Chapter 26 Janie
TWENTY-SIX
Janie
“Give me ten minutes,” I whisper to Rourke after dinner.
His eyebrows furrow. “Where are you going?”
“To change my clothes. I promised you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but…”
“Ten minutes,” I repeat, then disappear down the hall into the powder room.
At one point in my life, I secretly vowed I’d never be caught in any man’s jersey.
That was before I fell for Rourke. Before I realized I can still be me—the woman who knows a lot about kids but nothing about sports—and wear a jersey proudly proclaiming my allegiance to the man at my side.
Life is full of contradictions. You can eat ketchup your entire life and decide one random day to like mustard too. It can be both after an entire lifetime of being solidly committed to only one condiment.
So today, I’m becoming a jersey gal—one of those crazy fans who wears a player’s number even if they don’t have an athletic bone in their body.
And I couldn’t be happier about it.
When I close the door behind me, I unfold the jersey Rourke gave me.
I turn it around to see “Riley” stretching across the back in big black letters with his number beneath it.
It’s different holding his jersey this close instead of seeing it on a TV screen, where I can barely make out his name among a sea of skaters.
After sliding it on, I suck in a breath when I catch myself in the mirror.
This was more than a scavenger hunt find. He brought this tonight for me.
I don’t even care that we didn’t win the game.
Jaz and Brax beat us to the finish line by a few minutes, thanks to a never-worn Crushers jersey buried in one of Mr. Marco’s many closets. Their prize is a weekend at Marco’s private beach house, which honestly, they deserve.
Right now, I don’t feel like I lost anything.
I let the jersey unfurl across my hips before sliding my hands across the smooth fabric along my waist. It’s too big on my petite shoulders and doesn’t match the pink in my hair. But it feels right in a way that I don’t expect.
When I come out of the powder room, hair thrown up in a quick ponytail, the hallway is empty. That’s when I see him in the dim light, leaning against the opposite wall, his jacket slung lazily over his arm, the top buttons of his shirt undone as he scrolls on his phone.
The soft click of the door behind me must catch his attention—because the moment he looks up, he stills, then straightens slowly, his eyes traveling over the length of the jersey.
“Well?” I ask, turning in a circle for him. “What do you think?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pushes off the wall and crosses the space between us, never taking his attention from me. And heaven help me, that dark gaze makes me want his mouth on mine again.
“I think…” he murmurs, stopping just inches away, his clean woodsy scent washing over me like some kind of drug, “it’s a good thing you didn’t wear this to a game first.”
It feels like I’m standing in quicksand, being pulled under by him. “Why’s that?”
“Because seeing you in my jersey…” His gaze drifts down, then back up before it lands on my mouth. “I wouldn’t be able to focus on the puck.”
I inch closer. The hallway is dark and vacant except for us. He warned me about wanting to kiss me at the party—and now we’re finally alone. “But isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes,” he admits, his eyes wandering all over my face and neck, like he’s deciding where to kiss me first. “But I didn’t realize how it would affect me.”
My breath catches when he slides a hand along the curve of my waist, feeling the fabric.
I’m wearing my ex-nemesis’s jersey, but it’s time to face the facts.
I don’t care if we can’t agree about Christmas.
There’s one thing we can agree on: I like wearing his jersey.
Way too much, in fact. And judging by the look on his face, he does too.
His hand curls around my back, folding me into him, his body warm against mine.
Adrenaline shoots up my spine. He leans closer to my ear and whispers, “When you wear my jersey to a game, you’re telling everyone who you belong to.
” Then he shifts a step and studies me, his gaze searching my face.
“Are you okay with that, Bennett? Are you okay with being mine?”
This isn’t our usual banter. He isn’t teasing me about not liking hockey. He’s legitimately worried that he’s pressuring me into some kind of arrangement that I don’t want.
But what he doesn’t know is that I want this. Possibly too much.
I curl my fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. “I love this jersey. I love wearing your number and your name. Ever since I saw you on TV, I’ve been dreaming about how it would feel to wear ‘Riley’ across my shoulders. And whether I would feel different in it.”
“And do you?” he asks, moving his face closer to mine, his breath caressing my skin. “Feel different, I mean?”
I tilt my head and hope he can see the truth in my eyes. “Yes,” I murmur. “I feel like I’m yours.”
The words feel shiny and hopeful, like my heart is a balloon rising to the sky, disappearing into the clouds.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he cups my face. “You always were, Bennett. You didn’t need the jersey to prove it.”
With his hand on my jaw, he dips down and presses his lips to mine, and the heat rushes over me like a blast of hot air.
His fingers thread through my hair as he slants his mouth over mine, drinking me in until the world blurs. I part my lips and let him lead, savoring the way he teases my lower lip with every slow sweep.
He backs me into the wall, and I suck in a breath and hook my arm around his neck. His mouth finds mine again, and I taste the promise there, every lingering pass stealing all the rational thoughts from my head. He smiles against my mouth, his teeth barely grazing my bottom lip.
“Bennett,” he says in a rough voice. “Do you have any idea what it does to me, seeing you wear my name?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper against his mouth. “But I’m starting to think you have a thing for kindergarten teachers.”
“Just one,” he murmurs, kissing the curve of my neck. “And only one.” His words turn on the Christmas lights in my heart.
But then he stills mid-kiss, and that’s when I hear it too—footsteps coming this way. He steps away just in time as Tate appears around the corner.
“I was wondering where you two snuck off to.” He crosses his arms, looking like a cop who busted a couple of kids. “Hate to break this up, but Marco’s coming this way.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “You’ve got about thirty seconds to go if you’re planning on sneaking out of here.”
Tate glances over his shoulder, then gives us a quick nod before disappearing around the corner.
Rourke exhales, and it’s all I can do not to burst out laughing. We look like a couple of guilty teenagers.
And I have zero regrets.
“Ready to go?” Rourke asks, holding out his hand.
I take it, my fingers intertwining with his. “Let’s get out of here.”
When we arrive at the arena, I have no idea what to expect. According to the girls’ text thread, Rourke’s surprise needed the whole team’s help, which means he planned something for tonight.
As we make our way down a maze-like series of hallways, he stops at a large door, types in a security code which releases a lock, then pushes it open.
A cold rush of air hits my face. We step inside the cavernous arena, and suddenly the jersey I’m wearing feels more real than ever.
This is where Rourke plays—the rink I’ve watched on TV more than a dozen times, the place where his fans scream his name.
I know that the night I return for a game, I won’t just be a teacher at Sully’s Beach Elementary. I’ll be a professional athlete’s girlfriend.
The rink stretches out before us in near darkness—no overhead lights, just dim emergency lighting casting everything in shadows. I can barely make out the ice, dark and gleaming like black glass.
As we make our way to the team bench, I hold on tightly to Rourke so I don’t trip.
“So, what are we doing? Because if skating is on the schedule, I kind of need some lights,” I say. “Otherwise, I’ll break something—probably a lot of somethings.”
“No, you won’t,” he says over his shoulder. “I won’t let that happen.”
I scoff lightly. “You won’t even be able to see me.”
“Bennett, you’d be surprised what I can do in the dark.” His voice is low and teasing, and I can hear the smirk without seeing it.
He pats a bench for me to sit. “You know the drill.”
Then he kneels in front of me. His hands slip to my calf and catch my foot like he did at the Christmas festival. And he does the same thing with the same care to the same effect.
I don’t stifle the grin pulling at my mouth. “I’m sure I could tie my own skates this time.”
“I know you could, but watching you struggle when I can take care of you? Not happening.”
He finishes tying my skates before pulling me to my feet.
“Rourke, are you sure about this?”
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Angel, do you trust me?”
“Of course I do but…” Before I can finish, I’m swept off my feet as Rourke picks me up, steps onto the rink, and skates over to center ice where they drop the puck.
“Wait, you’re carrying me?” I ask. “I thought this was a private lesson.”
“You’ve got the private part right,” he says with a wink. “It’s been torture waiting all night to show you this.” Then he sets me down, his hands staying firmly planted on my waist to make sure I don’t fall. “Do you think you can stay here for a minute without falling?”
“Wow, your confidence in me is overwhelming.”
“Just taking care of you,” he says with a grin, skating backwards like it’s nothing. “I’ve been planning this for a long time.”
With that, he turns and disappears off the ice. A few beats later, his voice echoes from somewhere across the arena. “Janie Bennett, are you ready?”
“I’m ready to not be standing here in the dark,” I reply to the enormous arena.