto the runway, I consider how much to share. No one, not even my inner circle, knows about the conversation Remy and I had after the last game. At least I don’t think so. Then again, my father was aware of it.

I say, “I’m at a career crossroads.”

“I know the feeling.”

I explain how I’ve been with the Carolina Storm for nearly a decade and my coach gave me an ultimatum: retire or get traded to the Nebraska Knights.

“From what you’ve said about being a billionaire’s son, money may not be an issue, but aren’t you a little young to retire?”

I take it she doesn’t know a lot about hockey. Maybe later I’ll be able to give her a crash course.

“Also, why does he want to get rid of you if you usually win? Doesn’t that make you an asset to the team?” Ella is smart, sharp.

“I’ve been trying to puzzle that out and have a few theories.” I tell her I’m one of the highest earners in the league and they’d be able to get a couple of new guys in exchange for my salary.

“But those guys aren’t sure bets if they’re newer.”

I nod and add, “There are also politics in the sport, you might say. Like maybe my coach owes someone a favor and I’m being ousted because of that.” Could have something to do with the owners. Could go all the way to the top, for all I know.

“But you could still play if you go to the Nebraska team, right?”

I rub my hand down my face because I didn’t let myself think much about this situation while on the island. Back on the plane headed west, I can’t help but obsess.

“Are they any good?” she asks.

“Our biggest rival.”

“Would the other guys on the team give you a hard time as the newbie?” she asks, likely referring to the pecking order she described at the resort.

“No, for two reasons. Teams can’t function well that way and we all have the same goal: the Stanley.”

She frowns. “Like the water bottle brand?”

I chuckle. “No. The Stanley Cup.”

“An old man’s mug?”

“No, a cup. Also, I have an uncle named Stanley. What makes you think it’s an old man’s name?”

“Is he young?” she counters.

I chuckle because he’s not. “That’s the trophy that the winning team in the league gets after a series of playoffs. In other words, only the best get it.”

“I don’t get the big deal about a cup, but okay. Go on.”

“It’s a really big cup.”

Her smile edges with laughter. “So why not give this new team in Nebraska a shot?”

“Because it would mean change and I will likely be retiring sooner rather than later.”

“Isn’t the average age of retirement like sixty-five or something?”

“Not in hockey. Think of a gladiator sport but on skates.”

She nods slowly. “And with swords? You said the Nebraska team is the Knights, right?”

I laugh again because now she’s being cheeky and I’m certain Ella knows hockey is played with sticks.

But this brings to mind the very reason she’s here. I asked her to wear my jersey, but maybe I also wanted someone in my corner, even if she doesn’t quite understand that I’m fighting for my career.

She asks, “Let me put it this way, who’s courting whom?”

We’ve reached elevation and my ears pop, but I’m certain I heard her correctly. “Do you mean—?” I’m about to gesture between us.

“Between the teams. Surely, you have some leverage, given your winning history and all that. Like, maybe you’d be an asset to Nebraska. You said they’re your current team’s rival.”

“Everyone’s rival, really. They have an underdog story that’ll probably be made into an inspiring movie.”

“Could be that you’re the secret weapon. If you switch, you’ll crush the Storm and get that Cup you want so badly but as a Knight rather than playing for the Storm.”

I blink a few times. “What did you study in college? Business?”

“Hospitality.”

Not only are Ella’s brown eyes beautiful, but she’s observant, noticing everything. If she had siblings—or prankster hockey teammates—they’d never be able to pull one over on her. She’s also kind and generous, funny and huggable .

Yeah. I said it—thought it.

“Bouchelle Luxury Properties would’ve been lucky if they’d snatched you up.”

Breezing past my compliment, she grimaces because, technically, she does work for the corporation. “Most importantly, what do you want to do? ”

I stare at my hands. “I’m not sure anymore.”

The cabin attendant brings us some snacks and her eyes light up when she spots the assortment, including cheddar cheese sticks, white chocolate-covered pistachios, and cinnamon spice cookies, among other tasty top-shelf goodies.

But I’m thinking about her question. What do I want to do? This whole thing came out of the blue and is a real blow. Essentially, the coach of the team I’ve been loyal to is forcing me to turn my back on the guys and leave the league or join our rivals. I still can’t figure out why.

Is this my final lap before retirement? I’m not the kind of person to think much beyond the season. Do I wave goodbye to the team I’ve always been on and to the game I’ve always known or do I regroup and join the Knights?

I don’t have answers, but I am glad I have Ella to talk to. I’ve never asked a woman to wear my jersey or sit in the VIP area. They just appear like Sasha. Something about this feels different. Like the direction of the wind changed. Hopefully, I don’t blow it.