Chapter 6 #2
I offer her my best reassuring smile, trying really hard not to appear like a criminal.
“Of course. Thank you.” She peeks at the jersey and then glances up at Jasper, eyes widening slightly when she puts it together.
“Are you Jasper Gervais?” Her silver bob swishes as her head flips between him and the jersey I’m wearing.
“Yes, ma’am.” Jasper smiles, always so gracious with his fans. Anyone who doesn’t know him wouldn’t pick up on his discomfort. The way his neck goes a little tight. The way his thumb presses into the tips of his fingers.
“My grandsons are just the biggest fans. Any chance you’d sign...” She glances around, trying to find something. “Oh gosh. I don’t know. Something? A Post-it note? The boys would love this for Christmas.”
I see his body soften as soon as she starts talking about her grandsons. I know Jasper volunteers with at-risk youth sports programs and has a huge soft spot for kids. “Of course. I’ll wait here. Why don’t you go grab a couple shirts in their sizes? I’ll take the tags and buy them too.”
The woman’s hands clasp up in front of her chest. “ Oh, you are a sweet boy,” she gushes, looking at him with hearts in her eyes.
And I can’t even blame her. I am too.
“I’ll be right back! And I won’t tell anyone else and hold you up. But gosh, they’ll just love this. Thank you so much!”
Within minutes, she’s back with a Sharpie and two tiny little shirts, looking like the happiest woman alive.
I watch Jasper’s hulking frame bend over the podium as he personalizes each shirt carefully, checking the spelling of their names so he gets it just right.
Her words sweet boy bounce around in my head. Jasper has always been a sweet boy.
But god, he grew up to be a damn good man.
Moments later, all the tags are cut and Jasper walks me out into the store, seeming a little calmer than he did before.
“Just a few more things.”
He says nothing, which I usually take as his assent. So I walk ahead, veering for the makeup aisle. After seeing myself under those neon lights, I desperately need a little something to cover up the bags and general zombie look I have going on.
Concealer is my first stop. I try to pick a brand but realize I know none of them. I’ve come to Walmart for laundry detergent, not makeup. Picking one up, I assess it. If it wasn’t for the label, it would look exactly like my go-to concealer.
I turn to Jasper. “Do you think what’s inside of these is really all that different? Like, I usually pay $50 for a tube the same size. Do you think they just slap different labels on them in the same factory and then laugh at the rich people who pay more for the same shit?”
His lips twitch as he watches me closely. “I love the way your brain works, Sunny.”
“I’m serious! This is five dollars, Jas. That is a ninety percent discount!”
“Well, you can’t fault that fancy private school education.”
I snort and wag my head. “I’m testing it. This could be life changing.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He sounds like he doesn’t believe me. “Jas. Have you seen this translucent skin? The nice blue vein that runs under my right eye? Concealer is my best friend.”
“I thought I was your best friend.” The statement is so simple and yet it winds me.
I turn back to the wall of alarmingly affordable concealer and scoff. “You can both be. It’s mutually beneficial really. You don’t want to see me too often without concealer.”
“You always look good to me. Concealer, no concealer. Fancy dress, Harvey’s sweat suit. Smooth hair”—his hand waves over me with a low chuckle—“whatever this is. It doesn’t matter. You’re you.”
I swallow and try my best not to melt onto the floor into a squishy pile of mush. “That’s probably what you tell all the girls, Gervais.”
“Nah, Sunny. You’re my only girl.”
A tinny, awkward laugh filters up out of my throat as I reach for what I think will be a close-enough color match. I do the same with a soft, shimmery pink blush and a plain, blackest-black mascara.
Then I hustle out of that aisle, hoping Jasper will follow and leave that uncomfortable exchange behind.
Joke’s on me, though, because next stop is underwear, and my wish came true. Jasper followed. Right up behind me.
I stare back at the shelf full of different cuts of black underwear. “Booty short, bikini cut, or thong? Or does your rule of everything looks good on me apply here too?” I blurt out in an attempt at making this less awkward than it is in my head right now.
I fail. Things are officially not less awkward.
Jasper makes a low groaning noise and avoids eye contact. “It applies,” is his strangled reply.
When I peek back at him, I don’t miss the pink stain on his cheeks, and I laugh, all shrill and forced, really trying to salvage myself after what I just asked him out loud.
Then I swipe a pack of thongs and a matching bra, avoiding Jasper’s eyes as I head to the checkout lanes. And within minutes we’re paid up, back in his SUV, wordlessly heading toward the city—the place neither of us really wants to be.
I watch Jasper skate out of the mouth of a massive, fire-breathing bear’s head set up in the corner of the rink. He strikes an imposing image, his pads adding bulk to his already towering height.
Under the flashing lights, he glides across the ice toward his net, every movement somehow matching the beat of the Metallica song blaring from the speakers. His head is down and the crowd is wild.
The Grizzlies are coming off a bad season. A really bad season. Some players left the team, but not Jasper. He’s already got an Olympic gold under his belt, and he’s not the type to jump around chasing a championship any way he can get it. He wants to win here.
I doubted Jasper would ever waive his no-movement clause. He locked in a long contract with the goal of staying close to his family—to the ranch—probably until the end of his career.
What little boy doesn’t dream of playing for his hometown team?
Between the pipes, he starts at one end of his crease, methodically slicing his blades across the space, scratching up the ice surface to give himself extra grip.
There’s something about this moment that always entrances me. He looks so smooth, so rhythmic, so utterly in the zone that I can never bring myself to look away .
I love a lot of things about Jasper, but him being this damn good at something never hurts his appeal.
To me or to other women.
I tamp the envy down as I glance around the family and friends skybox. I’ve been in here a couple of times but always with my cousins.
Never by myself.
The vibe is fun and lighthearted, but I’m definitely garnering some looks. Especially since I’m decked out in an oversize Gervais jersey, and I’m a recognizable enough face in this city.
“You’re here with Jasper?” A perfectly put-together brunette woman appears beside me, bouncing a baby in her arms.
“Yeah.” I smile.
She eyes me but not in an unfriendly way. “What’s your name?”
“Sloane. You?”
“Callie.” She hefts the baby up and sticks one hand out to me.
We shake, and I find myself liking the woman. Her handshake is firm, but she isn’t squeezing the hell out of my hand in some weird show of aggression.
“Jasper doesn’t usually have anyone up here.”
My eyes dart back down to the ice where Jasper is squirting a stream of water into his open mouth through the cage across his face. “No?” I ask quietly because I’ve always made a point of not asking about his personal life .
Always felt like it would hurt too much to know.
I’ve been swallowing the green-eyed monster for decades, but she hasn’t stayed down. She leaps up on me unexpectedly.
Potently.
“It’s got all the girls talking. His personal life is a real mystery to us all,” Callie continues, chucking her chin over her shoulder as the puck drops and the game clock starts.
“Ah.” I glance in that direction and see multiple heads flip away quickly, like children caught staring. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve known Jasper since I was ten, and he’s still a bit of mystery to me.”
“Ten!” Her eyes bulge comically and then she sighs. “Well, that is just adorable.”
I smile but it’s tight. Adorable. More like painful .
And that pain only grows as the minutes tick on. Because circumstances doomed this game from the start. Jasper is rightfully distracted. His head is certainly not on the pucks heading toward him at blistering speeds.
The opposing team scores first, less than one minute into the game. And it’s not a good goal. It’s one I know Jasper would want back.
They score again five minutes later.
I nibble at my nails, the pink wedding polish peeling away as I do.
Two minutes later a third shot finds the back of the net.
I groan and bite my bottom lip hard enough that the inside of it bleeds.
And when Jasper lets in a fourth goal before the first twenty minutes of play have elapsed, I have to blink back my tears. Not because they’re losing, but because watching him skate off—head low, shoulders slumped—after getting pulled from the game makes my chest ache.
I know he’s counting himself responsible.
He looks like the boy I met all those years ago—devastated.
And for the next several games, it doesn’t get any better.