He slowly shakes his head and rubs a circle into my back. “Not right now, no. I think I had some suspicions before. Like your reaction to Savard was… odd? Now, it makes sense. But right now, I think the last thing that you want from me is blowing up and demanding to kill him.”
“That’s a really good answer.”
The three of us sit there on the bench by the lake, quiet, for a long time.
On the walk back to the truck, my ankle is worse. Alex offers to carry me and I tell him absolutely not. He takes my backpack off my shoulder without asking and slings it over his own. I let him, because my pride has limits and my ankle doesn't care about any of them.
Gordie trots ahead of us on the trail, happy and oblivious, snapping at a butterfly that gets too close tohis face. I watch him and feel something loosen in my chest. Not completely. But some.
In the truck, I'm quiet. Alex drives with one hand on the wheel and holds my hand with the other. The road hums under us. Seattle reappears in the windshield, gray and green and familiar.
"Thank you," I say, squeezing his hand. "For not trying to fix it."
He squeezes back. He doesn't need to say anything else.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mollie
Indie shows up to Alex’s house an hour early with two ring lights, a portable tripod, three backup chargers, and a bag of sour gummy worms that she dumps on the kitchen counter like she's stocking a bunker.
"Nervous snacks," she announces. "For me, not you. You're not allowed to eat on camera."
"Ha fricking ha." I pull my hair up, then let it down, then pull it up again. My hands won't stay still.
Indie catches my wrist. "Leave it down. You look more approachable with your hair down."
"I'm not trying to be approachable. I'm trying to accuse my former coach of being a predator on the internet."
"Right, but you want people to listen." She steers me to the couch and pushes me down. "Approachable gets listeners, polished gets skeptics. Trust me on this."
She's not wrong. I've spent years building an audience on this platform and I know exactly how it works. The algorithm rewards authenticity. Or at least theperformanceof authenticity. No makeup, no ring light cranked to full blast, no studio setup. I need to be just a woman on a couch, in her living room, with her boyfriend’s dog and her best friend.
Does that sell the whole ‘I’m telling the truth’ bit enough? I’m not sure.
God, I'm going to throw up.
Alex walks in from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. He sets mine on the side table without being asked, and leans down to kiss the top of my head. The smell of him, cedar and soap, settles something in my chest, if only for a moment. I grab his shirt and give him a quick kiss.
"You good?" he asks.
"Absolutely not."
"You're going to be great."
"I'm going to puke on camera. Then it will go viral and I’ll be the puking girl."
He crouches in front of me and takes my shaking hands in his. His blue eyes are steady and serious in a way that makes my throat tighten. "You don't have to do this today. You filed the complaint with the Federation. You can let the process work."
I screw up my face. "The process takes months. The girls Savard is coaching don't have months. And I can’t let the Seattle Havoc hire him. That’s would be beyond the pale."
He searches my face for a second, then nods. "Okay. Then I'm right here."
"Off camera, though. We don’t want to muddy the water by bringing a famous face into the story."
"I’m here for you, Freckles. My celebrity is here to be used or not used at your discretion." He squeezes my hands and stands up, retreating to the kitchen. Out of frame, close enough that I can hear him breathing if the room goes quiet. Gordie follows him for approximately four seconds before deciding that I'mthe better bet for attention. The big black dog plods back to the couch, where he collapses at my feet.
"You're such a ham," I tell him. He thumps his tail once and puts his chin on my ankle. I run my fingers through the silky hair of his ears.
