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“There’s the press conference after,” I protest. “Please, Quinn?”
She gives me a skeptical look, but sighs and relents. “I’m gonna dye my hair while we watch, since you’re forcing me.”
I smile. I probably don’t deserve her as a friend, but I’m grateful that she’s here. Especially since Mom has to rest most of the time. I wouldn’t want to bother her with having to comfort me and take care of herself at the same time.
Quinn plops down in the living room with me while I let the press conference play. I’m disappointed when I see that Reese isn’t there. I’d been hoping for a glimpse of him. For some sign that, despite everything, he was doing okay. Maybe he’d feel how sorry I was that I had to leave, that I wasn’t ready for… any of this.
The voices of the players and their coach become warbled white noise as I mentally check out of the entire thing. They’re hedging questions about “The Scandal.” I’m “The Girl,” like the title is something dirty that needs to be hidden away. Maybe that’s the reason Reese isn’t there; everything having to do with us is a dirty mark that has to be scrubbed away before?—
Hold on.
Commotion. Noise. Chaos and off-screen hubbub.
The ruckus on the screen pulls me out of my seat. My eyes widen when I see that it’s Reese, running up to the stage and plucking a microphone off the table. No one’s able to stop him. He’s too nimble.
No—he’s too determined. I recognize that immoveable glint in his eyes when he’s set his mind to something. It’s a look I’m all too familiar with. I’ve seen it every time he decides he’s going to learn how to do something for Violet and stick to it.
And then he starts to speak.
With every word, my heart swells and swells. He has no regrets about us? He truly feels that way for me? He?—
“I love Olivia Carter.”
He says it three times in his speech. Three. One already felt like so much, two is overwhelming, but three? In front of a crowd of people and broadcasted to millions more than that?
“Olivia, check me out!”
Quinn calls my attention back to her with a cackle. She’s got her hair draped like a dark curtain in front of her face, like that scary girl from The Ring. She starts to make creepy noises and reach toward me with crooked fingers.
Before I can think and before she can realize what I’m doing quick enough to stop me, I bolt from the couch.
“Olivia? Olivia!”
I don’t reply. I scramble for my keys and sprint out the door.
There are still a few tabloid vultures out front, but they’ve lost a chunk of their zeal. Before they’re able to realize what’s going on, I run to my car and fling myself inside.
I have to get to the stadium.
I have to tell Reese how I feel.
60
OLIVIA
Traffic is a bitch post-game. I zip and zoom in between cars going too damn slow on the highway and narrowly avoid the attention of patrolling cops.
My mind is hyper-focused on one thing and one thing only: catching up to Reese.
When I finally get to the stadium, it’s still packed. More traffic, cars and pedestrians spilling chaotically in every direction. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel with impatient ferocity. People meander in and out of parking spaces and despite my best efforts, I still end up in a space out in the middle of nowhere.
It doesn’t matter.
When I park, angled stupidly across three adjacent spots, I hop out and run at a breakneck speed to the stadium. My lungs are burning by the time I reach the doors. However, when I try to get in, I’m stopped.
“Ma’am, you can’t go in there,” a stadium attendant says to me. His voice is flat, and his face gives the impression that he would rather be anywhere but here. I don’t blame him. He’s probably had to deal with thousands of drunk, unruly hockey patrons.
But I’m not one of them. I’m just trying to get in to see Reese.
