We order turkey and avocado sandwiches from the deli two doors down and eat them on paper plates in the back room, surrounded by boxes and garment bags.
“Any drama this week?” I ask, unwrapping my sandwich. Mom always has stories. The boutique is a small universe of women and their problems.
“Mrs. Wilson came in on Tuesday wanting to return that red shift dress she bought last month. She said it didn't fit right.”
“A month later?”
“Yeah. And the dress smelled like perfume, and it had champagne stains. That woman wore that dress to a wedding and brought it back like I wouldn't notice,” Mom says.
“What did you do?”
“I told her we don't accept returns on items that have been worn. She turned the color of the dress and left.”
I burst out laughing, imagining the stern expression on my mother’s face as she chastised Mrs. Wilson.
“And then there's Mrs. Ford,” Mom says. “She comes in every Wednesday at two o'clock, like clockwork, tries on five or six outfits, but she never buys a thing.”
“That doesn't bother you?” I ask, knowing I would not have that kind of patience.
“Baby, that woman's husband died last year, and her kids live in California. She comes here because she needs somewhere to go and someone to talk to. If trying on dresses for an hour makes her feel good, she can try on every dress in this shop.”
When I leave at three, Mom hugs me at the door and holds on a beat longer than usual. “Be smart. I love you.”
“I'm always smart,” I quip.
“You're smart about everything except the things that can hurt you. That's where I come in.”
I kiss her cheek and head out to my car.
The Renegades are playing at home tonight, and Harper texted the group chat this morning to ask who was going. Avery and Natalie are in. Since I took on the Renegades account, Wilder arranged a standing seat for me in the corporate suite whenever I need to attend a game for work.
It's comfortable and private and has an excellent view of the sponsor signage, which is exactly what it's designed for. Tonight I don't need to be here for work. Harper and the girls are planning drinks after the game, so I text her back and tell her to save me a seat.
After a shower, I change into a pair of jeans and a fitted black turtleneck, finishing my look off with my favorite gold hoops and boots. I keep my makeup light and leave my hair down.
An hour later, I’m in a cab headed uptown.
The arena is packed. Saturday night hockey in New York draws a full house. Music pounds through the speakers, the ice gleams under the lights, and twenty thousand people arefiling into their seats with beers and hot dogs, most of them in Renegades jerseys.
The rest of the fans are wearing Nashville Sinners’ red and white jerseys.
Harper has seats in the family section in the lower bowl, a few rows behind the glass, near the tunnel on the Renegades bench side. It's reserved for players' wives, girlfriends, and families, which means George and Cat Shaw could be sitting a few rows away from me on any given night.
I push that thought aside and make my way down.
Harper is already there with Avery and Olivia when I arrive. Olivia has baby Maya on her lap, bouncing her on her knee while Maya chews on a stuffed Renegades bear. Natalie slides in a few minutes later, squeezing past knees and apologizing for being late due to traffic.
Hugs are exchanged. Harper hands me a beer.
“How are the guys feeling about this season?” Natalie asks. “Ethan won't say much, but I can tell he's wound tight.”
“Cole's the same,” Harper says. “He doesn't bring it home, but I can see it. After that first-round exit last year, there's pressure on all of them to prove it was a fluke.”
“Liam acts like nothing bothers him,” Avery says. “But he's been going to the gym at six in the morning, which is not normal for a man who considers ten a.m. an early start. He's feeling it too.”
“What about Logan?” Natalie asks, turning to me. “Harper told us you two grew up together. Childhood sweethearts, right? What happened? Why did you stop dating?”
So Harper told them we dated, but didn't tell them how it ended. I could kiss her for that.
