by Sarina Bowen
“But plenty of men will be there,” I point out.
Her frown is contemplative. “I’ll meditate on it.”
“You do that.” I click on Mr. Dick’s request. It reads: MrEightInches requires: one silk Kimono.
“Oh God!” Jenny snorts. “This could be a good one.”
And Mr. Dick does not disappoint. He requires a kimono in men’s size medium. At least forty-eight inches long, he’s supplied. 100% silk. Color unimportant.
Naturally there’s a photo. He’s cropped off his face, which is a shame because Jenny and I have been curious about him for ages. But a man’s body is shown—naked except for a stretchy pair of bright blue briefs, barely covering his erection, which lays angled in the briefs, straining the fabric.
Jenny giggles, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.
In the shot, a tape measure dangles from his shoulder, hanging down his body. The tape passes his unit, ending at about his knee. I zoom in on the end to see that it’s fifty inches at that length.
“Do you think you can find a kimono?” I ask. “Use my computer if you want. There’s something I need to run out and do.” A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost time to walk Rufus.
“Wait. Zoom in! We can finally verify whether MrEightInches is telling the truth! The angle of the tape isn’t quite right, though. So we’ll have to do a little trigonometry to discern whether his hypotenuse is eight inches. We can use the Pythagorean theorem...”
“Gotta run,” I say, getting out of the chair. “I’ll text you in twenty, okay? If the kimono proves hard to find, we’ll brainstorm.”
Jenny slides into the desk chair I’ve vacated, but her eyes are following me as I grab my jacket and shove my arms inside. “You’re acting a little weird right now.”
“Just late. Bye!” I escape, leaving Jenny to wonder, and hopefully to buy a kimono for a rich guy with a long dong.
Is my business fun, or what?
Sniper’s apartment is just a couple blocks from my office, so it only takes me a few minutes at a slow jog. I wore very sensible shoes today for my romp with Rufus. The building is the kind with a shiny-buttoned doorman waiting to usher me inside.
“I’m here to walk Rufus in 303,” I tell him.
“He’ll be happy to see you. It’s been several hours since I let him relieve himself on my cigarette break. Go right on up.”
The elevator delivers me to a corridor carpeted to muffle footsteps. Sniper’s door is opened by a keypad. The code is 1967. That’s the year Toronto last won the Stanley Cup.
But, hey. This is Ontario. Half the security codes and ATM-machine PINS might be 1967. We love our hockey.
“Woof!” says Rufus, leaping from the couch. It’s a happy sound, and it’s accompanied by a full-body tail-wagging. I drop down and show him the love. He gyrates and sniffs and bounds around. See what a good boy I am? his body language demands. I’ve been home alone for hours and I didn’t eat Daddy’s furniture.
“You are a very good boy,” I agree. “The best. Why don’t you find your leash so we can go for a walk?”
He gallops off, and I stand, turning toward the immaculate kitchen at the far end of the room. The island countertop is completely bare except for two things. A fruit bowl I picked out to match my client’s dishes.
And a white card, tented on its edges.
I cross the room because I can’t see what’s written there. As I approach the card, I find there are two words inked onto it.
For HotTiE.
When I yank the card off the shiny surface to study the lettering, there’s something underneath. Two tickets. To tomorrow night’s home game.
In row D.
I let out a little whoop of joy a split second before remembering that there’s a security camera in here.
Rufus barks in agreement with me. Sheepish now, I zip the card and those tickets very carefully into my jacket pocket.
I take Rufus out to the park, running all the way there. And then I text Jenny. Change of plans. Come to the game with me tomorrow night. Just scored a pair of excellent seats.
Reeeeeeally, comes her instant response. And how did that happen?
It’s top secret, I try. But who am I kidding? She’ll have me spilling the whole story the instant I get back to the office.
Really, who could keep it in?
I’m weirdly nervous the next night. As if I were actually about to meet Matt Eriksson. Which I’m not. I’ll probably never meet him. But I take a little extra time in the ladies’ room anyway, applying lipstick as if for a date.
Back at my desk, I send Jenny a text. Leaving now. Meet you at the main doors in 20! Then I tuck my keys and phone into my bag, preparing to depart the office.
But there’s one more big decision to make. Jersey or no jersey? That is the question. And I’ve been waffling on this point all day.
On the one hand, a good fan always wears her jersey to the game. And, fine, I’m a little superstitious. The one time I forgot my jersey, my boys lost.
Yet my jersey says ERIKSSON across the back. And just on the outside chance he knows which seats he gave me and looks to see if I’ve used them, I’d rather not out myself as a superfan. Even if my tongue hangs out every time I see his face on TV, I need to at least keep the appearance of professionalism so long as we’re working together.
What to do?
I’ll miss the puck drop if I worry much longer. So I shove the jersey into my oversized bag and leave my office, flicking the lock shut before I pull the door closed.
Outside, in the bullpen area where the other Fetchers sit, I take a quick glance around. Dion is quarterbacking the night shift, and he looks up to give me a salute, which I return. That’s good news for me. Dion is a solid employee who rarely contacts me with problems.
Fetch is open 24/7 in order to serve our rich customer base at any hour. We charge more for services after eight p.m. and before eight a.m., too. It makes good business sense. There are five Fetchers on duty tonight, including Dion.
Since it’s an even-numbered day, I’m on call tonight. There’s a small risk I’ll be yanked back to the office to solve a problem during the game.
But everything looks quiet in the bullpen, so I make my way toward the door. Just before I exit, I notice the strip of light under Jackson’s door. Since I’m the one on call, I’m a little surprised that he’s still here at seven thirty. A problem, maybe?
It’s just four feet or so down the hallway to his door. I lift a hand to knock, but then stop short when I hear voices.
“The property looks great,” Jackson’s voice says. “It’s a first-class place. Melinda went with me, and she loves that neighborhood. It’s beautiful over there.”
My heart plummets. Melinda, huh? I’d heard whispers that Jackson was dating someone. It was bound to happen eventually. But they’re looking at real estate together? Already?
The freak-out I’m having almost prevents me from hearing more. But then I hear my ex’s father speak, and it starts to dawn on me that I’ve misinterpreted something.
“...Great foot traffic,” Mr. Emery is saying. “The income level in that neighborhood is even higher than here in Yorkville. You’re gonna make a mint.”
“But we’re not ready to expand the business,” Jackson hedges. “The timing just isn’t right.”
“And whose fault is that, son?”
In the brief silence that follows, I feel a chill on my back. Jackson’s father is the most argumentative person alive. And Jackson isn’t very good at telling him where to shove it.
“Dad…”
“Buy her out, Jack. Do it now. You can’t grow your business if Hailey is still riding your coattails.”
The chill I’d been feeling becomes an arctic gust.
“Now that’s unfair,” Jackson says softly, while I quietly die on the other side of the door. It’s good of him to come to my defense, but the fact that they’re having this conversation at all makes me want to howl. “Fetch is as much Hailey�
�s business as it is mine.”
“Which is why she might jump at the chance to cash out,” his father presses. “The way you two have things set up, the girl has to be cash poor. What if I lent you a half million to send her on her way? You could have Fetch offices in four cities by a year from now!”
It’s awful how easy it is to picture myself pushed aside. Mr. Emery never wanted Jackson and me to start this business, but the minute we became successful he’d tried to muscle in as an investor. We always turn down his offers.
At least, we always have until now. But now that we’re divorced, maybe I don’t know Jackson’s mind so well anymore.
There is movement behind the door, and the fear of getting caught unsticks me. I take two quiet steps backward, spin around, and exit as fast as I can.
Dashing out of the office, I hurry down the set of exterior stairs, not even pausing to admire the brickwork and the antique iron sconces. I love this office, hidden just out of view of Yorkville’s multimillion-dollar real estate. And I love this little company I built with my ex-husband.
They can’t buy me out. I won’t let them.
As I stomp down Scollard Street toward the subway station, my heart is full of angry thoughts. Screw you, Mr. Emery. I never rode Jackson’s coattails. Damn that man! He never liked me.
When I say he never liked me, I mean never. Even when I was seven years old and climbing trees with Jackson in the backyard, he used to curl his lip at me. He let me know at an early age that I wasn’t good enough for his only son, that the tomboy daughter of a middle-class single mother would never belong in his millionaire household.
Many times during the past year and a half I’ve reminded myself that the only silver lining to getting divorced at twenty-seven is not having Herbert Emery as a father-in-law anymore.
My rage carries me into the subway station. But by the time I’m swiping my Metropass at the turnstyle, my anger is already giving way to the heavy drag of sadness.
I am, after all, the only person I know who co-owns a business with her ex-husband. It’s weird. I’ll admit it. And it’s not like we’re silent partners, either. I see him every day at work. Or almost every day. We don’t share a home anymore, but it wouldn’t be fair to say that I’ve moved on.
Will I ever?
When I was nineteen, I literally married the boy next door. By then, Jackson and I had already known each other all our lives. We grew up in the suburbs of Toronto, both in tense homes. His was tense because his father was super successful and overbearing. Mine was tense because my mother was verbally abusive and occasionally violent.
Jackson and I found refuge in our friendship from an early age, retreating to the treehouse in his backyard when things got too crazy at home.
Sometime during high school, our relationship changed from sleepovers in the treehouse to sleeping together in the treehouse. We headed off to the same college a year later. And when I was nineteen, we eloped during a spring-break trip to Vegas. That was ten years ago.
Five years ago Jackson and I came up with the idea for Fetch while watching a reality TV show. At first, it was just our weird little brainstorm. But when Jackson’s company relocated to Vancouver, he was out of work. So our idea became a plan. I quit my banking job to help him start the business. Three years ago we turned our first profit, and we’ve been growing ever since.
And eighteen months ago… Jackson and I were having coffee together at his desk when he very gently brought up the idea of divorce. “We’re great friends. We run a kickass business together. But I don’t think we’ve ever set the standard for world’s most romantic couple,” he’d pointed out.
Even though my gut said he was right, my heart broke right then and there, crumbling and landing among the crumbs of the oatmeal cookie I’d just eaten.
I was crushed. I still am, if I’m honest. The rejection still stings so sharply that I’ve done nothing but work like a dog for the past year and a half.
Jackson moved out, leaving me our apartment and all its furnishings. He’d meant it as a kindness—so I wouldn’t have to search for an apartment or buy new things. But now I live in a museum of our old life. I still eat my morning cereal out of bowls we chose together at the Eaton Centre. After a shower, I dry off with towels that I bought because he liked that particular shade of blue.
Maybe we hadn’t had the most passionate relationship on the planet. But passion isn’t everything. We’re so well suited in many other ways. And losing someone you’ve known your whole life leaves a big hole.
Now his father wants to push me even further away.
As the train pulls into the station at the hockey stadium, I actually consider Mr. Emery’s idea. If I sold my stake in the company, I’d have enough money to move somewhere else, to get a fresh start. I could travel like I’ve always wanted to, and then find a new job.
It’s not like it never occurs to me to put a little distance between Jackson and me. But, damn it! That business is half mine, and it’s a success. My mom spent my whole childhood trying to convince me that I’d never succeed at anything. And now I have.
Even if the success is only half mine.
I hadn’t known Jackson was so hot to expand into other neighborhoods. We’d mentioned expanding “someday” before.
Maybe he’s been waiting all these months for me to realize I need to move on? Now there’s an unsettling idea. But I can almost see it. He’s a kind man—his father’s opposite. It would be just like him to wait me out. To let me realize for myself that it was time to go.
We were always good to each other. The only couple I knew who never fought. And he wanted a divorce. Because that makes so much sense. Whenever anyone asks me about it, I always say we’re amicably divorced, and how great it is. Though only the first half of that is true.
Luckily, there’s hockey to ease my pain.
I emerge into the excitement of game night. Red jerseys swarm toward the turnstiles as I circle this happy chaos in search of Jenny.
“Over here!”
Turning, I realize she’s been hard to spot because her jersey matches too well with the photos on the wall behind her. She wears a replica jersey for the team captain and a giant smile.
“Come on!” she squeaks. “Puck drops in fifteen minutes. And we have to buy food.” She hefts a sign under her arm as I approach.
“Wait.” I eye the poster board. “What does that say?” Jenny is a little, um, freer spirited than I am, and for all I know the sign offers a blowjob for every goal scored.
She angles the cardboard and lifts her arm so I can see the message she’s written there. C’MON BOYS! THIS IS OUR YEAR! Thank God. Now we probably won’t end up on ESPN’s psycho-fan-of-the-night segment.
“Let’s get pulled-pork sandwiches and beer. My treat.”
“You don’t have to pay,” I protest.
“I know. But this way if the future Mr. Hailey gives us seats again sometime, you’ll have to invite me because I bought you dinner.”
“You’ve got this all planned out, huh?”
“You bet I do.” She gives me a slightly evil grin, and my appreciation for her quadruples right on the spot. Jenny was one of our first hires at Fetch, right before we officially opened our doors. She’s one of our managers, and definitely my best friend. I’m technically her boss, but we just pretend I’m not a lot of the time.
I own a business with my ex. I party with my employee. Maybe my life is a little claustrophobic. Sue me.
After we buy some food we make our way down to the best seats in the world. “Wow,” I gasp as we get our first view of the warmup skate.
“Wow,” Jenny echoes, her eyes widening as our idols whip past on their blades. We’re so close to the action we can hear the scrape of steel against ice. “This is as close as I’ve come to having a religious experience.”
“You said that when we saw U2 last year.”
“But Bono wasn’t stretching his powerful thighs ten feet in front of me.” Jenny sighs hap
pily as big forward Blake Riley glides past the glass with a smile. Then he blows a kiss right at us. No—right near us.
“Love you, baby!” someone calls from two feet behind me.
Turning around is merely instinctual. A pretty blonde waves Riley off, and I glance at the man sitting beside her.
Then, ever so casually, I turn back around, my heart thumping. “Jenny!” I squeak as soon as we’re standing for the national anthem. I risk a whisper into her ear because another occupant of the row right behind us is singing “O Canada” at a volume unmatched by most humans’ lung capacity. “We’re sitting in front of the players’ families. Including one half of Wesmie.”
Jenny’s eyes widen, and I see her sneak a glance back at Jamie Canning, who’s famous for marrying star player Ryan Wesley. “These are incredible seats,” she hisses. “You’d better keep walking that dog, missy. I want to come back next week.”
That’s when I spot Matt Eriksson, and my pulse jumps several notches. He skates out with Wesley and Blake, and the three of them get into position for the face-off. His attention is focused entirely on the puck, a serious expression on his rugged face.
I’m tense as the puck drops, and I don’t even know why. Then they’re off like a shot as Wesley wins the puck and passes to Eriksson. A little shriek of excitement escapes me as I lean forward in my seat.
I am a Toronto girl in her element tonight. Hear me roar. “KILL THEM, MATTY!” I holler.
“Ow!” Jenny complains, covering an ear. “Pace yourself. U2 wasn’t this loud.”
“Sorry.”
“BUT HOCKEY FANS DON’T HOLD BACK!” the woman behind us roars. “GET ’EM BLAKEY! CARVE HIS TURKEY!”
“YEAH!” I belt out. “DROP ’IM LIKE A DRESS ON PROM NIGHT!”
“Wow,” Jenny says, eyes wide. “I knew you were a fan, but I didn’t know—”
The sentence goes unfinished because Toronto charges the net. Wesley passes to Eriksson, who shoots and it’s… My blood stops circulating.
Denied. The Dallas goalie makes a highlight-reel save off the tip of his glove, and a defenseman flicks it away.