“No offense mom, but if you hadn’t sent Daniel a thousand apology notes for being out of town last night, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed you weren’t there.”
“I just want to make sure that he knows how much we love and support him,” my mom says into the phone. “And what do you mean he wouldn’t have noticed? You said you went. He would’ve seen that Dad and I weren’t with you.”
“Believe it or not, when a thirty-one-year-old woman goes to a party, it’s not automatically assumed that her parents will be with her.” I try to rein in the snark. I try, but I’m not successful.
“Yes, dear, I know you’re an adult now.”
Now? Legally I’ve been an adult for thirteen years. It’s a good thing we’re on a regular phone call and not on FaceTime, or – as Mom calls it – FacePhone, because then she would see just how far my eyes are rolling.
It’s Saturday morning. The party was last night. I got home extremely late, and my mom woke me up with this phone call. Doing the quick math in my head, I figure I got about six hours of sleep last night. I’m not a morning person, and I’m not a function-on-less-than-eight-hours-of-sleep person either. And, unfortunately for my mom, that means my patience is thinning.
“Did you meet any nice boys at the party? If our absence could have gone unnoticed then it must have been crowded.”
“Nice boys, Mom?”
“Well, you know what I mean. Any gentlemen?”
Of course, my mind instantly pictures Jackson’s face when he said he’d remain the perfect gentleman.
Jackson! I can’t believe I forgot to Google him!
A knock at the front door startles me out of my thoughts and gives me a great excuse to get my mom off the phone.
“Sorry, Mom, I gotta go. Someone’s here. Love you, bye.”
I hear “who is” before I hang up. I try to not hang up on my mom too often, but there are times when I can’t resist the pull.
Honestly, I have no idea who could be at my door. My guess is a package delivery. It’s before noon on a Saturday, and my friends don’t just swing by. We aren’t in college anymore, stopping by unannounced hasn’t been a thing for years. Reaching the door, I glance through the peephole and don’t see anyone there. My initial assumption is proved correct when I open the door and find a box on the front step.
I live in a little two-bedroom townhouse about twenty minutes outside of downtown Minneapolis. I’m currently renting, since I’m not quite ready to commit to buying a house on my own. I’ve added enough of my own personal touches to make it feel like home. The neighbors on both sides of me are older, to the point of being elderly, which is great because they are quiet and bring me leftover baked goods on the regular.
Setting the box down on the kitchen counter, I realize that it looks more like a present than something shipped in the mail. It’s white, about the size of a large shoe box, and tied with a green ribbon. Strange. Was this sent by courier?
Pulling on the ribbon, I flip open the box to discover a folded shirt of some sort. Grabbing near the collar I pull it out and it unfurls to reveal a jersey. A really nice one that looks legit and expensive. It’s blue and green, with a storm-cloud logo, and the words Minnesota Sleet across the front. Turning it over I see the number 33 with Wilder written above.
Well, damn. Jackson Wilder, of the Minnesota Sleet. He’s a hockey player. I should’ve guessed with the beard and unruly hair. Saying his name together with the team name sounds a little familiar, even to me. I wonder just how big of a deal this guy is.
Oh, holy shit, hold up!
This is from Jackson!
This had to have come from him. Right? And he wouldn’t be sending me his jersey if he didn’t like me. He must… Wait, how does he know where I live? I brush that thought away. He’s rich. Rich people play by different rules, and I refuse to be creeped out by Jackson.
Looking back at the box, I see there’s an envelope that had been hidden by the jersey. The outside is unadorned, but it has the texture of nice stationary.
Opening the envelope, I find a plain white card inside. When I go to read it, a ticket falls out. Reading the details, I see that it’s a ticket for a Sleet game. Tonight’s game. Well… that’s interesting.
There’s a note written inside of the card. The handwriting is neat and legible, but has a heavy-handed look to it.
Dearest Kitten,
I was having a fairly dull evening last night, until you wandered into it. If you’re not otherwise occupied, I would like to have you in the stands tonight at my game. Hopefully cheering me on. I got the feeling that maybe you aren’t a hockey fan, so I included something for you to wear. There are usually a couple of people wearing my jersey, so don’t worry about everyone knowing that we slept together last night just because you’re wearing my name.
Yours,
Mr. Fuck Hot
I think I read the letter four times before I start fanning myself with the card. Even mentally hearing him say slept together, causes my knees to go weak and I grip the edge of the counter. Looking back at the ticket I confirm that it’s for one seat. There is no plus one. No chance for me to bring a date, or even a friend as a buffer.
I don’t even have to think about it. I’m going. Even if I did have plans for tonight, I would cancel them.
The game isn’t until eight. I have plenty of time to pamper myself and learn everything there is to know about hockey. And Jackson.
