Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
MORGAN
“This was brilliant marketing,” I say. “Jersey sales must have skyrocketed because of this.”
Her smile is the small, private kind, like she’s proud of herself for creating this event but doesn’t want to come off as gloating. “I’m still surprised he agreed to it.”
“I’m not. He’s like a different person now that he and AJ are together.”
“Yeah, but he’s still really private,” she says.
“All he’s got to do is hand out pictures he already autographed to any season ticket holder wearing his jersey after the game, if he scores his 500th goal,” I say. “It’s not like he’s going to be chatting up the crowd. It’ll be late, and people will be in a hurry to get their picture and get home.”
“Yeah, I would have loved to set it up as a meet and greet,” Lauren says, “but after we saw how many people RSVP’d that they wanted to participate, and now seeing his jersey on so many fans, I’m really glad we didn’t go that route. We’d be here all night.”
I laugh. Even though season ticket sales are limited so not everyone wearing his jersey will be waiting for a photo .
. . she’s probably right. I’m not sure if McCabe has the patience to chat and take a picture with thousands of people, especially when I’m sure he’d rather be celebrating with his teammates.
Scoring his 500th goal will put him in an elite group of NHL players who have reached this milestone.
Even if it doesn’t happen tonight, it’s going to happen soon.
“All right, I have to get downstairs so I can take some video of the team as they take the ice for warm ups,” I say. “I’ll see you at the end of the game, hopefully to celebrate McCabe’s 500th goal.”
After I flash my Rebels ID for the security guard, I take the elevator to the lower level where the locker rooms are and find the spot where I know Tatum always stood to take photos before games.
But as I stand there waiting, I realize I could get much better shots if I were closer to the ice, right where the hallway opens to the rink.
The lighting is better, and the players will be lit up as they come out of the tunnel.
I move in that direction and immediately realize there’s a distinct disadvantage to this spot. In order to be out of the way as the players come through the tunnel, I have to stand in view of the entire arena, fully exposed to the crowd. No wonder Tatum preferred the alcove off the hallway.
But there’s no time to move back there now.
The lights behind me have already dimmed and the white and blue spotlights are flashing across the ice as a single bright beam settles on the opening in front of me.
The announcer tells the crowd to give it up for last season’s Division and Conference Champions, and the cheers are deafening.
The players come out one-by-one, each giving me a smile or a thumbs up for the video they know I’ll be posting.
But when Aidan steps forward, just out of the spotlight as he waits for his name to be announced, he glances over at me.
His eyes land on my chest, where the C on McCabe’s jersey is prominently displayed near my shoulder.
His entire face hardens. “Take. It. Off.” His words aren’t audible over the noise from the crowd, but I know exactly what he’s said. Is he jealous?
That thought has my eyebrows dipping together in confusion, and he must think I didn’t hear him, because he steps toward me, leaning down to talk directly in my ear.
“If you’re trying to make me jealous by showing up in my best friend’s jersey, you’ve got my attention.
So take it off, or I can’t be responsible for how I play tonight. ”
“No way. It’s McCabe’s celebration tonight. Everyone is wearing his jersey.”
“Except you. Take it off, or whatever happens out there on the ice will be on your conscience.”
“Bullshit. You’re an adult and in control of your own actions.”
“Not with you, I’m not.”
His name is announced, but he doesn’t make any move to step into the spotlight.
“Go,” I insist, trying to push him away.
“Tell me you’re going to take it off.”
“Oh my god, you jealous fool,” I keep my voice low. “Fine. Now, goooo.”
He turns and steps onto the ice, and my attention focuses on McCabe, who was right behind him. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he hasn’t missed what happened. The funny thing is, he doesn’t appear even a little bit surprised. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s amused.
Hartmann and Colt follow behind McCabe, and then the lights come back on. I shield my eyes from the sudden brightness. When I turn back toward the tunnel, AJ’s receding figure is at the end of the hallway. Which means she probably just saw what happened with Aidan also.
Well, shit.
We’re only halfway through the second period when McCabe sinks the puck into Buffalo’s net.
Coming around the back of the pipes, he sinks to his knees and slides until he’s nearly at center ice.
His teammates surround him, celebrating his 500th goal, and then he skates toward the edge of the ice to high-five the entire bench before hopping over the boards so the next line can come on for the face-off.
By the time the period ends, we’re leading by three goals.
The team is on fire, except for Aidan, who’s playing like shit.
I’ve spent the last two periods up in the media booth wondering if I caused that, but also trying to figure out why it bothered him so much that I was wearing McCabe’s jersey just like thousands of other people here.
No distractions. That’s what he promised AJ, Wilcott, and my dad. And here I am, distracting him. I didn’t do it on purpose. It honestly never occurred to me that he’d mind.
I’m chewing on my lip, wondering if I should go down and try to get some photos of them coming back out before the third period, just so Aidan can see that I’ve taken the jersey off.
Of course, I wasn’t planning to walk around the arena in leggings and a tight long-sleeve shirt without having the oversized jersey on, so now I’m super self-conscious.
But it seems entirely selfish of me to let my own insecurities keep me up here in this room when I could go down there and set his mind at ease.
I take the jersey and fold the top over so that the only thing visible is the Rebels logo on the front, and tie it around my waist. Then I head down to the lower level, positioning myself near the tunnel that leads to the bench.
I’m set up with the video recording as the players enter the hallway single file, each of them with hard looks of determination on their face.
Unlike before the game, no one acknowledges me this time.
Not even Aidan. But I still notice his eyes sliding over to me as he approaches and his lips curving up as he passes me.
At least I won’t have to practically edit him out of the footage this time.
When he goes on to get an assist and a goal in the next period, AJ finds me in the media room. “Make sure you post about that goal,” she says. “A veteran player returning from injury to score a goal in the home opener is newsworthy.”
“It’s already set up. I’m just waiting a little longer to post it, so people don’t miss the post about McCabe’s 500th goal,” I tell her.
“All right, good. What do you think got into him this last period?” she asks. Her tone is completely neutral so I have no idea if she’s insinuating something.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “You’d have to ask him.”
“Oh, I will,” she says with a small laugh. “I heard you were down in the tunnel getting some footage before the third period. Maybe seeing you was what turned things around for him?”
“AJ, I really don’t think—”
I’m interrupted by the screaming of the crowd, and we both turn to see a fight breaking out on the ice.
I’m half-expecting Aidan to be at the center of it, so you can imagine how surprised I am when he’s the one holding Jake MacIntyre back, head bent as he talks him down and keeps him from joining in.
I glance over at AJ and don’t miss the self-satisfied nod of her head. She didn’t miss that either, thankfully.
“We missed you at Sunday dinner last week,” Lauren says.
Sunday family dinners were always a big thing at the Flynn’s brownstone in South Boston back when Jameson, Audrey, and Jules all lived there together.
Things have changed a lot in the nearly two years since Lauren and I moved back to Boston and she reconnected with Jameson, but the family still tries to do dinner as often as possible, and I’m always included.
“Yeah, sorry, I was dealing with the whole Natalie-posting-the-wrong-photo situation.”
Lauren shakes her head saying how terrible she feels for her. “It seems like you’ve been MIA a lot lately.”
I huff out a laugh. “My life feels like it’s been in overdrive since my mom’s wedding.”
“Maybe two jobs is too much,” she says. “Orrrr . . . is there someone else taking up your time?” Her eyes flick across the wide expanse of the club level, where Aidan waits with Walsh and Colt.
The three of them came up about twenty minutes ago and have been shaking hands with fans after getting their autographed photo from McCabe.
“Literally just overworked,” I say, hating the lie that springs to my mouth. But if I do decide to tell my cousin everything, it’s not going to be at our place of employment with him standing right across from us.
Aidan’s gaze flicks toward me, and then away when he sees Lauren and me looking his way.
“Mm-hmm. I already heard about the jersey situation in the tunnel before the game. So whenever you want to talk about how . . . overworked you are,” she says, lifting both eyebrows, “just let me know. I’m always here.”
I roll my eyes at her but don’t respond, while she snickers like a child. It reminds me a lot of how Audrey, Jules, and I used to tease her about how obvious Jameson’s feelings for her were, while she kept denying it and insisting they were just friends.
But that’s a ridiculous comparison, because Aidan doesn’t have feelings for me.
Sure, he brings that same big dick energy to our situation that Jameson did with Lauren, but that’s all it is.
Jameson was determined to wife her up the minute Lauren was back in his life, and that’s the furthest thing from Aidan’s mind.
While Jameson was hanging out with Lauren’s kids and basically stepping in as a father figure from the start, Aidan doesn’t even want kids.
Not that I have any or am even certain I want them.
But not only is settling down with a family not on Aidan’s to-do list .
. . it’s the antithesis of what he’s looking for.
My heart races as I watch him joking around with his teammates. What am I even doing? Why am I spending every second of my free time with him? Why am I investing so much emotional energy into him when all he wants are hangouts that end with sex and absolutely no commitment?
I know that’s what friends with benefits entails, but I can’t help but feel that our “relationship” has evolved beyond that.
Maybe . . . maybe I really do need to see other people, too?
I wonder how Aidan would react to that, given what happened when I had McCabe’s jersey on.
That was probably only because McCabe is one of his best friends and they’re on the same team, though.
It’s not like I’d go out with one of his friends.
“You sure you don’t want to talk about this?” Lauren asks, and I glance over at her to see concern written across her features.
“I’m good,” I lie.
I’m pretty sure I’m spiraling, falling into the same pattern I always do when I start dating a guy and think it’s more serious than it is. Aidan has told me—repeatedly—that he doesn’t want anything more than this with me, but then he makes me feel so goddamn special, so cherished.
But I’m not. I’m not special or cherished. I’m just someone to have around when he wants a woman to spend time with. Yeah, the sex is amazing, but I’m starting to feel like a dirty little secret. The woman who’s good enough to fuck, but not good enough for anything more serious.
I know that things are way more complicated than that, and it’s the circumstances, not him, making me feel this way, but I can’t help wondering if this is just going to end in heartache for me.
He suggested this arrangement because I needed to practice keeping things casual, but if this practice has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t want this to be casual. And he doesn’t want it to be serious.
So it seems that we’re in a no-win situation.