“And now for the fun stuff.” She digs into the bag again and extracts a bottle of Chanel nail polish in—wait for it—Toronto red.
“Oh! I love it.” My poor nails don’t get any attention these days. I’ll have to fix that. “Thank you!” I tuck the bottle into the small handbag I’m carrying tonight.
Estrella shakes her head. “You’re going to need the whole bag, babe. We’re not done here yet.”
Oh.
The next thing Katie removes from the bag is a jersey. And it is not regulation. It looks much tighter than anyone could play in, and it just happens to have a sweeping V-neck. Katie turns it around so everyone can see the back. It reads, Riley is mine.
I burst out laughing.
“Cute, right?” she says, draping it over my arm. “We had to get team boxer shorts for your brother instead.” She dips back into the bag. “Next we have the family-size Tums, for those stressful games when your man is struggling.”
“Aww,” everyone says.
“I got those, too,” Jamie tells me.
Katie tucks the antacids back in the bag and then grins wickedly. “This is something else you’re going to need.” She pulls out a long, slender box and puts it in my hands.
Confused, I lift the lid. Then I quickly drop it again when I realize I’m holding a luxury vibrator. My face gets hot. “Thanks?”
Katie pats my hand. “Keep it on the charger, hon. Because road trips are long. And, in a similar vein…” She slaps her thigh. “I said similar vein!” The other women laugh as she pulls out a Clone-A-Wang kit.
Do It Yourself… And Then Do Yourself, the box enthuses.
“Oh my god,” I sputter. Though the idea of a Blake dildo is honestly appealing.
“Got one of those, too,” Jamie says. “Totally works.”
“EEEK!” I clap my hands to my ears. “I do not want to hear about your sex life. Not because it’s with a guy, but because you’re my brother.”
“Whoa!” He holds up his hands. “I totally get it. Feel free to keep all the naked details to yourself, too.”
“But, wait.” Sheila, the goalie’s wife, tugs at my elbow. “Is it true that Blake has a giant dick?”
Yikes. I’m really not willing to answer that question. Not on my first beer, anyway. Luckily I don’t have to, because something exciting seems to be happening down on the ice.
“Power play,” a voice blares over the loudspeaker, and all the women lean toward the rink, tensing.
“We can do this!” Katie yells. “Yes!”
I’m not in a good spot to see the action, so my eyes fly to a large-screen TV on the wall, showing the televised coverage. The boys are engaged in a high-speed game of keep-away. The camera zooms in on Eriksson, who passes to Wesley. Who passes to Blake.
Who shoots!
The whole arena roars and the announcer’s voice shouts, “GOAL!”
“Oh my God,” I shriek. As I check the scoreboard, it changes from 0–0 to 1–0. Blake has just scored the first goal of the game.
“Hey, Cannings!” Katie yanks her tequila off a table. “You both have to do a shot. One for the goal and one for that assist.”
“No can do.” My brother shakes his head. “I’m driving. Sad but true.”
She wrinkles her perfect nose. “What a shame. Jess?” She pours a shot of tequila and hands it to me.
In for a penny, in for a pound. I toss the shot back, and the sudden burn of tequila makes my eyes water. Now that I’m a nerd, I probably can’t hold my liquor. If Blake gets a hat-trick, they might have to carry me out of here on a stretcher.
Jamie hands me a wedge of lime, amusement in his eyes.
“Thanks,” I manage. Several women congratulate me, and I have a moment of embarrassment. “I didn’t have anything to do with Blake’s goal,” I whisper to my brother, feeling like a fraud.
He puts two strong hands on my shoulders, and squeezes. “I hear you. But you make Blake happy, right? He goes to work feeling good. And sixteen thousand fans appreciate that right now. I’m pretty pumped up when my kids score a goal, and I didn’t shoot it myself.”
“You’re their coach,” I point out.
“Is it really that different?”
This idea gives me a happy rush. Or maybe it’s just the booze. “Jamester, I’m going down to the stands to say hello to Mama Riley for a minute, while I’m still sober.” I burp. “Sober-ish.”
“Good plan.” He pulls something out of his pocket. “Want these?” He hands me a pair of disposable earplugs.
I press them away. “Nice thought, but she’d be offended.”
Downstairs, I discover that my WAGS ID is like a master key to the arena. Security guards wave me through doors and nobody blinks when I make my way to the reserved seating behind the home-team bench. I spot Blake’s parents. Or rather, Blake’s mother. She’s on her feet, of course, shouting loud enough to make everyone around her wince.
“MOW ’EM DOWN, BLAKEY! CUT THAT LAWN!”
Her head swivels abruptly when she notices me. “Jessica! GET OVER HERE!”
Two seconds later, I’m enveloped in one of her mama bear hugs and sporting at least two broken ribs when she finally releases me.