Page 61 of Get Me to the Starting Line

I’ve moved right into her personal space, closer than what’s polite. “Open it,” I whisper in English.

Like her hands are not her own, she reaches for the box without taking her eyes off me. When I let go, she finally releases me from her spell.

“It’s lighter than I thought it would be.”

“Open it,” I repeat.

Some of her irritation returns, but she doesn’t say anything. Balancing the box with one hand, she opens it up with the other. I see the confusion on her face when she removes the tissue.

Her brows knit together, as if I’m a puzzle she can’t quite solve.

“You got me a jersey?” She doesn’t take it out of the box, as if waiting for me to explain before she accepts.

“You came to the game without one,” I say.

“So?” She doesn’t get it.

Does she really not understand? “No one knew who you were cheering for.”

She rolls her eyes again. “I was sitting with Paige who was all decked out, behind your coaches’ bench. It was obvious I was cheering for the Whales.”

That stings. Cheering for the Whales, not for me.

“You need to wear a jersey if you come to another game.”

“Okay, but I could have just bought a jersey. One of your players has the number twenty-four, that’s my favourite—”

“I think the fuck not,” I growl. No way in hell I’m letting her wear Bartosh’s number.

Her anger rises. “Excuse me? I’ll wear whatever the fuck I want.”

“No, you’ll wear this,” I say, tapping the box in her hands. I try to breathe in through my nose, but all I can smell is her—and pie—and it’s doing nothing to help calm my senses.

She focuses on the gift again, eyes narrowing. Placing the box on the coffee table, she finally takes the jersey out. It’s enormous, showcasing the difference in our sizes.

“I’m trying not to be offended, Julien, but what the fuck? Why is it so huge?” She regards the mass of fabric with doubt. I snort and she turns, her emerald stare on me again.

“It’s mine.”

“What?” She turns the jersey around and sees my name and the number forty-two, my number. “Oh, you got me your jersey,” she says, her voice softening. “But why did you buy one so big?”

I shake my head. “It’s mine.”

I see it when she understands. Something crosses her face that’s gone before I can decipher what it means. She lowers the jersey back into the box and with it, my heart sinks into my stomach.

“Why did you give me one of your jerseys, Julien?” Her voice is carefully guarded, suspicious.

“For you to wear.”

“I can’t wear it.”

“Why not?”

“I may not know a lot about hockey, but I’ve read enough hockey romances to know wearing a player’s jersey, their real jersey, is something a hockey wife does.”

Fuck. The word wife on her tongue does something to me.

“Put it on.”

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