HAYES: Yeah, and that must’ve been why she barfed in my shoes.
AERIS: LMAO. Yeah, that was…sorry.
HAYES: I know one way you can make it up to me.
AERIS: If you say phone sex, I’ll castrate you.
HAYES: Zoom sex?
AERIS:
HAYES: Just over the clothes stuff?
AERIS: Gooodbyeee, Hayes. Good luck on your game. winky face emoji
October 20th, Monday, 9:46 a.m.
HAYES: I’m here to cash in on my prize.
AERIS: What prize?
HAYES: screenshot attached
AERIS: I was very drunk when I said that.
HAYES: And I won that game of darts fair and square.
AERIS: You almost hit me in the eye.
HAYES: You were standing in my way!
AERIS: I WAS NEXT TO YOU?
HAYES: My depth perception isn’t that great.
AERIS: You play hockey for a living.
HAYES: Just give me my prize, woman.
AERIS: I’m not getting your jersey number tattooed on my ass.
HAYES: It would be so hot, though.
AERIS: Maybe for you. Not when I’m old and wrinkly.
HAYES: On the contrary, you’ll look even more beautiful when you’re old and wrinkly.
AERIS: Kiss ass, much?
HAYES: I do love kissing your ass.
AERIS: You’re disgusting.
HAYES: And you’re incorrigible.
AERIS: What can I say? It’s a part of my charm.
HAYES: Your charm is distracting me, and I’m at practice.
AERIS: Oh, I’m sorry. Afraid you’ll ruin your boxers?
HAYES: Actually, yes.
AERIS: You’re the one who brought up my ass in the first place.
HAYES: Can you blame me? You have a great ass-et.
AERIS: You’re a pun away from being blocked.
HAYES: Jokes on you, that was the only pun I had.
AERIS: You’re lucky you’re cute.
HAYES: I am, aren’t I?
22
ALL SPONSORS, PLEASE STAND UP
AERIS
The team has a sponsorship party today, and Hayes asked me if I would join him. I’m not really one for huge social events, but I wanted to be there to support him.
The restaurant that the guys rented for the night is stunning. The whole hockey team is here, along with a hundred odd faces I don’t recognize.
I’ve gone for a little black dress with strappy heels. Simple, and dare I say, sophisticated. This is Hayes’ and my first public outing as a couple, so when we showed up to the venue, all eyes were on us, and there were cameras blinding my retinas everywhere we turned. I’ve seen the fan cams, the speculative posts, even the strongly worded opinions of some exceptionally bitter people. I’m just glad that the majority of the fans seem to be accepting of our relationship.
It was daunting at first, but when we got into the meat of things…it was still daunting as hell. I never realized how big of a deal Hayes was. People haven’t stopped showering him with praise, and I’m thankful they barely acknowledged me because I haven’t been media trained like the team has. I just know I would’ve said something embarrassing.
Lila also accompanied me tonight, mostly because I begged her to be my getaway from all things hockey, and also because she’s apparently been talking to someone on the team. She still refuses to tell me who, claiming that “it’ll jinx things” if she reveals his identity. I have a feeling I won’t know until they’re either breaking up or getting married.
The place looks incredible. Round tables are embellished in white cloth, with little centerpieces of jasmine-scented candles and homemade bouquets of wildflowers, lilacs, and green sprigs. The lighting is only slightly dark, with the majority of illumination coming from the blue-orange flames burning at the wicks. There’s a whole buffet table spread with enough food to feed a small village—fruit platters, a chocolate fountain, and dishes of overflowing entrées. There’s also a tower of champagne glasses calling my name.
I don’t know why I feel so nervous. I’ve never been to a party as fancy as this before. As guests start to mill about, I take in their thousand-dollar dresses and equally expensive jewelry. I also take a flute of champagne and swallow it down in one drink. A precaution to calm my nerves, hopefully.
A little kid with sticky hands and messy hair bounds over to us, tugging on Hayes’s suit jacket.
“Mister Hayes, can I pwease get your autogwaph?” he asks, holding out a folded napkin and a ballpoint pen.
“Of course, Little Man.” Hayes crouches down so he’s eye level with the kid, taking the napkin and scribbling his signature over it.
“What’s your name?”
“Grayson!”
“That’s a sick name. You a big fan of hockey, Grayson?”
The boy nods like a bobblehead. “The biggest!”
“We need more fans like you. You’re what keeps the team going,” he says, drawing a smiley face next to his name. “Are you going to be at the upcoming game?”
“Yeah, me and my daddy!” The boy points to a man in a powder-blue suit with a proud smile on his face.
Hayes ruffles the kid’s hair. “Make sure to come find me so I can give you a puck.”
The child bounces up and down excitedly, clutching the napkin to his chest. “Thank woo!” he squeals.
His father comes over to us, a megawatt grin cutting across timeworn features, streaks of silver dappling his hair, and crow’s feet bordering his eyes. He pats his boy’s head in an effort to calm his giddiness. Grubby hands fist the dog-eared napkin, reaching up in a silent plea for his dad to stow it away in the safe pocket of his suit.
“Hayes, big fan.” The man sticks his hand out, and Hayes shakes it firmly.
“Thank you,” Hayes replies. “You have quite the enthusiastic little rascal here.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. All he’s been talking about for the past year is wanting to play youth hockey.”
Watching Hayes work so well with kids makes my heart glug along like an old-timey oil machine. He’ll be an incredible father one day. I’m not a big fan of kids, okay? But after witnessing this interaction, their gremlin meter has decreased just a little.
“Youth hockey is a great idea. If Little Man is serious about it, it’s a great way to introduce him to the sport. I played when I was eight, and it kickstarted my love for hockey.”
The young boy looks up at his father, enthusiasm gleaning in wide eyes. “Pwease, Daddy. Can I pway?”
“We’ll have to see what’s available in Oregon, Squirt,” he says, pressing his son close to his leg.
“You’re from Oregon?” Hayes asks, curiosity needling the tight line of his brow.
“Yep. Born and raised. We drove down here yesterday.”
“Just for this party?”
“We’re big fans of the Reapers. And once we got an invite, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity. It’s a lot different than watching from behind glass.”
Scarlet melts into Hayes’ cheeks, a barely-there blush in the low light of the candles, and he squats down to his haunches again. “Well, I’m glad I got to meet you, Grayson.”
Grayson—who I’m assuming has come down from his adrenaline high—now turtles in on himself and shies behind his father’s body.
“Looks like someone could use a nap,” the man chuckles, smoothing down his son’s rogue locks, ones that have been slicked into spikes from sweaty, chocolate-stained palms.