Chapter 22
Andi
The stadium is overflowing with patrons double-fisting foamy beers, their voices mixing together with the music in thunderous chatter. It’s a sea of red and black, people dressed in jerseys, faces painted. It’s a fuller stadium than I expected, not that I’ve ever been to a game before to compare.
Eric and Gretchen’s box is center field, boasting a long buffet table filled with food and desserts, as well as its own bar.
Even the seats are premium leather. By the time I arrive, it’s filled with people milling about and socializing.
They’re mostly senior staffers or Cabinet members, but there are some younger staffers in the mix, who were likely given tickets by their bosses.
The moment I set foot in the box, everyone seems to stop mid-conversation, solely to stare. At me. And while it’s just the box, it might as well be the entire stadium.
Until these rumors, I’ve always been a background character in my own life. Not a side character, or even a tertiary character. And certainly not the main character. Just a faceless, nameless blur of a person blending into the background.
Standing out was something I actively avoided, because that offered a new opportunity for critique.
If Dad, Amanda, or I did anything wrong, Mom called it out immediately.
That’s her personality trait, to find a flaw in literally anything.
Our clothes, hair, grades, the way we spoke or acted in public.
So naturally, I’m a millisecond away from bolting when someone shouts my name. “Andi!”
It’s Nolan. I know his voice instantly. It cuts straight through my nerves, putting me at ease, if only a little. He’s waving at me from a pair of plush seats in the front and center.
My eyes latch on to his like a life raft as I make my way through the crowd. I feel like I’m tiptoeing through an active minefield, putting one foot in front of the other until I make it to the end. To him.
He’s in dark-wash jeans and an off-white waffle crewneck, sleeves pushed up a little to the elbows. Even his dark hair is a little more mussed up than usual. The casual look suits him. I’d like this look spread on a cracker and served to me on a platter, thanks.
As I approach, he gives me a smile that illuminates his whole face, the corners of his eyes crinkling adorably.
And then he does something near fatal. It’s not the fact that he stands, moving swiftly to meet me at the end of the aisle.
Or that he pulls me into a warm embrace, his fingers drawing little circles into the small of my back.
It’s the press of a kiss on my forehead.
Everything numbs and fades around me. The crowd, the stadium.
It’s only silence. His fresh-showered, minty scent enveloping me.
His lips, pillowy smooth against my skin, sending little sparks cascading down my spine, unhitching my insides.
No one has ever kissed me on the forehead like that—like they were claiming me.
If you were to play it back in real time, it’s probably just a quick dusting. A terse kiss for the duration of a blink in front of everyone for show. An act, like we agreed upon. So why did it just tilt my whole world?
We kissed back in Squamish and acted couply at lunch the other day. But I’ve never entirely lost myself. I’ve never lost sight of what it really was, even if it felt like something more.
Just be cool. He’s doing this as a favor, as a friend, I remind myself as he ushers me to our seats.
You wouldn’t know it. Not when he smiles at me like this, so big it practically splits his face.
His gaze roams over my T-shirt and denim shorts.
It’s probably the most casual I’ve ever dressed in front of him, aside from my PJs.
“You look beautiful.” His voice is so low, I’m not certain anyone could have heard it, aside from maybe the people in the row behind us.
“Thank you. You look great. I was starting to forget what you looked like out of a suit. What’s with the bag?” I ask, nodding toward the comically large IKEA shopping bag at our feet. “Security barely let me bring my purse in.”
“You said your favorite thing was to hang out at home with snacks and a blanket.” He proceeds to pull a soft, fluffy blanket out of the bag, followed by what appears to be the entire contents of the snack aisle at a gas station.
All varieties of chips, chocolate bars, and candy, including licorice allsorts.
“I may or may not have bribed the security guard with candy to let me bring it in.”
Holy shit. “You brought licorice allsorts? I thought you said they taste like depression, but with sprinkles.”
“I stand by it. But you said they were your favorite, so who am I to deprive you?”
I am officially a Popsicle melting in the sun. “You really didn’t have to do all this. Honestly, I don’t expect anything but for you to show up—”
He spares a glance at each person milling about behind us, some of whom are most definitely looking at us, probably wondering why the hell we’re here instead of Eric and Gretchen, before leaning in. “Andi, if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I don’t do things half-assed.”
“No?”
“Nope. If I’m going to be your boyfriend for the summer, I’m going to do it right,” he declares.
Warmth flares in my chest, lighting me up in long-forgotten, dusty corners of my mind that haven’t been activated…ever. “You’re definitely doing a good job. Is everyone still staring at us?” I whisper, the awareness of our surroundings creeping back.
He angles himself to the crowd of senior staffers behind us. “Yup. Still staring, which is a good thing. The more they talk about us, the less they’ll talk about you and Eric.”
His reminder is the only thing that keeps me from sinking low in my seat.
He’s right, after all. And I use it as the perfect excuse to take his hand, shift my knees toward him, and let myself imagine this is all real.
Like I’m one of those women in my books with a doting partner, someone thoughtful and kind.
“Did you play sports? As a kid?” I ask as we watch the players warm up on the field.
“Yup. Not football, though. Played pretty much everything else. Mostly hockey. Not that I could afford to play in a regular league. I played a lot of road hockey and for school teams,” he explains.
“I’m guessing you’re a Sens fan?” I ask.
“Like every Ottawa native should be. You?”
I laugh. “I don’t really follow hockey. But if I did, I’d probably cheer for the Leafs, I guess, being from Toronto.”
He gives a low headshake. “And there it is.”
“What?”
“The flaw in our relationship.”
I slap his knee. “Hey! If anything, it shows I’m loyal during times of adversity.”
“Perpetually optimistic, too,” he adds.
“This year could be their year. You never know.”
He snorts. “Leafs fans have been saying that for a century now. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I knew you had hockey vibes the night we met.”
“What gave it away?”
“I dunno. I think the hair,” I say, imagining running my hand through it, tugging it a little. God, I need to rein myself in.
He smirks, pushing it back from his face. “My mom keeps telling me to cut it. She says it makes me look like a lout.”
I snort. Before I can tell him not to cut it, someone wraps their arms around my shoulders. “Hi, stranger.” It’s Laine. Voice aside, I know it without even seeing her based on the cinnamon-and-apple scent of her perfume.
I whip around to her sitting in the seat directly behind me, barely concealing my shock. “Laine, hi! I didn’t expect to see you—here—”
She explains how sometimes Hunter’s boss gives them her box seats, though I barely listen through the shock.
We haven’t seen each other since a coffee and donut date back in early January, a few days after New Year’s.
Admittedly, the whole thing was rushed. We’d barely gotten past the “What’s new with you?
” small talk when Laine received an email about an urgent briefing and took off immediately, full latte and donut in hand.
She flicks her curls over her shoulder, revealing new highlights that make her hair appear almost copper. “Since when are you a fan of football?” The moment she asks, her eyes dart to Nolan, and her brow quirks in recognition.
“Oh, um, this is my friend. Boy. Boyfriend. Nolan.” God. Lying is hard. Especially to Laine. We may not be close anymore, but she’s still the closest thing I have to a best friend. “He’s Eric’s new CPO,” I add.
She recognizes him from that night at the bar, based on her knowing expression. Her mouth quite literally forms an O as she leans forward to shake his hand over the back of the seat. “Nolan. We’ve…met before.”
Apparently he recognizes her, too. “We have. Nice to see you again.”
Her eyes flick back to me. “Clearly, we have a lot to catch up on. Hunter was telling me things are a little wild at work, after those headlines. I totally meant to reach out and see how you were doing.”
“Oh, no worries. I’m great. I mean, obviously there’s no truth to the rumors, so…”
She waves away my words like she already came to that conclusion on her own.
“Obviously. Everyone knows the opposition is feeding the media all these BS stories. I’m honestly offended that people think you’d write filth like that.
” Grateful as I am for her defense, the word “filth” sticks.
Nolan gives my hand a firm squeeze, stopping the pit in my stomach from expanding.
There’s an awkward pause as Hunter inches into the seat beside her, two frothy beers in each hand. Of course, he’s wearing a sweater-vest.
“Andi?” Like Laine, he looks shocked by my presence, and even more shocked by Nolan’s.
“Hunter, remember all the slogans Andi used to come up with for the campaign?” she asks pointedly, forcing a weak nod out of him. “Wild that they think it’s the same person who wrote that porny book.”
“Uh, yeah,” he says passively, handing her a beer.