Page 58 of Bleacher Report
My stomach dips. “Your away game?”
He nods. “Yeah. We’re flying out after morning skate. Three games. Back late next week.”
“Okay,” I say, rolling onto my side to mirror him. “Good luck.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, softer, “Thanks, Collins.”
When I close my eyes, it’s the first time I notice how cold the other side of the pillow wall already feels.
This is fake. He’s temporary.
And I absolutely, definitely, should not want him.
The next morning, I wake up relieved to find myself on my own side of the bed. No drool. No sprawling. No photographic evidence of my unconscious crimes against the pillow wall. Progress.
But there’s something sitting on my bedside table.
A neon pink sticky note shaped like a French Bulldog.
Of course.
I sit up and peel it off the lamp.
P —
There’s a delivery coming to the townhouse at two p.m.
Also, I’ve hidden your favorite mug. If you follow the clues, you’ll find a reward.
Good luck.
Love, your boyfriend.
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t pop out of my skull.
He hid my mug?
And signed it “your boyfriend?”
I can practically hear the smirk in his voice as if he were saying it out loud. Dripping with sarcasm. So proud of himself he probably flexed while writing it.
Still…a little something flutters in my stomach. Because he’s not even here—he left early this morning for the road trip—but this? This stupid little scavenger hunt?
It means he thought about me before leaving.
His words from the podcast flicker through my head: “I only prank people I like.”
I throw off my covers with a groan that’s equal parts annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Okay, Reed. Let’s see what kind of nonsense you left behind.”
My feet are barely on the hardwood before I’m heading straight for the kitchen, toward the drying rack by the sink. That’s where my mug lives.
That’s where I always leave it.
Of course, it’s gone.
But another Frenchie sticky note waits in its place, stuck to the faucet.
Cold mornings and your favorite peppermint tea.
