Good Boy (WAGs #1)(76)

Yet I had nothing to fear. Turns out I’m a fabulous boyfriend. Every time I pass a flower shop, I buy my Jessie a bouquet. I’ve taken her out to dinner at all the hot spots, including the ones where I have to drop my own name to get in.

Since it’s sort of embarrassing to drop your own name, I have a system. I call up pretending to be my own assistant. I don’t have an assistant, but these ma?tre d’s don’t know that.

“Hi,” I say, kind of breathlessly, as if I’m about to kick my own ass if the reservation doesn’t come through. “So sorry to call at the last minute, but Blake Riley is in town tonight, and he wants to take his girlfriend out to dinner somewhere awesome. He says you have the best sushi around.”

Most of the time they just tell me to name the hour and they’ll be ready. Once in a while I’ll get someone on the line who doesn’t know who Blake Riley is. I mean, who I am. It’s fucking confusing to impersonate yourself. Anyway, last week I had to make someone look me up on Wikipedia. There’s no way that chick was Canadian. I mean, please. But she got with the program, and Jess and I had a fabulous meal. What’s the use of being a little bit famous if you can’t drop three hundred bucks on a sushi dinner for your best girl?

The funny thing is, I told Jess how I work my magic and she didn’t even believe me.

“Seriously?” She’d slid me a sideways glance across the sofa. “They give you a table whenever they want? They have the hockey roster memorized?”

Oh, Jessie. She keeps my ego in check. Occasionally when we’re out together, people stop me for my autograph, and she always looks a little puzzled. That’s my girl.

At any rate, I’ve got this boyfriend thing down. Turns out it’s like riding a bike. But the bike is a hot blonde with big brown eyes and perfect tits. And I’m a really good rider. Not only have we broken-in every room of my apartment, we’ve hit most of the available surfaces, too. Except for the vibrating chair, ’cause I’m saving that one up for a special occasion.

But now the regular-season schedule is kicking into high gear, and I’m really going to miss my girl when I’m on the road. Today we get a few hours together, though. They can’t all be fancy sushi days—Jess has asked me for a ride to the bank where they process her student loans, because it’s located at an inconvenient corner of Toronto. We’re also stopping by the hospital where she’s visiting that young patient who made her so sad a few weeks ago—Leila.

Jess flat out told me that I’m really there for moral support. The ride is just extra. Even though she’s feeling much more confident about nursing school, I can tell she’s still wigged out about dealing with the scary cases. I don’t blame her. Some things just require a little extra whiz fizz. So I tell her that.

“A little…what did you say?” Jess asks on our way to the bank.

“Whiz fizz. Energy. Mojo. Call it what you want, but everyone can turn it on when they need to. Dig deep, Jessie. This girl likes you, right? You’re her happy thought.”

She looks unconvinced, so I tell her that I brought along two jerseys to sign. One is for the sick girl, and one is for her little brother.

“I don’t know if he’s into hockey, but it’s still a nice gesture,” Jess says as I pull into the bank’s parking lot.

“Of course he’s into hockey,” I argue. “This is Canada.”

“Right.” Her perfect lips twitch. “I forgot.”

I settle into a chair in the bank lobby with a copy of Sports Illustrated, but Jess reappears before I’m even finished with the first article. “That was quick.”

“It only takes a moment to sign your life away,” she replies.

I hate that she has to stress about money. It’s just a freak thing that I don’t. I mean, I’d play hockey even if they didn’t pay me. But they do. A lot.

Jess doesn’t like to talk about money, and I try to respect her wishes. But one of these days I’m going to figure out how to make things a little easier for her without getting yelled at. Last week I tried to ask her why she isn’t going home to California for American Thanksgiving. I’m pretty sure she can’t afford the ticket, but when I pressed her on it, she got all testy. So I had to back her up against the wall and lift up her skirt and press her in a completely different way just to calm her down.

Back in the Hummer, I head for the hospital. Jess looks out the window as I steer toward the other end of town. She looks nervous.

When I park in the hospital lot, she turns to me. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to. It’s kind of grim up there.”

“Whiz fizz, baby.” I wink at her. “I’m in, as long as I get a kiss after.”

But Jess feels like giving me my prize in advance. Her face softens, and she leans toward me. I meet her over the gearbox and receive one very soft kiss and a grateful smile.

After I grab the jerseys out of the back, we go inside, holding hands in the elevator. On the children’s ward, Jess stops outside room 302. She takes a deep breath and then taps on the door.

“Come in,” says a low voice.

We enter to find a skinny teenager in a bed, with a blanket pulled up to her chin. And right away I realize one important truth. I’m such an idiot. I thought I had enough jollies to get us both through this, but the girl’s blanket looks like a scratchy hospital edition, and I realize I should’ve brought one of the plush Toronto blankets instead. My mom has ’em all over the house.