Chapter 14 Andrew #5
“Yes,” Andrew says, deciding to rip the bandaid off, so to speak, and pulling off the ribbon that has the box secured.
The second he opens it, confusion wars with surprise.
There is a Designs by Denise card on top of something wrapped in very familiar diamond printed tissue paper.
What on earth did Nicki have Denise make him?
Setting the card on the table beside him, he peels back the tissue paper and barely holds back the urge to snort.
A jersey. Of course it’s a fucking jersey.
But if it came from Denise, it’s not a regular jersey, and Andrew pulls it out of the box curiously, surprised to realize that Nicki took his hatred of polyester to heart because the inside of the jersey has been lined in silk.
When he lifts it from the box to hold it up, another note flutters out.
Bending to the floor to pick it up he finds a simple white notecard with two words on it. You’re mine.
This time Andrew does snort. Nicki is such a possessive fucker.
A thoughtful, possessive fucker though. There wasn’t a chance in hell Andrew would wear a regular jersey, knowing the shape of the jersey and the material would be a sensory nightmare.
This though? Denise has made enough custom pieces and tailored enough of Andrew’s clothes to know exactly what he likes, and it’s clear from the flattened seams and widened collar so his throat isn’t touched that no detail has been spared.
“Damn,” Mark whistles.
“What?”
“I just didn’t realize it was so serious.”
“It’s—” but Andrew stops. He can’t say it’s not because that would ruin their entire fake dating plot. They want people to believe it’s serious, that it’s real. And apparently, it’s working since Andrew let himself think it was for a moment.
The suit, the wine, the jersey. All of it felt real, like Nicki really wanted to do those things for Andrew. Like Andrew was his. Except, maybe it was all just part of the game. Nicki knew he was coming with the guys from work. Maybe it was a power move?
“Aw, Andrew is so lovesick, he can’t even think.”
“Is it lovesick or dick-sick?” Steve asks.
Unable to handle being looked at, or to listen to one more dick joke, Andrew blurts, “I’m going to go change.”
He doesn’t wait for the guys to reply, just hugs the jersey to his chest before making his way to the private restrooms. Staring at himself in the mirror, he tries to talk himself down, to remind himself that all of this is going exactly how Nicki wanted.
He’d wanted people to think Andrew was his, to make a statement—and he succeeded.
Andrew just wasn’t prepared for how that might feel.
He’s never belonged to anyone, not like this.
Back in high school, the girls had thrown themselves at Jason to get his jersey and letterman jacket, and while this is probably not like that, it reminds Andrew so viscerally of high school.
Of being the boring twin. The less fun twin.
The twin Zach wanted because he couldn’t have Charlie.
All of his life, he’s lived in Charlie’s shadow, and he thought he liked that, but having Nicki’s attention has him questioning that, even as he acknowledges that none of the attention or caretaking is real.
He’s not Nicki’s type. Never would be with him.
Nicki said it himself—not the type I’d fuck or date.
Those were his exact words, and while Andrew’s forgiven Nicki for his asshole delivery, he can’t be mad at the sentiment.
Somehow, this jersey feels like a slap in the face, a taunt of everything Andrew will never be, but he puts it on anyway, because that’s what Andrew does. He hides what he wants. He finds a way to be what everyone else needs him to be.
He made a deal with Nicki, and he isn’t going to mess this up for him just because the silk inside the jersey somehow feels like sandpaper against his insecurities.
Smoothing the jersey down over his belly, he shivers at the cool silk against his flushed skin.
The logo for Nicki’s team is embroidered on his chest, the dark purple and black jersey unexpectedly attractive on him compared to his usual pastels.
Turning partially around to try and see the back, he’s unsure how to feel about the name Whitmore across his shoulders.
If Nicki wanted Andrew to feel owned, he succeeded. Andrew just has to remind himself it’s fake.
Gorgeous, rich, famous professional athletes aren’t clamoring to claim the routine-orientated, homebody asexual, autistic accountant who creates dating spreadsheets.
Andrew is, right now, a means to an end, and reminding himself of that soothes some of the hurt.
This is fine. Andrew can do this. All he needs is a new mask to wear.
A boyfriend mask. He can do this. He can go back to the suite and pretend this jersey isn’t a reminder of how lonely he is, of how all of his brothers have coupled off and found their person while Andrew’s stuck in the world’s messiest fake dating relationship with a man who doesn’t actually want Andrew.
At this stage in his life, Andrew would prefer being single to being with someone who doesn’t respect or understand him, which is part of why this idea had been so horrible.
He expected this fake dating situation to be a nightmare, not a glimpse at what a future with someone who actually wanted Andrew for their own might feel like.
For all his asshole, brutish ways, there is something thoughtful about Nicki’s brand of possessiveness, and when he finally meets someone he actually cares about, they’re going to be a very lucky person to have all that intensity directed their way.
It’s not Nicki’s fault that some part of Andrew wishes this were real, even if he doesn’t like Nicki like that. Except, doesn’t he?
Isn’t he wishing Nicki were here right now?
Isn’t he wishing that Nicki wanted Andrew in his jersey for real and not for fake?
Even Andrew can admit there’s more than just some silly wish fulfillment happening.
Andrew doesn’t want to belong to just anyone.
In fact, he’s actively avoided dating and relationships knowing his time and feelings were not something he ever wanted other people to play with or control.
Yet somehow this fucking asshole in the number 23, with his possessive gestures and unexpected thoughtfulness, has Andrew realizing maybe he wants Nicki, which is really quite possibly the worst thing in the world.
What kind of fucking idiot gets a crush on their fake boyfriend?
Apparently Andrew King. He should know better.
This type of thing only works out in romance novels, and Andrew’s life is anything but.
“You almost done in there?” someone yells, banging on the door.
It’s annoying and expected and has Andrew glaring at his reflection in the mirror. Thirty-two years he’s managed to exist without getting himself into any trouble, and now this. What is his life becoming?
“I gotta piss, man,” someone yells, banging again.
Andrew has it on good authority there is more than one bathroom this person could use, but given that he should get back to the suite before puck drop, he doesn’t do the petty thing and stay. Instead, he splashes ice water on his face before setting a thirty second timer on his watch.
He gives himself the full thirty seconds to internally meltdown about the possibility he’s developing a crush on a man he knows doesn’t want him.
When his watch buzzes, he schools his features and smiles at his reflection, all while shoving his confusing feelings and hurt back where it all belongs, in the shadows.
When he gets back to the suite, the guys are all lined up, their food in front of them as they stare out the expansive glass wall.
“Food’s here,” Mark says, indicating the empty seat on the left. It’s next to Mark and the wall which is better than being dead center.
“Thanks,” Andrew replies. “Did I miss anything?”
“Nope, the teams headed in, which means—yup, here we go, home team line up.”
Andrew takes his seat while the announcers call out each of their team's players. The din of the crowd below them can’t be heard, but judging by the masses of jerseys and cheering he can see, it’s probably loud.
He takes a sip of his drink, nearly moaning at the taste.
He’s really going to need to thank Nicki for this.
“There’s your boy,” Mark says, draping himself across Andrew as Nicki is announced.
Nicki skates out on the ice, the sleep mused coffee addict he started the day as nowhere to be found.
Much as Andrew would like to pretend all the players look the same in their jerseys at this distance, they don’t.
While they look similar, Andrew’s eyes recognize the movement of Nicki’s hands, those long fingers curling around his hockey stick much like they had around his mug of coffee this morning.
Okay, maybe not exactly the same, but Nicki really has nice hands.
He’s also got a cocky smile, the look on his face when the cameras zoom in on him enough to make half the arena swoon.
Nicki’s attention hones in exactly where Andrew is, as if he knows. Then he winks, the cocky fucker.
A laugh bursts out of Andrew’s chest as he sips his wine, infinitely more relaxed than he was a few minutes ago.
By the time the puck drops, half of Andrew’s wine is gone, and he’s caught himself actually laughing along with one of Santiago’s stupid dick jokes.
It’s not remotely funny, but Andrew laughs anyway, surprised by how much he enjoys being here to watch the game live.