Him (Him #1)(8)

4





Jamie





We’re looking at a quiet night in the hotel—a fact I’m sure half my teammates are extremely unhappy about. Particularly the freshmen and sophomore players, who are at the Frozen Four for the first time and were expecting to party like crazy this weekend. Coach squashed that notion pretty quick, though.

He laid down the law before anyone could even pick up their menus at the team dinner—ten o’clock curfew, no alcohol, no drugs, no shenanigans.

The upperclassmen know the drill, so none of us are especially bummed as we ride the elevator up to our block of rooms on the third floor. Tomorrow is game day. That means tonight is about taking it easy and getting some sleep.

Terry and I were assigned room 343 near the stairwell, so we’re the last ones in the hallway as we head for our door.

The moment we reach it, we freeze.

There’s a box on the carpet. Pale blue. No wrapping except for a white notecard stuck to the top reading Jamie Canning in flowery cursive.

What the shit?

My first thought is that my mom shipped something from California, but if she had, there’d be an address, postage, her handwriting.

“Um…” Terry shuffles before planting his hands on his hips. “You think it’s a bomb?”

I snicker. “I don’t know. Go put your ear on it and tell me if you hear ticking.”

He snickers back. “Uh-huh, I see how it is. Such a great friend, Canning, putting me in the line of fire. Well, forget it. That’s your name on the f*cking thing.”

We both stare at the package again. It’s no bigger than a shoebox.

Beside me, Terry scrunches his face in mock terror and wails out, “What’s in the box?”

“Dude, nice Seven reference,” I say, genuinely impressed.

He grins. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to do that. Years.”

We take a moment to high-five each other, and I squat down and pick up the box because as entertaining as this convo is, we both know the thing is harmless. I tuck it under my arm and wait as Terry swipes his keycard to open the door, and then the two of us stride into the room. He flicks the light and heads for his bed, while I flop down on the edge of mine and lift the box’s lid.

Wrinkling my forehead, I unwrap the white tissue paper and pull out the soft bundle of fabric inside.

From across the room, Terry hoots. “Dude…what the f*ck?”

I have no idea. I’m staring at a pair of white boxers with bright orange kittens all over them, including an ill-placed tabby right at the crotch. When I hold them up by the waistband, another card flutters out. This one has one word on it.

MEOW.

And holy shit, I recognize the handwriting this time.

Ryan Wesley.

I can’t help it. I snort so loud it sends Terry’s eyebrows soaring up his forehead. I ignore my friend’s reaction, too amused and bewildered by the significance of this gift.

The box. Wes has resurrected our old joke box. Except for the life of me, I have no idea why. I had been the last one to send it. And I remember feeling pretty damn smug about my choice of gifts—a package of Blow Pops. Because, well, how could I resist?

Wes hadn’t sent anything back. He also hadn’t called, texted, snail mailed, or courier pigeoned. Not a single word from him for three and a half years.

Until now.

“Who’s it from?” Terry is smirking at me, visibly entertained by the ridiculous gift in my hands.

“Holly.” Her name leaves my mouth so smoothly it surprises me. I don’t know why I lied. Easy enough to say the boxers are from an old friend, a rival, whatever. But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to tell Terry the truth.

“Is this an inside joke or something? Why would she send you kitten boxers?”

“Uh, you know, because she calls me kitten sometimes.” Oh, for f*ck’s sake.

Terry pounces on that in a heartbeat. “Kitten? Your girlfriend calls you kitten?”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

But the point is moot because he’s doubled over in laughter, and I want to kick myself for giving him embarrassing ammo he’ll no doubt use against me until the end of time. I should’ve just told him it was from Wes.

Why the hell didn’t I?

“Uh, excuse me,” he says, still chuckling as he marches to the door.

I narrow my eyes. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry about it, kitten.”

A sigh gets stuck in my throat. “You’re going to knock on every door and tell the guys, aren’t you?”

“Yup.” He’s gone before I can protest, but honestly I don’t care all that much. So the guys will ride me about the kitten thing for a few days. Eventually one of my teammates will do something ridiculous and it’ll be his turn to take the heat.

After the door swings shut behind Terry, I stare at the boxers again, an unwitting smile reaching my lips. Fuckin’ Wes. I’m not sure what this means, but he must know I’m in town for the championship. Maybe this is his way of apologizing? Extending an olive branch?

Either way, I’m too curious to ignore the gesture. I reach for the phone and dial the front desk, then wait on the line to an awesome elevator rendition of Katy Perry’s “Roar.” Which only makes me chuckle, because, you know, roar. Meow.