11
Hannah
The jersey arrives in a plastic grocery bag.
Not a garment bag. Not a neatly folded gift box. A crinkled, white plastic bag from Miller’s Market with a tiny tear near the handle and the faint, crisp scent of laundry detergent leaking through it.
I stare at it in Nate Wilder’s hand. Then I stare at his face.
“This is your grand delivery system?”
Nate glances down at the bag as if he’s noticing it for the first time. “What’s wrong with it? It’s aerodynamic.”
“It’s a grocery bag.”
“It’s clean. I made sure there weren't any old lettuce scraps at the bottom.”
“That feels like the bare minimum for a 'respectable' image rehab.”
“I washed the jersey, Hannah Reed. Do you have any idea how much effort that takes? I had to figure out which button made the water cold. I had to wait for a timer. It was an ordeal.”
I stand in the doorway of my dorm room, one hand still on the knob, wearing my "study-mode" uniform of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. Nate is leaning against the opposite wall like he’s been there for years, looking entirely too comfortable in black joggers and a dark hoodie.
It is deeply unfair that he looks this good while handing me a bag of laundry.
“I’m starting to think you don’t appreciate the sacrifice,” he says, his mouth curving into that slow, lazy smirk that usually means he’s about to say something that makes my brain short-circuit.
“I appreciate the hygiene,” I counter. “I’m concerned about the presentation.”
“Noted. Next time, I’ll bring it on a velvet pillow with a herald to announce my arrival.”
“There will not be a next time.”
“There might be. You could become attached to wearing my name. It’s a very prestigious name.”
My face heats up so fast I’m surprised the smoke alarm doesn’t go off. Nate’s eyes drop to my cheeks, and the smirk widens. He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between us until the hallway feels significantly smaller.
He doesn’t hand it over immediately. He holds the bag just out of reach, his expression shifting from teasing to something quieter. Something that makes me forget to be annoyed.
“You don’t have to wear it,” he says. The flippant edge is gone, replaced by a sincerity that catches me off guard.
I blink. “I know.”
“I mean it. If you wake up tomorrow and decide it’s too much—or if you get to the arena and the staring makes you want to bolt—don’t do it. I won't be mad. The plan still works if we’re just seen together after.”
I look at him, my grip on the doorknob loosening. I hate it when he does this. When he stops being the "bad decision" and starts being the guy who makes sure I have an out. It’s much easier to fake date a jerk than a guy who actually considers my comfort levels.
“Okay,” I say softly.
He nods, finally handing me the bag. Our fingers brush—a brief, electric contact that I try very hard to ignore.
“Good luck,” he says.
I lift a brow. “Surviving the jersey?”
“Surviving the interrogation Ella is definitely about to put you through.” He glances past me into the room. “I can hear her breathing with curiosity from here.”
“Goodbye, Nate.”
“Goodbye, Hannah Reed.”
I shut the door and lean my back against it, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Give. It. To. Me,” Ella demands. She’s already off the bed, sliding across the floor in her fuzzy socks.
“It’s just a jersey, Ella.”
“It is a Wilder jersey! That is basically a royal decree!” She snatches the bag from my hand before I can protest. She pulls it out, the navy fabric unfolding in the light of our dorm room.
It’s huge. It’s heavy. And it’s undeniably official.
*WILDER. 27.*
The letters on the back are bold and white, outlined in pink. I stare at it, my heart doing a strange, frantic little dance.
“You have to put it on,” Ella says, her voice hushed.
“No. I’ll look like I’m wearing a tent.”
“A very sexy, athletic tent. Put it on, Han. For the narrative.”
I sigh, but the curiosity wins. I pull the jersey over my head. The fabric is cool at first, then warms instantly against my skin. It smells like the detergent Nate used, but underneath that, there’s a ghost of something else. Something crisp, like cold air and ice.
It swallows me. The sleeves hang past my fingertips, and the hem reaches my mid-thigh.
I turn toward the mirror.
“Oh my God,” Ella whispers, her hands over her mouth.
I don’t look ridiculous. I look… claimed. There’s no other word for it. The oversized fit makes me look smaller, softer, while the bold name on my shoulders screams for attention.
“You look adorable,” Ella says, coming to stand behind me. “And approachable. And like someone Nate Wilder would actually go home to.”
“It’s a lie, Ella.”
“It’s a very convincing lie. Look at your eyes—they’re glowing.”
“That’s just the lighting.”
I tug at the sleeves, pushing them up to my elbows. I think of Ethan. I think of him seeing me in this. Will he see it and finally realize he’s losing his chance? Or will he just see a girl playing a part?
A sharp knock at the door makes us both jump.
“Who is that?” I hiss.
“Maybe the herald with the velvet pillow?” Ella whispers, already scurrying to open it.
Nate is standing there again. He has his phone in his hand, looking like he’d been halfway down the hall before turning back. “I forgot to tell you—Carter’s girlfriend is saving seats in section—”
He stops.
His gaze lands on me.
The flippant comment he was about to make dies in his throat. His eyes sweep from the top of my head down to my bare legs below the jersey, then back up to my face. The silence in the room suddenly has a heartbeat.
Nate doesn't smirk. He doesn't tease. He just stands there, looking at me in his name and his number, and for a second, I feel like I can't breathe.
“You’re wearing it,” he says, his voice a little rougher than before.
“I was… testing the fit,” I say, my voice trembling.
He clears his throat, finally dragging his gaze back to mine. The smirk returns, but it feels a little forced this time. “Fits perfectly. Like you were born to be a Wilder fan.”
“In your dreams, Wilder.”
“Usually,” he murmurs, so low I almost miss it.
He looks at Ella, then back at me, nodding once. “Seven o’clock. Don't be late, Hannah Reed. I play better when people are watching.”
He walks away, and Ella shuts the door with a click. She turns to me, her eyes wider than I’ve ever seen them.
“Hannah.”
“Don’t.”
“The way he looked at you…”
“He was just surprised.”
“No,” Ella says, her voice dead serious. “That wasn't surprise. That was a man realizing he’s in a lot more trouble than he thought he was.”
I look back at the mirror. The girl in the navy jersey looks back at me—frightened, excited, and entirely out of her depth.
I’m not just wearing a name. I’m wearing a target.
And tomorrow night, the whole world is going to see it.