We lost the game. She didn't call to check on me or even text some sort of encouragement. And now her phone is off, and I have no way to reach her. I can’t even go to her place.
I don't know where she lives.
How do I not know where my girlfriend lives? What kind of relationship is this, where I can't even show up at her door?
I consider my options. I could call Jennifer, but that would look suspicious.
Hey, do you have Avery's home address? No reason, just want to stalk my publicist.
Yeah, that'll go over well.
I try calling her again. Straight to voicemail.
“Fuck!” I throw my phone on the couch, running my hands through my hair.
Three hours. Three hours since the game ended, and not a word from her.
Is she avoiding me because she’s regretting last night? This morning? Did she decide this whole thing was a mistake, and now she's ghosting me?
My thoughts spiral, each one worse than the last.
I need to get out of here. Being alone with my thoughts is making everything worse.
I grab my phone and call Jake.
“Nova?” He sounds surprised. “Thought you went home.”
“I did. Where are you?”
“Club Falcon. We're drowning our sorrows in the VIP section. You should come.”
I should stay home. I should be the mature, responsible guy I claimed I wanted to be this morning.
“Fuck it,” I mutter. “I'll be there in twenty.”
I can't just sit here going crazy.
Club Falcon is packedwhen I arrive. The bouncer waves me through immediately, and I make my way to the VIP section, where I can already hear my teammates.
Jake spots me first. “Nova. What happened? Thought you were staying in tonight.”
“Changed my mind.” I sink into the leather booth, grabbing the beer someone slides toward me. “Can't sit at home thinking about that disaster.”
“Tell me about it,” Ryan groans. “Their goalie was fucking unbeatable.”
“We played like shit,” Ethan adds. “Coach is going to murder us at practice tomorrow.”
I notice Cole isn't here. Of course he's not. He's probably holed up with Harper, being the perfect boyfriend, while I'm sitting here because my girlfriend turned off her phone and disappeared.
The thought makes me take a huge sip of my beer.
I try to focus on the shit talk, on the post-game analysis, on anything other than the fact that Avery is MIA and I have no idea why.
We're about an hour in when there's a commotion near the VIP rope. A guy in a Detroit jersey is leaning over, drunk and confrontational.
“Hey, Renegades!” he shouts. “Thanks for the easy win! Y'all looked like peewee players out there!”
His friends laugh, equally drunk and obnoxious.
