Back at the condo, I run down to get my gift for him and change into cozy sweatpants. I grab my ball cap too.
“Predictable, Leslie,” Merc says, removing my ball cap instantly and tossing it on the kitchen counter, which is near the door. “Your gift is in that bag over there.”
All right, now I’m hit with nerves. It’s a lot bigger than my gift and there’s a card. I didn’t get a card. Man, I’ve already fucked up. “Know what, I forgot something downstairs. Just let me—”
He drags me in and closes the door. “Nuh-uh. Time’s up. If you lose, you’ll just have to try harder next year.”
“There’s gonna be a next year, Merc?” I haven’t moved any further into his apartment. I’m standing before him, mesmerized and half-wondering if I can distract him from this stupid game with sex. I don’t wanna lose dammit.
He yanks me forward so that our lips are only centimeters apart. “There’s damn well gonna be a next year if I have anything to say about it.” He kisses me, but it’s only a peck. “Now get over there and open. You’re not distracting me with sex.”
Well that’s no fun. I put my gift bag on the table, sizing it up against his with the damn card.
“Open the envelope first,” he instructs with his winning smirk, acting like he’s already won.
“Everyone knows you open cards first. Of course, I’m gonna. Not a psychopath, Merc.”
“Wow, you’re pissy. You really hate losing, eh?”
“What was your first clue? How about that time I stepped onto the ice for the first time—”
“Leslie with the stall,” he says like he’s a hockey commentator.
Asshole.
I rip into the envelope with one savage tear and am never happier to see a lack of a card than I am right now. In fact, it’s a homemade something that Mercydidn’tmake that’s been printed off, like maybe it was sent in an email attachment or something. I’m not sure what it is, just that it was made by Lorelei and maybe Theo. Bethany probably helped with spelling.
“You lose five points, Meyer. You had help.” I clear my throat and read aloud. “Dear Jack. We love you. Can we watch you play hockey? From Lory and Theo Meyer.”
Okay, it’s fucking cute though.
“I told them you were gonna say that. I don’t think this should count. Do you even know what it is?”
I don’t. I take a closer look and there’s neater, more legible handwriting. It says: Good for three nights in a hockey suite at Rogers Arena. I still don’t get it.
He reads the confusion on my face. “This one came up after my original idea, which I’m also giving you, but this first because I definitely get credit for this one with the strings I had to pull. I have a friend who owns a box suite at Roger’s Arena, and I was able to get it for all the nights you play. I thought your family could be there to watch you in style and well, me, one of the nights. I warn you though, some of my family is keen … hope you don’t mind.”
“Why the hell would I mind? That’s awesome, Merc. Wow.”
“I don’t have the tickets yet. Was going to write it on some paper, but when everyone heard they insisted that they wanted to draw you a ticket. I couldn’t say no.”
The picture makes sense now. I think it’s a “box” with people in it. “I’m keeping this forever. I love it.” I sigh, giving up. He’s won already.
“Keep going,” he says. It’s not enough that he’s won already, he’s got to get the empty net goal too.
I reach into the bag and as soon as my hand touches the polyester, I know what it is. “No way. No way!”
He’s smiling like a loon.
As I pull the Vancouver jersey out of the bag, it unravels, and I see my surname with my number—thirty-nine—printed clearly on the back.
“It’s not likely to be the number they’ll give you, but I was able to get this one made.” He mimics pulling strings.
“How long have you known?”
“Not long. The shipping to get that here overnight cost me more than dinner did.”
“Holy shit, Merc.” Tears prick my eyes. I wipe them away.
