Page 27 of Blueline Baby

Britt picks that exact moment to come out of her bedroom.

She looks between me and Jack, then at the jersey in my hands. There’s a quick, sharp flash of anger that goes across her face before she smoothly covers it up.

“Cute,” she says, in a voice that clearly means the exact opposite. “You’re doing the whole jersey thing. That’s adorable.”

“Britt—”

“No, it’s great.” She walks to the kitchen, not looking at either of us. “For two years I go to the games, I do everything right, and the guy I actually want to be with can barely remember my name in the morning.” She gestures aggressively at Jack. “But you show up drunk at our door and now you’re delivering jerseys. Funny how that works.”

“Britt,” Jack says, not unkindly. “Come on.”

“I’m just saying.” She finally looks at me. “Some of us try, and then some of us get handed it for doing nothing at all.”

She walks back to her room and shuts the door. The apartment goes intensely quiet around us.

Jack looks down at me. “You okay?”

“Sure, I guess.”

I’m obviously not, but it’s not his to fix. We’ve been friends for nearly two years. I thought she would be happy for me, but the worst part is I understand logically exactly why it stings her. And understanding the logic of it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I pull the jersey on over my shirt. It’s enormous on me, the heavy fabric instantly swallowing me up, and it smells exactly like the detergent he uses. I look down at his number on my shoulder and my stomach does that sudden, terrifying zero-gravity drop it’s been doing ever since the rink. But when I glance up to show him, he has his back turned.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s bad luck,” he says, talking to the wall. “I can’t see you in my jersey before the game.”

“This isn’t our wedding day, Anderson.”

“Not yet it’s not.”

My brain stutters to a complete stop. I can’t tell if he’s joking or serious, and there’s no response I can give him that won’t embarrass me. I’m intensely grateful his back is turned and he can’t see my burning face.

“…Just turn around, you idiot.”

He turns. He takes one look at me wearing his name and his number, and every last bit of the cocky confidence drains right out of him.

“Oh,” he says. “Holy shit. Wow.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I tug the heavy hem straight and pretend my heart isn’t slamming against my ribs. “Your jersey looks good on me.”

He heads for the door but turns back at the last moment. “It’ll look even better when I take it off you.”

The cocky hockey player is back, and he’s laughing as he leaves.

The family section is an entirely different world. I’m no longer just an anonymous fan in the stands. I’m back in the suite with its own private entrance and a guy who checks a list. Everyone in it knows everyone else. I walk in wearing Jack’s name feeling exactly like I snuck into a party I wasn’t invited to.

The only person I know is Lorelei Barrett and the moment she sees me she lets out a small shriek, then wraps her arms around me.

“I knew it!” she says, looking me up and down and taking in the oversized Dallas jersey and the name stitched across my back, and her smile is absolutely blinding.

"He actually did it," she says, looping her arm through mine. "Come sit with me. I’m not letting you stand in a corner. And you are going to tell me exactly how he pulled this off."

She sits me down next to her in the same chairs we occupied two months ago. It doesn't take long for the conversation to shift exactly where I knew it would.

“Dean says Jack hasn't shut up about you since that first game,” she says eventually, leaning closer so I can hear her over the arena noise. “He said he’s never seen him like this. Ever.”

“He’s very... persistent,” I say, which is the safest word I can think of.