Chapter 17

17

ELLA

Despite Carlos doing his best to make sure I’m comfortable and have everything I need in the VIP area—the guy is a snack pusher, which automatically makes me like him—I feel out of place.

It’s not just that I’m in Jack’s jersey, but when he winked at me after scoring the first goal, the other women in the room went strangely silent and stared.

None of them have introduced themselves, but to be fair, I haven’t made introductions either. I’ve spent the last year trying to be invisible, and it’s a hard habit to shake. My wig is in the bottom of the one bag I brought with me from the island, but that’s not going to help me now.

When Jack got the second goal, making it so the other team only had a one-point lead, I overheard his name along with the words, billionaire , puck bunny , and then the phrase The Secret Life of Jack Bouchelle .

Does he have a secret life? I’ve seen the psychological thriller movies: am I a pawn in a game—not the one on the ice, but something else ?

Last night, he seemed genuine. Our kisses, total fireworks. But I don’t understand this world, which makes me feel like I’m sitting on a chair with only three legs—and I don’t mean a stool. I mean the wobbly wooden kind. For the first time ever, I’d almost rather be living my secret life at Jewel Island. At least there, I knew what I was up against, but by the way these women in Storm merch keep looking my way while talking in a hush gives major mean-girl vibes. I thought I left the likes of Yvonne and her clique at the resort.

None of them wear Jack’s jersey, but there are loads of people in the rest of the arena sporting his number. One woman even holds up a sign that says, Call me back, Jack and has her number on it. That seems ill-advised. Four girls wear white sweatshirts covered in hearts with the letters J-A-C-K across the front. I’m pretty sure another flashed him.

He doesn’t try to get their attention. It’s all for me. Why, though?

When the buzzer sounds, my thoughts get muddled as the Knights return with a strong game, getting another point.

I quickly see that it’s a brutal sport and the players are warriors. When I’m not trying to keep track of the puck like a kitten on skates, I’m filled with shock and awe at the speed they move, the weaving, dodging, and the way the puck zigs and zags from stick to stick. Yet they make it look easy as if they’re all out for a winter stroll.

All of a sudden, a guy in the Knights black, silver, and red slams into the boards, and then gloves come off. I glimpse the last name Coleman on a Storm jersey and vaguely recall Carlos mentioning a few of the players’ names to watch, including Cole Coleman—unless he was messing with me, considering his proclivity to give people nicknames.

A fight breaks out on the ice like we’re in a bar brawl. The referees stand back until a stick lifts into the air. A shrill whistle blows and they break apart. Everyone regroups. Two of the guys go into a glassed-off area and the announcer explains the penalty. It’s all lost on me. Except Jack. My attention routinely lands on him. Without knowing much of anything about hockey, other than that Jack is extremely fast on the ice, I can somehow always locate him out there.

The game resumes and Jack gets his third goal. The arena goes wild. He skids around, arms pumping and cheering until he stops in front of the VIP area again. His glove lifts toward his mouth.

I freeze, but not in the same way as when the classy SUV brought us into the bowels of the building and I momentarily feared I’d made a grave miscalculation. For a second, I thought I was going to be auctioned off to polish trophies or something far more sinister.

I can just barely make out Jack’s face beneath his helmet, but he’s smiling and his eyes sparkle. He blows a kiss, points to me, and then himself before skating back into the huddle of players.

The massive screens overhead broadcasting the game display it. Then a graphic of an arrow shooting through a cloud transforms into a heart along with the #10. The crowd continues to cheer, but the nearby women stare.

So much staring.

I kind of miss the imaginary raccoon gang. Sort of. At least they shared their snacks.

Am I an interloper? Does Jack have a girlfriend? Wife? Ex-wife? Panic rises inside like an out-of-control helium balloon. Did I just accidentally embroil myself in some major hockey drama?

Do I have pit stains? I applied extra deodorant, but if I ruin this jersey, I’ll never forgive myself.

Once again, the game kicks back into gear. Thankfully, the women mostly turn their attention to it and I only overhear Jack’s name paired with Mystery Puck Bunny a few times.

If these people are putting rabbits on the ice, with those sticks and the puck moving at speeds that look like it could knock someone out, I’m calling animal protective services!

A clamor comes from the rest of the arena and a buzzer sounds. The opposing team scored another goal. The clock says that only a couple of minutes remain in the game. So far, Jack is the only one on the Storm to get points, so if the other guys don’t show up big, the Knights are going to win.

But will they win player number ten? He explained his situation. Given what little I know about this sport and what I’ve gleaned while watching this game, perhaps he’d be better off with the Knights. They seem like nicer guys, though that might not be a reason to change teams. You want the best and strongest players. So far, that would be Nebraska. They work together, passing the puck, blocking shots, and seem to understand teamwork.

The timer ticks down and when it sounds for the last time, the Knights win. The women in the VIP area groan but quickly shuffle out. I follow, not sure where I’m supposed to be or what I’m supposed to do. Carlos was going to give me his number, but I still don’t have a phone.

How did people survive in the Dark Ages before devices? Then again, I haven’t had one for nearly a year and am doing fine. Except right now, because as I exit to the hall adjacent to the VIP area, I hear more whispering.

“She’s coming.”

Then a bunch of cameras go off—phone cameras taking pictures of me. I’m pretty sure I look like the emoji head with two differently spaced eyes and a lolling tongue.

Was the fine print the kiss that Jack blew to me after his goal? Maybe it means something like wearing his jersey .

What does it matter and why do they want my photo? Call me na?ve, but even if he’s an eligible billionaire bachelor, it’s not like I’m his girlfriend.

I’m about to get caught in a stream of people when Carlos intercepts me. Leading me through a door that says Personnel Only , he says, “That was something.”

“I know. It’s a bummer they lost.”

“No, that Jack blew you a kiss. No wonder he wanted you in his jersey. You’re going to be wanted in all fifty states.”

Bark Wahlburger and I trail behind him in the hall. I swallow, not fully understanding what he means but am suddenly very thirsty.

Stopping short, I say, “Is Jack married? Did I just commit a crime? I would never knowingly be with a married man.” I already have potential cases against me for faking my identity at Jewel Island, but now this, too? I’m innocent! I can survive semi-homelessness at an opulent resort, but I don’t think I’m a good candidate for prison.

Carlos crows with laughter. “Jack, married? Yesterday, I would’ve said I’ll believe it when I see it, but now I’m not so sure.”

I meet the glimmer in his eyes with hardness in mine. “Can you explain what’s going on?”

“He’s the better man for the job.” Carlos points at Jack, who approaches from the other end of the hallway, still wearing his gear—massive in his skates and uniform.

Carlos excuses himself to do whatever Carloses do.

Jack stops less than an arm’s length away from me. His smile burns through my confusion, prompting irritation.

I ask, “What was that?”

“A good game, but not a great one. I’m sorry you saw us lose.”

“No, I mean the kiss.” I gesture between us .

His eyes shift from left to right. “I got the goal. Dedicated it to you. Was it a good idea?” The corner of his mouth lifts. “It was impulsive. But?—”

“Apparently, I have a hockey fan army after me.”

His expression darkens. “What do you mean?”

“A bunch of women took photos of me afterward. Not like, ‘Hey, we’re at the game together, let’s be friends. Hashtag hockey selfie, lovvve you so muchhh, bae,’ but like they’re going to put up Wanted Dead or Alive signs with a price on my head.”

Jack laughs but stops abruptly when my arms fold in front of my chest and I square my jaw.

“Tell me the truth. Why’d you ask me to wear it?”

He stares down at his skates. “Because.”

“That’s not an answer. There are loads of women wearing your jersey here. You could’ve paid any of them to sit my seat.”

His chest rises and falls on a breath. “They’re known quantities.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re anonymous. Not part of the hockey world. For all anyone knows, you could actually be my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” I ask slowly.

He has the nerve to wink at me.

“I asked about the catch.” I tug on the hem of the jersey he asked me to wear so I can give it back to him, but it gets caught in my hoop earrings and for a second, it’s like I’m trapped in a toilet paper roll.

Jack’s lips quirk. “Or maybe this shallow attempt to bolster my career is actually a feeble way to spend more time with?—”

Before he finishes, Carlos appears with Bark Wahlburger and a woman by his side with the same dark hair but smoother and longer. Not wanting any more trouble, I start to rush off.

Jack hustles after me. “Ella, wait. I can explain more. I only really understood when I was out there. Just stick with me until after the party. Please?”

I think about how much he’s paying me and how it’ll help my situation.

He adds, “And Carlos’s sister is here. I have to go to the debrief—not that it matters—and shower. Then I’ll meet you. Also, I’d kiss you on the cheek, but I’m really sweaty.”

I purse my lips, not wanting to kiss him right now. Much. I mean, he does look attractive in a post-workout way with his damp hair in his eyes. I also briefly fantasize about him scooping me up and carrying me in his arms the way he did when I refused to enter the Jewel Suite. Then he’d skate around and the wind would cinematically blow back my hair. Then our gazes would lock and …

“Please wait for me.” He kisses me on the cheek anyway, then hurries off with Carlos at his heels.

I want to hate the impression his lips made on my skin but can’t bring myself to wipe it off.