chapter 27
[Jude]
When I pick Angelica up at her place, I’m nervous, which is ridiculous. It’s not like I’ve never had a date. I’ve attended plenty of charity events and expensive dinners, but this somehow felt different.
The hockey game was personal. I loved the sport and was an excellent armchair player for someone who never learned to skate well.
I also had something for her, but I didn’t know how she’d feel about it.
When she opens her door, she’s wearing an off-the-shoulder sweater that hangs long over her curvy form with a pair of black leggings and knee-high boots.
I’d skip the game and beg her to keep the boots on and remove the rest if the game didn’t suddenly feel like an important step in proving myself to her.
I could go on a regular date, especially with someone I enjoyed being around.
“You look . . . casual,” she teases as she leans back and gestures for me to enter her place. I’m wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with Chicago’s professional hockey team logo on the front. Underneath, I wear a second shirt because I don’t want to take my jacket into the stadium.
“And you look beautiful,” I state, leaning forward to kiss my favorite freckle.
When I pull back, we just stare at one another a second, fighting smiles and failing.
“I have something for you.” I hold up the item, clutched in my sweaty palm.
“Since I knew you weren’t really a fan of hockey, I didn’t think you’d have anything to wear to the game, so I brought you this.”
I hold up the old hockey uniform, a replica of the Chicago favorites.
“Ashford,” she reads the back of the jersey that was customized with my name. The number nine is stitched underneath.
“My mom gave me this back when I was in college, and I just thought . . .” I watch her face, morph from confusion to something softer.
“You don’t have to—” Suddenly, it feels like a silly thing, a stupid ask.
“I’d love to wear it.” She reaches for the jersey and runs her fingertips over my name on the back. “Can I wear it tonight?”
Sheepishly, I admit, “I was hoping you would.”
Right in front of me, she whips off her sweater, exposing a red tank top, and then slips the jersey over her head.
Fuck. She looks hot.
Spinning to give me her back, she asks, “What do you think?”
I think I like my name on her a little too much, and it makes me wonder if she’d ever attend a softball game with me in the summer. I play in a sixteen-inch summer league. But summer feels like a long way away from winter.
“I think you look like the ultimate fan.”
She beams a smile at me, and I reach for her, needing another kiss before we leave.
When we finally arrive at the stadium, I’m leading her to our seats when I hear someone call my name.
“Ashford.”
With my hand on Angelica’s back, I glance over my shoulder at a man from that summer league softball team.
“Fitz,” I hold out a hand and shake his. The dark-haired, dark-eyed man instantly captures Angelica’s attention.
“Fitz, this is Angelica Winter. Angelica, Fitz Carlucci.” His real name is Leonardo, but his dad goes by Leo, so Fitz goes by a shortened version of his middle name.
“Carlucci,” Angelica gasps. “As in the restaurant?”
“Yeah,” Fitz chuckles, good-natured and easy about his famous name.
Carlucci’s is a famous Italian restaurant in the city and seeing Angelica’s excitement about meeting this restaurant entrepreneur makes me add Carlucci’s to my list of places to take her in the future.
But I have another reason for Angelica to meet Fitz.
“This is the woman I told you about. The one needing a place for her brother’s wedding.”
Angelica’s head swivels toward me. The concourse in the stadium is crowded, and this isn’t exactly how I planned to introduce her to my idea.
“You’re trying to secure Carlucci’s for my brother’s wedding?” Her voice rises with hope, and I hate to dash that enthusiasm.
Fitz does it for me. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Carlucci’s books out months in advance.” He chuckles again. “But we just opened a new brewery in November, and the event space on the second floor is available.”
Angelica looks wide-eyed between Fitz and me. “So, you have space for a December twenty-third wedding?” she clarifies.
“An entire party room at your disposal, beautiful.” He winks at Angelica, and I’d throat punch him if he weren’t making her beam the way she is. Beam, while she’s looking at me.
“Really?” she asks me, like she needs my approval.
“Really.” I nod at Fitz.
“Here.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a black card with embossed gold writing. His name and a phone number. “Don’t share that with anyone. Call me tomorrow, though, and we can discuss the particulars.”
“Thank you.” Her voice is wistful with relief while still a little shocked.
“Now,” Fitz pats my shoulder. “Enough business. See you in the box.” He nods at Angelica and heads toward the ramp for the upper levels.
“What just happened here?” Angelica asks, mouth gaping while staring at the black business card.
“You have a place to host Beau’s wedding,” I state.
“What did you do?” she whispers, lifting her head and gazing up at me with confusion.
I scrub at the back of my neck. “I, uh . . . I’m on a summer league softball team with a few other businessmen.
We do favors for one another.” I might be a member of one of the elite business networking clubs in the city as well but the guys on the team are the men I feel more comfortable asking for something personal.
“What will I owe the man?” She chuckles, the sound still full of shock. “My first born?”
“I’ll probably owe him mine, but I’ve pulled in a favor. He owes me one.”
“For what?”
Those innocent wide eyes do not want to know. Let’s just say I have friends in not all the best places, and I respect their privacy. With a name like Carlucci, Angelica shouldn’t be asking me for details.
Realization slowly dawns on her. “Never mind.” She hugs the business card to her chest. “But thank you, Jude. This is . . . what do I owe you for this?”
Staring at her, with that smile aimed at me, she doesn’t owe me a thing. This isn’t another one-for-one exchange.
“Just your company tonight.” I swipe my finger down her nose.
“Your friend mentioned a box.” She tilts her head, implying the private, personal way to watch a game.
“Our group collectively owns a box, but I bought us regular tickets for tonight.” Regular seats.
Regular dates. Trying to be a regular guy.
“I just wanted it to be us tonight.” I stare at her, hoping she isn’t disappointed.
Lots of people foam at the mouth over box seats, which include a private room and cushioned stadium seats, along with a full-service bar and food.
“I like that,” she says, still giving me a smile, and I wrap my arm around her in relief.
After pressing a kiss to her head, I ask, “Now, what would you like to eat? We have your typical fried foods, or burgers, or hot dogs.”
“I love all of the above,” she hums, glancing up at me from under my arm.
Next to that freckle, her smile might be something I love above all else.
+ + +
When we sit in the seats I purchased, our beers and bratwurst balanced in our laps, the energy of a stadium packed with hockey fans is contagious.
Angelica really gets into the game, whooping at good plays and catcalling at the referees for the bad ones.
She’s a ball of energy, and I’m loving every second of it.
During a break between the first and second period, she brings up the box seats. “I feel kind of bad that you’re missing out on your friends.”
She hadn’t missed me checking my phone twice before powering it off. Fitz is blowing up my phone over the fact I brought a woman to a game when I never bring someone with me.
When he called her a stunner, it was time to turn off the device.
“I can see them another time,” I admit, just enjoying the time with her.
But after a break between the second and third period, we’re caught in the hallway after I waited for Angelica to exit the bathroom.
“Come up, man,” Fitz begs, squeezing at my shoulder. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”
I hang my head. The group knows the holidays are my busy season. Still, I glance at Angelica.
“Think you’d be up for one drink?” I ask, almost hoping she says no. I don’t want to share her with them. Not yet.
“Okay.” She shrugs, slipping her arm around my elbow. “Besides, I’ve never been in a box before.”
“Never?”
“Definitely a first.”
Leading her toward the box seats, I wonder how many other firsts I can give her.
Once we reach the private box, someone calls out, “Scrooge,” and I’m suddenly the center of attention along with Angelica.
I introduce her to the president of a prominent local bank and the part-owner of a professional sports team before Fitz circles over to us.
“How does Fitz fit with Carlucci?” she teases.
“Fitzgerald. I’m part Irish, part Italian.”
Angelica whistles. “Quite the combination.”
Fitz laughs. “My dad always says it was my mother’s fault. No woman fought with him half as much as her. And he loved it.” He waves a hand in the air, like can you believe it?
I can believe it. Not that Angelica and I fight, but we’re opposites in so many ways. I think that’s another thing I like about her.
As she spins to chat with someone’s wife, Fitz leans into me. “Stunner, man, like I said.”
“Off limits,” I warn him, feeling a flare of the evil green eye.
“Got that memo the second you introduced her. You never bring women with you.”
“Never had someone to bring before.”
Fitz hums, knowing I just said more than I actually said.
“Nice uniform she’s wearing,” he jokes, arching a dark bushy brow.
“Fuck off,” I snap, but my irritation only goes throat deep because deeper inside me is the pride that she’s wearing my old jersey and everything about that says she belongs with me.
The Clara-Nutcracker thing.
“So the real question is, how did a beauty like you end up with a beast like this guy?” someone nearby asks.
I turn toward Angelica.
She glances at me, slipping her hand into mine. I’m distracted by the possessive touch and stare down at our hands, linking our fingers together.
“I saved his life,” she begins.
A few gasps lift my head, and I meet Angelica’s bright, playful eyes. “He had a broken heart.”
Additional sounds of surprise have me facing the closest group and clarify, “I had a heart attack.”
Our little gathering goes quiet, before erupting into a barrage of animated questions.
“What the fuck, man?” Fitz practically shouts.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” someone else asks.
“What’s this about a broken heart?” another interjects.
“He had a stress cardiomyopathy incident,” Angelica explains, to which more questions explode like popcorn in a concession stand machine.
The bank president seems to know what Angelica is talking about and goes into a detailed explanation about how he suffered the same thing once.
“Thank you for that,” I whisper with sarcasm, leaning down to kiss her shoulder.
“Should I have told them how we exchanged dates instead?”
Her eyes focus on my face as I slowly lift my head. “These people obviously care about you, Jude.”
I shrug. Is it obvious?
“Seriously,” Fitz clutches my shoulder, pulling my attention from Angelica again. “You should have reached out to one of us.”
“I’m fine. There isn’t anything anyone could have done for me.” But looking back at Angelica, I decide my statement might not be correct.
She’s done more than she’ll ever know for me.