It’s a few minutes before eight o’clock when I pick up an envelope from the Will Call window at the stadium. I expect to find a ticket inside, but instead it’s a plastic card with my name on it in shiny letters.
“For the use of: HAILEY TAYLOR EMERY” it reads.
Below that it says “Property of: MATTHEW ERIKSSON.”
How oddly they’ve phrased it. Property of. I know they mean the card, but it sounds like they’re referring to me. There’s also a creamy business card which reads only: “Suite 7.”
“Good evening, miss,” a guard tells me when I show him the card. “Enjoy your evening.”
“But I don’t know where I’m going.”
“Ah.” He smiles. “First time? You’ll need to take the escalators in that direction.” He points. “Your card will activate the turnstile. Then read the plaques on the doors. If you’re spending time with the WAGs, you should know that the strawberry daiquiris are strong.”
“Thanks,” I say, hoping it will make more sense when I find the right spot. I get on an escalator, which slowly lifts me away from the madness in the rest of the stadium.
Since leaving Matt’s apartment earlier in the day, I feel I’ve done a first-rate job of pretending that everything is normal. It isn’t, though. Stopping by Matt’s apartment for earth-tilting sex is not normal. Even if I kissed him goodbye and nonchalantly pulled on my clothes again, my inner Hailey was still chanting, Oh. My. God. And, Did that really just happen?
In the office, Jenny had swarmed, trying to get the story. But I didn’t yield. I need a little time to make sense of the day’s events and how I feel about them.
And then there was Tad! He’d stuck his head into my office late this afternoon. “So you’re, like, dating Matt Eriksson?” he asked tentatively.
“I…don’t really know,” I’d admitted. Even though I just had naked, dirty sex in his bed after our coffee date. “I’m a little confused about the whole thing.”
Tad laughed. “Hope you figure it out, then.”
So did I.
As the escalator climbs higher, I try to see today from Matt’s perspective. We’ve been on one date, where we made out at an opera and in the back of a hired car. Then he made me dinner and we were interrupted before he got the big payoff he was probably expecting.
So today he came looking for it. I gave it to him. And tomorrow at five in the morning he’s headed to the West Coast for a four-game road trip—the longest of the season. I’d checked.
It’s anyone’s guess whether he’ll still be interested in me when he returns to town after his trip.
The escalator takes me to a long, curving corridor. Then there’s a turnstile in my way. I wave the plastic card with my name on it, and the glass barrier slides aside to let me pass. I follow the corridor. Elegant wooden doors every twenty feet or so, each with a brass plaque. The first ones I pass have the names of financial institutions on them. Suite number seven, though, is labeled: WAGs.
Beside the door is a card scanner, the sort you might see outside a hotel room. I hesitate there, wondering who is seated inside, and whether they’ll think I’m imposing. That sounds awkward. But it’s two minutes to eight, and the thought of missing the start of the game is a great motivator. I wave the card in front of the scanner, and the door clicks open. I glimpse several women standing in the open space, backlit by the glare of the rink beyond.
To my dismay, a dozen heads of shiny hair swivel in my direction all at the same time. Yikes.
“Hi there,” I say with a smile. The truth is that I’m not actually a shy person. Not unless Matt Eriksson is in the room. A room full of strangers doesn’t really scare me. But this room is paneled in walnut and softly lit by shiny sconces on the walls. There’s a thick oriental rug on the floor beneath my feet. And facing the rink are three rows of generously sized plush chairs. A bar and buffet line the wall beside me.
This place is seriously kitted out for the wives of the team, and I’m not sure why Matt sent me here.
“I’m Katie Hewitt!” a woman says, bounding toward me. “Welcome to the WAGs box. You’re a guest of…?” The room is silent, and all the women are listening for my answer.
“Matt Eriksson.”
There is a collective intake of breath.
“He, uh, donated his seats to the dog rescue. So he told me to watch from here. If that’s okay,” I add, stupidly. But they’re staring at me with fascination.
Katie is the first to shake off her apparent surprise. When she claps her hands together, I swear an entire jewelry store’s worth of diamonds flashes in front of my eyes. “Matt? That sneaky Pete! I didn’t know he was seeing anyone!”
“We’re, uh…” I realize I can’t finish the sentence. I have no idea what we are.
“Have you known him for long?” she tries.
“At least a year,” I say, wondering how to explain the odd beginning to our relationship. “He’s a client. I have a personal assistant company called Fetch…”
Katie’s eyes practically glisten. “And he fetched himself a girlfriend!”
I laugh nervously. “Not exactly—”
“Katie!” another woman chides. “That sounds terrible.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Katie insists. “Fetch is cool. I just used it for the first time last week to find my aunt some tulips to cheer her up. It’s hard to get tulips this time of year.”
“But not impossible,” I can’t help but say. “We have all the specialty florists in Toronto in our database.”
There’s an appreciative murmur. Something tells me these women receive a lot of flowers.
“Hey! You’re back!” someone else says, and I turn my head to find Jess Canning, who swoops in to give me a hug. “I, for one, am not surprised to see you here. Girls, Matt was all over her at the opera.”
“Yikes,” I say aloud. I seem to be capable of anything when that man is nearby.
Katie cackles. “At least someone was having fun at the opera. Hailey, would you say you’re more of a hockey fan or an opera goer?”
“Hockey all the way,” I confess. “I’m more fluent in hockey.”
She beams.
“Let’s get you a drink,” Jess says, pointing at the refreshments. “We have all kinds of beer and wine. And Katie makes a mean strawberry daiquiri. But pace yourself because if Matt scores tonight you’ll be expected to do a shot.”
“I will?” I say with no small amount of alarm. I haven’t done shots since college.
“Sure, unless you don’t drink. This isn’t a sorority initiation.”
“It’s close!” someone hoots.
Having been warned about the daiquiris, I grab a beer. Katie opens it for me with shiny red fingernails, and then the girls steer me toward a seat. The national anthem is underway already. I feel tingly with excitement, and it has nothing to do with the earth-shattering sex I had a few hours ago, and everything to do with hockey.