Page 140 of Bleacher Report
He grins, already turning. I watch him walk carefully down the porch steps and back to Abby’s car. His steps are steadier. More confident.
My chest squeezes because I’m holding something in my hands from Hunter, and that my nephew is doing so well because of Hunter’s encouragement. Whatever this is...it's from the man I think about most of the day.
Maybe it’s a goodbye.
Maybe it’s a final rent check.
Or maybe—God help me—it’s a custody agreement for Sproutacus. That would be just the sort of thing Hunter would do to make me laugh.
I tear into the envelope.
Inside, a season ticket to his section—and a French bulldog sticky note. Did he steal them from my house, or did he purchase his own? Considering I just tucked mine into my desk days ago to keep from seeing them and thinking of him, I’m pretty sure he didn’t break into my house for sticky notes.
Hunter’s handwriting curls across the paper:
Don’t worry...it’s not another glitter cock. Come to my game tonight. One last time. Please.
I suck in a breath.
Is this his last game?
A final farewell before New Jersey becomes home again?
I haven’t seen any trade announcements, but if I’m honest...I haven’t checked. Any breaking news with the Hawkeyes, I’ve intentionally ignored. I just don’t think the reality of seeing the news release of Hunter getting traded to New Jersey is something I can handle.
I exhale slowly, trying to calm my heartbeat, but it’s no use. I want to see him. Even if it breaks me.
Five minutes later, I’m in my closet, pulling on jeans. I reach for the spot where I always kept his jersey that he made me wear as part of our arrangement. I got used to being wrapped up in his number. And then I sink into the memory of why it’s not where it should be—I gave it back with the rest of his things.
Disappointment prickles.
I grab my black puffy jacket instead and head for the door.
That’s when I see it.
A gift.
A gift box, perched on the hood of my car.
Another sticky note taped on top with his handwriting on it. I glance around quickly, almost hoping to find him crouching in the brushes nearby…but nothing.
Some things don’t fit right from the start...
I unwrap it, a breath catches in my throat.
Inside is his jersey. And another note:
...and some things fit perfectly from the very beginning. This jersey is yours. It’s never looked better on anyone. No matter where I’m playing, I hope you’ll wear it.
Tears sting my eyes.
God, he knows what he’s doing.
I peel off my coat, tug the jersey over my head, and climb into my car.
When I enter the stadium, I head for our old seats—my steps quick, heart pounding.
As I approach, I look up overhead to spot familiar faces behind the glass high up in the owner's box.
