-Thank you.
“Can you sign the back of my shirt for me?” her friend asks as she lowers her coat and throws her hair over one shoulder, exposing her bare back and neck to my stupid-beautiful-friend-cousin, who simply takes the pen the woman hands him. another girl
When his hand goes over her shoulder to grab her shirt, I walk away and order another beer, which I don’t need because I can’t stand the sight of his hand on another woman.
I feel like there are hot coals burning in my gut.
I turn my hand in a let’s- fuck-get-moving gesture toward the waiter, and he smiles at me. He probably notices that I’m swaying or that my eyes are glassy. But you know what? I do not care. I have been very obedient to my family. I have been a professional in my career. And I’ve had some shitty weeks. If I want to watch my life go down the toilet, at least I can have some delicious Buddyz Bests while I do it.
I look over my shoulder at Jasper. His hands are still resting on the girl’s back as he bends down to sign her white shirt.
If envy were an art, I would be a master. Over the years, I’ve tortured myself by watching the NHL awards. I have seen him year after year with a different woman, each one more stunning than the last. I would see them all dressed up, walking the red carpet, smiling at the cameras, and when I was done, I would get into bed and imagine what they were doing at that very moment.
I imagined them clinking crystal glasses filled with fancy champagne, surrounded by other players at some fancy club, followed by a quiet hotel room, where Jasper would take off her sparkly, tight dress. Because they are always elegant and shiny.
Her lips.
Her hands.
His moans.
Imagining it is easier than seeing it up close.
I wrap my hands around the slippery pint glasses that appear before me and return to our table.
“I want you to sign my tits” is the first phrase I hear, and it makes me lower my beer glasses harder than I intended. Drunkenness collides with rage and causes the golden liquid to splash on my hands.
“I only sign paper, clothing and promotional products,” is Jasper’s simple response. You’ve probably heard this request for signatures on tits many times.
I turn around and wipe my hands on my jeans, not caring about the wet spots they leave behind.
The girl walks over and rolls her eyes as if what he said didn’t matter.
-Come on. There is hardly anyone here. Her lips tilt into a smile and she pulls the neckline of her already deep V-neck down even further. Right here.
-Sorry no.
Are you apologizing to her? Her eyes land on mine and, to her credit, she doesn’t even glance at her cleavage which now shows the trim of her red lace bra.
-Do you prefer to do it in the bathroom so that no one can see?
His eyes are tense and searching. He looks like a dog staring at me through the bars of a shelter, desperate for someone to save him, protect him. I think he’s always needed it in some way.
Holding his navy blue gaze, I take a drink and damn, the more Buddyz Best I drink, the better it tastes.
“Girl, stop.” “You’re embarrassing yourself,” I say, looking away at the woman who is showing him her tits as if it were the dish of the day at a fast food restaurant.
I’m cringing for Jasper, but also for her.
Hilariously, I’m cringing for myself too.
Shrinkage all over.
His eyes narrow and his shoulders shake.
“He’s just acting tough.” He turns to Jasper with a slow feline smile stretching his lips. But I am patient. And I like to play.
I snort in the most unladylike way, my alcohol consumption really coming to the fore. But it’s like he’s watching me from above. Little Sloane going down a slippery slope without being able to stop.
-Play what? Sexual harassment?
The girl crosses her arms under her breasts, pushing them up again. And gosh, they’re really big. I admit I feel a little envious.
Rich coming from the girl who has just been all pressed against a man who is not her husband. I bet your real husband would love to know that you’re here prostituting yourself to an NHL player.
A loud laugh comes from my throat and everyone looks at me, stunned.
“Prostituting yourself?” -That’s funny. Sterling would certainly use the term ‘prostitute’.
I laugh again and the girls look at me like I’m crazy. And they are not wrong.
The thought of Sterling knowing that I’m traveling with Jasper, that we’re sharing a hotel room, playing pool and having fun, is suddenly deeply satisfying.
And hilarious.
I can vividly imagine the vein in his forehead throbbing and his fleshy fingers curling in on themselves as he stomps his foot and demands I come home. Suddenly, Sterling Woodcock is nothing more than a rude, red-faced little boy in my head, and the image sends me over the edge.
The laughter bubbles up slowly and before I know it, I’m laughing so hard I’m crying.
Jasper shakes his head, but the amusement is clear on his face. He walks over and puts a long arm around my shoulders.
“Time to go, Winthrop. He turns to guide us, with the girls clearly confused.
-No! I need to finish my Buddyz Best so I can complete my training as an expert. And you have to sign that girl’s tits so she can keep pretending that she wants your autograph when what she wants is for you to caress her melons.
The sound of a scoff and the sight of the girls turning to leave catches my attention momentarily.
“I really hope you track down Sterling and tell him this.
Jasper’s laugh echoes against me as he leads me to our coats, and that only makes me laugh harder. It’s so satisfying. Even if he’s making a fool of himself. I do not care anymore. The point of worrying was two beers ago.
“Sunny, you’re drunk, and all the melons are going to stay in the produce section.”
“They were big, Jas. And so round. I raise my hands in front of me and imitate squeezing some breasts. I’m a little jealous if I’m honest. I would kill for some melons like that. Do you know which store they sell them in? I would pay good money.
He covers me with my coat and throws his over his arm before throwing the money on the table. Then I hug him again and we walk out into the dark, freezing night.
“You’re perfect just the way you are, Sloane. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.
Normally I would preen and overthink that sentence, but right now I just giggle.
“Are you saying my melons are pretty?” I stick out my chest and caress them.
“One of these days you’re going to get me into trouble,” he answers.
“Would you sign the melons if I asked you?”
“I need to get you some water.”
“Don’t be a stick in the mud, Gervais. Answer the question.