Page 39 of On the Line

I give a small nod.

“We think so.”

* * *

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Petra asks when she, Jackson, Morgan, and I find our seats in the club section at the front of the second level. When the players take the ice, we’ll be sitting about twenty-five rows behind New York.

“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “I’m just exhausted.” I don’t think I slept for more than two hours last night. I lay awake in my bed, my mind spinning until the first rays of light were coming through my window. I’m not sure how I made it through my second day of work today, or how I’m going to stay awake for this game.

“You’ve been through a lot,” Jackson says. “Between the house, the new job, and the info Jules and Audrey dropped on you, I’m not surprised you’re exhausted.”

At least I was able to catch my friends up on everything over dinner, and Morgan filled in the parts I couldn’t, like how shocked I’d looked when Jules and Audrey divulged Jameson’s role in remodeling my house.

“You still haven’t told us how you feel about him,” Morgan says as she eyes the jersey I’m wearing.

When I’d mentioned not having any Rebels gear, Jules had said she had tons—ironic since she apparently hates hockey—and would bring something over for me. Sure enough, the jersey was folded neatly and sitting on my bed when I got home from work today. I’d unfolded it and rolled my eyes when I saw Flynn and the number 9 on the back.

Of course she’d bring me an old jersey with Jameson’s name and number—it felt like a challenge, like she was giving me a choice: I could fold it back up and leave it behind, or I could be brave and put it on.

I opted for bravery. It’s just a mental exercise anyway. Even though he has season tickets, it’s not like I’m going to see him amid this crowd of 15,000 people.But if I do, how will I explain wearing his jersey?I’m choosing to ignore that question, even though it keeps popping into my head.I won’t see him.

“I don’t know how I’m feeling, to be honest.”

I’d told them earlier about the night, five years ago, when Jameson and I had unexpectedly ended up at dinner together and bonded in a way I thought meant something was happening between us. And then I told them how the next night, at an event for work, Jameson said, “I can’t do this,” before introducing me to one of his clients, an alpine ski racer named Josh Emerson.

“It’s a lot to process,” Jackson says. “You probably just need a little time to absorb all this.”

“Yeah. Right now, though, I think I’m going to go get a soda. I won’t make it through this game without some caffeine. Anyone want anything?”

My friends all look at me like I’m crazy because we just rolled out of dinner after completely stuffing ourselves, each of us swearing we’d never be able to eat again. I’m actually glad this jersey is so huge on me, and I’m wearing leggings with it, because I don’t think my body could handle any clothing that felt restrictive right now.

I make my way up the stairs and head toward the private club-level lounge that our seats get us access to. There’s a short line at the bar, so I lean against the wall as I wait, hoping that I don’t fall asleep standing. One bad night of sleep should not make me this tired, but I think Jackson is right—the emotional toll of everything I’ve been through and this new information I’ve learned is catching up with me.

I close my eyes for a brief second, and then I feel someone move in close. When I open my eyes again, Jameson has one arm propped on the wall next to me, and he’s leaning into my space.

“Where in the world did you find that jersey?” he asks, his voice a low growl.

“Jules gave it to me today because I mentioned I didn’t have any Rebels gear.”

“That’s my jersey.”

“Yeah, I’m aware. It has your name across the back.”

“No, I mean, that’smyjersey”—his eyes flick through the windows to the arena where we can see the big blue “R” inside the Rebels symbol painted onto the ice—“that I wore, when I played.”

My breath hitches in a way that makes it feel like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the space. “She didn’t tell me that. I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean to overstep.”

He leans a little closer, his lips nearly touching my ear. “You saved me the trouble of having to rip the jersey off you if you’d had anyone else’s name on your back.”

My eyes flick to his. They’re as dark as always, but I’d forgotten that up close like this they have flecks of amber around the pupil, like sparks of fire radiating out into his irises.

“Jameson ...” My voice is practically a whisper, and I pause because I don’t know what I want to say.

“Next!” The loud, distinctly annoyed voice of the guy behind the bar cuts into the space between us and I jump away. I hadn’t noticed that in the time we were talking, the line had moved and now it’s my turn. I glance apologetically behind me at the people who are waiting to order.

“I have to ...” I tilt my chin toward the counter as I move away, and Jameson gives me an amused chuckle and tells me he’ll see me later.

When I get back to my seat with my large soda in my hand, I sink down between Petra and Morgan, whispering “Holy shit” over and over.

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