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I nod, eyeing the jersey suspiciously.
“Sawyer wanted me to give you this,” she says with a megawatt smile. “He insists you put it on right away.”
“Did he now?” I take the jersey, not wanting to be rude. “I love your hair.”
“Thanks. Oh, and congratulations on your marriage!” she chirps before bouncing away.
I stare at the jersey in my hands, debating whether to put it on or use it to strangle Sawyer at the next opportunity. However, I’m freezing my nipples off in this dress, so I slip the jersey over my head. It’s way too big, hanging off one shoulder like I’m auditioning for an 80s music video. But it’s warm, and it smells like Sawyer even though I’m sure it’s been washed since he last wore it.
The first intermission rolls around, and Emily comes out, driving the Zamboni. That machine is so huge, she looks comically tiny on top of it. The crowd loves her, though. I wonder if she ever gets the urge to do donuts out there.
Twenty minutes later, she plops down next to me, bearing a massive bucket of popcorn and two sodas. “Miss me?”
“Always.”
“So,” Emily says, eyeing my new attire. “I see you’ve embraced the jersey life.”
I tug at the oversized fabric. “More like I was freezing my tatas off. Sawyer’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”
“You love it,” she teases, tossing a kernel into her mouth.
“Love that he’s annoyingly persistent?”
“Or that he’s concerned for your comfort.”
“I think he just wants everyone to know he’s got a wife. You know…for the charade.” But even as the words fall from my lips,I know this marriage sham is more than fixing his PR nightmare. He’s like a dog guarding his toys, and I’m not sure if that makes me want to smack him or…well, never mind.
“Speaking of the devil…” Emily nods towards the ice.
I look up to see Sawyer skating over in all his sweaty, hockey-padded glory. His eyes lock onto me like a heat-seeking missile, and he comes to a stop right in front of our seats. He pounds on the plexiglass, the brute. That makes the fans around us go a little nuts taking photos with their phones.
“Turn around,” he mouths, twirling his finger.
I give him a hard look. “Excuse me?”
He gestures for me to turn around, clearly wanting to admire his name on my back like the narcissist he is.
“What, you want to make sure I’m wearing your name like a good little hockey wife?” I call out, knowing he can’t hear me well through the glass and with all the noise around us, but enjoying the sass anyway.
He nods slowly, a sideways grin forming on his mouth.
“Fine,” I huff, standing up and doing a slow spin. “Happy now?”
Apparently not, because he’s now pointing at his left hand, then at me.
Oh, for the love!
“You like my manicure?” I quip, wiggling the fingers of my right hand.
He raises an eyebrow, challenge written all over his stupidly handsome face, tapping his ring finger insistently.
“See what I mean?” I say to Emily. “He’s all about the performance.”
She just shrugs.
Narrowing my glare at him, I lift my left hand, ring finger extended proudly in what could easily be mistaken for a certain rude gesture.
Sawyer’s laugh booms even through the glass. I’m married to a man-child.
