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And now…I was even more intrigued.
A second later, a text came through with the contact information for some guy named Jeff.
What kind of P.I.’s name was Jeff?
The wait took forever. Apparently when you only had a first name and where someone had been sitting at a hockey game…it was difficult to find a person. I hadn’t given him the picture I’d taken of her sleeping…even in my desperation. I couldn’t share that moment with someone else.
It was mine.
We lost the first round of the playoffs. I searched the stands for her each home game, trying to see if she would make an appearance.
But she never did.
The loss was even worse than usual because now I didn’t have the season to distract me. Not from the silence from Dallas, not from L.A. pushing me to re-sign…not from the lack of…her.
I clicked through the channels on the tv, scoffing when I saw NHL Network was playing a replay of our game against Seattle.
Because of course they were. The universe just loved fucking with me.
Wait…Seattle. She’d said something about them.
She’d said she’d been at the game because she knew someone from Seattle! Her cousin!
How the fuck had I forgotten that?
Probably because I was trying to block out the fact that she was wearing another man’s jersey.
I’d only just allowed my sheets and the jersey she’d worn to be washed last week…and only because the smell of her had finally faded.
Fucking hell.
I dialed Jeff, who was probably going to ban me as a client soon with how many times I called him on a daily basis.
“Her cousin’s on the team,” I blurted out the moment he picked up.
“Relax, kid, I finally figured that out last night,” he muttered grumpily. “No thanks to you. I could have gotten you something fucking sooner if you’d remembered that important little tidbit.” He huffed dramatically like he wasn’t fucking charging me a gazillion dollars for every hour that he worked. “Check your texts.”
Was it okay for my heart to be beating this fast? Because it was. It was beating out of my fucking ribcage as I pulled up the text he’d just sent.
The fuckingvideoactually.
There she was in a vid that must have been from a security camera in the arena, sitting next to the girl I vaguely remembered from that night. Looking fucking adorable. And perfect.
And mine.
“What’s her last name?” I said in a weird sounding voice.
“She’sHarley Jacobs’cousin,” he explained, not answering my question. “Or at least I assume you’ve been looking for the one on the left, and you’re not boning Jacobs’ girlfriend. The girlfriend’s the chick to the right of her.”
“Nope, not that one,” I muttered, feeling dazed as I continued to stare at her, replaying the fucking clip over and over again like a lovesick crazy person.
“The tickets were in his name obviously, so I had to do a deep dive into his family history. You’re lucky she wasn’t just a friend. I’d never have been able to find that shit.”
“Who is she?” I growled. If he were in the room, I would have had my hands wrapped around his fucking throat, trying to shake the information out of him since he was obviously enjoying keeping me hanging.
“You’re going to want to sit down for this.”
“Fucking hell, JUST TELL ME.”
