“Stop it,” I tell him before untying the bow. His knee bounces while I open it, and when I pull the lid off, I burst into a big grin. “You got me my own jersey?” He studies my face with a funny look. “You like it?” I pull the navy and white jersey out of the box, turning it to read the back. STREICHER is stitched in bold white lettering, and my body hums with something pleased, proud, and possessive. “You don’t have to wear my name on your back,” he says quietly, watching me carefully. “We can take that part off.” “Don’t you dare.” I hold his gaze as my insides melt into a puddle. “I want to
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