Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Chapter 30
Real Men Can Wear Pom-Poms
Blake
Three weeks later
Right after Jess and I got together, I was a little worried that I wouldn’t remember how to be somebody’s boyfriend. I mean, it’s been five years since I held that title, and there’s really no proof that I was any good at this shit before. When your girlfriend lies to your face about your fake baby, a guy has to take a step back and ask himself where he went so wrong.
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 maître 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 slid me a sideways glance across the sofa. “They give you a table whenever you 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 blond 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.