Chapter 52
JERSEY GIRL
Aubrey
I pace the salon after my last client has left. Dev is due any second. I’m all jittery, touching my recently polished nails with their bling sparkles then checking my reflection.
Bronze must notice my overactive attention since he stops on his way to the back of the shop and whispers, “You look gorgeous, hun.”
“Thanks, Bronze,” I say. He winks then mouths anytime. I smooth a hand down my sweater.
Dev isn’t late. He’s not due for three more minutes, but I’ve already swept my booth, wiped down the chair, and straightened up the station. I’ve got scissors and clippers out. I have hair products. I have nothing else to do but wait.
Do I look okay?
I steal a glance in the mirror again. My little skirt lands mid-thigh and I’m wearing thigh-high socks and lace-up boots. A cute argyle sweater hits at my waist. My hair is long and wavy.
And my heart is all fluttery. Too fluttery.
I close my eyes. Breathe in, out. Imagine I’m relaxing in one of Briar’s yoga classes. I focus on this moment. Not the next one, or the next, or the one after that.
When I open my eyes, I startle. Dev is striding across the shop and I watch him in the mirror as he gets closer, my pulse thundering. When I turn around, my skin is tingling too, and I want to throw myself at him.
“Hi,” I say, hoping that one syllable contains everything I’m feeling. Hoping he can hear it.
“Hey,” he says, flirty and full of emotion. It feels like we have a private language. His gaze travels up and down my body. “You look…incredible.”
I finger the hem of my skirt. “Thanks. I…” I pause, weighing which words to choose.
They told you they’re waiting for you.
With that in mind, it’s not hard to say the next thing. “I want to…look good for you.”
His smile is dazzling. “Mission accomplished.”
But I replay what I just said. Look good for you. It feels so weak. Like it’s not enough. “I want to look special.”
He steps closer, shaking his head in amusement.
“You could be wearing a stained sweatshirt and ripped pants. You could have on clothes that are ten sizes too big. You could be wearing no makeup—you could not even have brushed your hair. You could have a cold. Or the flu. I’d still think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. ”
And I fall a little harder. No, a lot harder.
“Sit,” I say, and I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
“So bossy.”
“If you keep showering me with compliments, I’m not going to be able to focus on your hair. And I know you have a superstition about getting a haircut before the first game.”
“I do,” he says, acquiescing to my argument as he sits.
We talk about the style he wants, how much to trim, and what he likes. Then I take him to the sink where I wrap the smock around his neck and tell him to lean his head back.
He leans against the dip in the black sink bowl, looking relaxed as he lets me do my thing. It’s such a privilege to give him a shampoo. Such a treat to do this thing for this man who’s done so much for me. To shampoo his hair, run my fingers through it, massage his scalp.
It’s a joy to experience the sighs and little moans he makes as he lets himself savor this indulgence. I feel like I’m the only one he’d let touch his hair, and I cherish that feeling.
When I’m done, I run a towel over his wet locks and bring him back to the chair at my booth. I take my time cutting and snipping, buzzing and clipping, asking him how he’s feeling about the season.
“Better,” he says, meeting my gaze and holding it.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He sounds steady, calm, certain.
“Maybe I should come to a game,” I say impulsively. I’m not sure why I hadn’t thought of that yet.
“You absolutely should. Maybe the first one?” he says, and I nod. “You should go to a Sea Dogs game too.”
“Maybe I will.”
We both know I’m going to both.
* * *
The next day, Ledger strides into the salon at the end of the day.
Tall, broody, handsome, and here for me, he takes my breath away.
He’s inscrutable on the surface, but I know deep down he’s soulful, gentle, thoughtful.
He scans the place as he walks over. “So this is where the magic happens.” He pats the back of the chair, looking around, really surveying the salon with its crisp white walls and sleek steel booths.
“It is.”
There’s a modern but welcoming feel to my home away from home, and he seems to see that. “This place is nice.”
“You knew that. You looked it up,” I point out.
“I did. But it’s nicer with you in it,” he says.
My stomach flips. It’s going to be an occupational hazard if I keep inviting them to my work.
But just now, I’m a woman on a mission—to let them know I’m worth waiting for. “I have this for you.” I reach into my purse and take out a little box. I hand it to him.
The corner of his lips twitches. I bet he’s not used to getting presents. Well, he’ll have to get used to them with me. He opens the box and fights off a smile. It’s a key chain with a small cactus charm on it.
“Prickly. Like me,” he says, repeating what Dev told him in Plant Parenthood.
“Like you,” I echo.
He leans in, and whispers deliciously against my cheek. “And you like prickly.”
I shiver. “Seems I do,” I say, then I take my turn whispering. “It’s a good luck charm. For your final year.”
He pulls back, then tosses the chain in the air and catches it before he holds my gaze again. “It’s going to be a very hard year.”
He’s not talking about hockey.
“I know,” I say, and I’m not either.
* * *
A few days later, I head into the Golden State Foxes arena with Trina, excitement bouncing in my cells. It’s the first home game of the season and the place is jumping. The new logo—a badass fox—is all over the walls.
I’ve got a jacket over my shirt since it’s fuck-all cold. Well, ice is like that. We gab about customers—the good ones and the bad ones at my salon and her bookstore—as we head to our seats.
When the mascot hits the rink a few minutes before the puck drops, Trina and I shout the loudest.
“Go Foxy!” we cheer like madwomen.
That’s our girl after all. Ivy’s the mascot and she’s racing around the ice in her tawny fox costume as the announcer tells a story about the Golden State Foxes. She whips up the crowd, and we’re shouting till our throats go numb as the guys emerge from the tunnel.
They hit the ice skating fast and furiously.
“Yay Seventeen,” I shout when I see the goalie, my heart tripping over itself.
He’s covered in pads and a helmet, and I doubt he can see me.
But I cheer for him again and again as he saves goal after goal, some with his legs, some with the stick, and some with his whole body.
He’s the brick wall they want him to be, and damn, it’s hot that he doesn’t let a thing get past him.
When the first period ends, he yanks up his helmet, turns to the stands, and flashes a smile my way. I tug on my shirt so he can see it.
Well, he sent it to me today. I’m wearing his Number Seventeen jersey.
* * *
Two days later, Ivy and I join Trina for the first game of the Sea Dogs across town. We don’t go to the former wives and girlfriends’ section, now called The Partners’ Suite.
For this game, we have seats rink-side.
“My, how times have changed,” I tease Trina. “You were slumming it in the VIP suite with me, holding up revenge signs to get even with your ex. Now look at you. You’re Mrs. Hockey,” I say to the double wife.
She rolls her eyes, then nods to Ivy too. “Pretty sure we all are.”
I raise a who me brow. “Not me.”
But even to me it feels like the lady doth protest too much.
“Not you yet,” Ivy corrects, as the team hits the ice, and all my attention turns to the veteran forward.
Ledger flies across the ice, tough and stoic and focused.
Does his knee hurt? Is he masking any pain? Or is he hanging in there and enjoying his swan song? I hope it’s the latter.
Before he heads to the bench, his eyes find mine and his smile feels private, just for me, when he sees me wearing his jersey—the one he sent me today.
These guys and their need to claim me.
When the game ends, I text my brother and ask if he can have dinner with me on Friday night after book club. He says yes.
I breathe deeply and try to just keep in this moment right now.
* * *
That Friday night, Briar and I head into An Open Book for Trina’s Page Turners club. “Finally,” I chide playfully as I push open the door. “Took you long enough to come with me.”
She shoots me a look with those crystal blue eyes. “You act like I’ve been avoiding book club.”
“You have,” I tease.
“You only invited me a month ago,” she points out.
“Details,” I say airily. Then I narrow my eyes at her as we wander past the new release shelves. “And it turns out you were secretly reading romance without telling me.”
“Well, I needed some…tips,” she says, lowering her voice.
“Tips? Like on how to date?”
She leans in and whispers even more quietly, “Toy tips.”
Ah, I’ve got this one. “I love books with toys. I’ll rec some.” We head to the back, where Trina’s setting up with Ivy. The regulars are here, like Prana and Kimora, who’s petting the paperback in her hand.
The book has a red cover with a brown cartoon couple kissing swoonily under the title Overnight Shag. In the story, the heroine meets a hot Brit named Naveen who stays at her B and B in a small town. Prana suggested it because the heroine is Desi, like her.
Kimora’s loving on the paperback so hard. “This book. This freaking book. Yes. Finally. When I said I’m over bad communication, I am over it. Like forever. And I am so glad it’s not in this story.”
Prana taps her chin, ever the diplomat. “Me too. I’m not into it when something can be worked out with a simple convo. But miscommunication is a thing. It happens in real life.”
“It does, but so do periods and UTIs. I don’t need any of that stuff in a book,” Kimora says, no ifs, ands, or buts.
“In real life I don’t really O,” Briar blurts out.
Whoa.
We all whip our gazes to the blonde by my side. “You don’t?” I ask.
“By myself I do. Not really with…a partner.” Briar winces like it pains her. Well, it pains me on her behalf.
Kimora’s voice softens as she turns to Trina. “Give her the mug. I don’t care who got the bang prediction right. This girl needs the mug.”
“You really do,” Trina says with sympathy, reaching for the gift for the bang prediction winner. It’s a “We Are Well and Truly Fucked” mug.
Briar clutches it like it’s a precious gift. “It’s the I have no Os mug.”
I consider the slogan, then turn it around in my head. “Or maybe it’s a promise for the future. Like, you’re going to be well and truly fucked.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll just start with the O.”
“I’m rooting for you to be well and truly fucked, B,” Kimora says, then flicks her black braids off her shoulders.
“I’ll bring the pom-poms,” Prana seconds.
As we sit and debate the banter and the tension in the story, my mind drifts to my own bang prediction.
To Dev reading me a scene from The UnGentleman.
To Ledger’s sex math.
To the guys coming over and declaring they’ll wait for me.
Then, Kimora’s saying to Briar, “Just ask for help with the O. Life is too short.”
And you know what? It really is.
On that life lesson, I head out to meet my brother for dinner.