Page 10 of Home for the Holidays
She rolls her eyes. “Nice would have been nosebleed seats. He didn’t have to invite you out after the game. He could have just said, see you at home, roomie.”
That doesn’t sit right with me.
“He’s only doing this because our moms are friends.”
Viv shrugs. “Whatever his reasoning, he’s doing it. Might as well make the most of the opportunity.”
Humming, I follow her into the suite. There are close to a dozen other women in here, each one glammed up and looking fierce in bedazzled Boston Grizzlies jerseys. Heads swivel toward us as we enter.
A blonde woman with a baby bump approaches us. “Hi, I’m Melanie Easton. My husband is Mark, the second line center. Who are you here with?”
“I’m a friend of Jake’s. Lewis,” I struggle to get the words out. “He invited us.”
Two women in the back of the suite exchange looks.
“We love Jake,” another blonde says, coming over to join us. “I’m Hailey MacGregor. My brother Aidan says he’s a great guy.”
“Oh, we’re not—I’m not—”
“If you say so.” Hailey smiles gently. “Typically, it’s just family up here. Jake must really care for you.”
I’m introduced to the other women. Three are wives, two are fiancées, one more is a sister, and there’s a mom, too. There are no girlfriends. Huh. I wonder what it means that Jake invited me up here.
Hailey looks to be about Jake’s age. She leads us to the back of the suite, where there’s a buffet set up and a bucket of chilled drinks. I hand a bottle of water to Viv, who doesn’t drink, and grab a hard seltzer for myself.
When Jake said he played for the Grizzlies, my dumb ass thought he was, like, a back-up third-string forward, someone who gets called up when they need a warm body. Even a warm body in the NHL is an amazing achievement.
But when I see number 1 Lewis take up a stance in front of the goal…
“I think I’m in trouble,” I tell Viv.
“What’s wrong?”
Nodding to Jake, I explain, “He’s a goaltender.”
“And?”
“And that’s fucking hot,” I whisper. “He’s the caretaker of the team. He carries them on his back every night.”
I bet he’d take care of me all night long. Repeatedly.
“And that’s a bad thing because…”
“Because I can’t sleep with him.”
Her eyebrows go up. “But you want to?”
Rolling my eyes, I pull out my phone and flip to his Instagram page. “Look at him.”
The first photo, he’s wearing his jersey and a blue and white Santa hat, pushing a giant shopping cart filled with toys.
The second photo?
Jake is shirtless, his bulging arms crossed over his broad chest, and the cheesiest grin on his face.
“Okay, yeah, I can see what you mean,” Viv says. “I didn’t think you were interested in meatheads.”
“He’s not a meathead,” I defend.
