This is either the most romantic thing I've ever done or the dumbest. I genuinely can't tell the difference.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Thorne
Four days of being benched, and I'm climbing the walls. The story of my punching Savard leaked online the day after Mollie’s story went live, throwing us into a chaotic storm of gossip and speculation. I can’t say I’m sorry, though. Savard deserves far worse for what he did.
Adding to the maelstrom, my father has been texting me nonstop about how I’ve thrown away the rest of my career. Not really what I want to hear right now. When has that stopped him, though?
At least it’s better than the hate I’m getting online. I thought that I would feel relief about having my relationship with Mollie wide open. And I do. But I know from a quick check of my messages that my fans and haters are all up in arms about my admittedly complicated relationship.
They can all go fuck themselves.
My right hand is in a splint, ring finger fractured, two knuckles split open and scabbed over. The first regular season game is two weeks out, and I can't hold a stick. My agent has called three times with updates that aren't updates, but nervous check-ins. Juliet texted me a carefully worded message that basically said ‘please don't talk to the press.’
And Beck hasn't said a word to me since the rink.
Gordie is the only living creature in this house that doesn't look at me with concern. He's thrilled that I'm home all day. We've been on six walks since yesterday and he's ready to go on another. I have the feeling that I need to up his number of walks through the dogsitting service.
Mollie comes downstairs, dressed in jeans and a cropped sweater, her red curls wild around her face. She drops her bag on the counter and gives me a look. "Okay, Hotshot. Get up."
I'm sprawled on the couch with my splinted hand on my chest, staring at the ceiling. "I'm healing."
"You've been staring at that ceiling for too long." She grabs my good hand and pulls. "We're going to eat. I'm starving. And you need to eat something other than protein bars."
"Self-pity has a lot of fiber."
"Alex." She tugs harder. "Come on. We can go out to eat now without having to look over our shoulders. So, I’m going to need you to put on shoes. Real ones, not the slides."
I let her drag me off the couch because she's right. I haven't left the house since Tuesday. Besides, after telling Mollie’s brother we’re an item in the most awful way possible, I should at least get to kiss her in public.
We take her car because she insists, which means I fold myself into the passenger seat of Car-di B like a circus clown. The muffler rattles ominously as she pulls out of the marina lot.
"This car is a health hazard," I tell her.
"This car has character."
"Character is what people call it when something should be condemned."
She reaches over and pats my knee. "Shut up and enjoy the ride."
After we climb out of the car, I grab her and kiss her, squeezing her butt. She flushes and swats my chest. “Alexander Thorne, stop it right now.”
“It’s my reward. Now that everybody knows about us, there is nothing stopping me from pawing you, and slobbering all over you, every chance I get.”
Her warm brown eyes soften. “You’re not regretting this whole thing? Thinking that this is more trouble than I’m worth?”
“Hah!” I squeeze her ass again. Her warm little body against mine is a comforting weight. “Good one, Freckles. You’re stuck with me. If you ever decide to dump me, I’ll just go back to being your full-time stalker.”
Mollie’s lips twitch. “It’s a good thing I love being your girl, then.”
My girl. Hell yeah. I kiss her again, ignoring the fact that we’re in the middle of the parking lot and people are gawking at us. I’ve earned this.
The diner is a greasy little spot on Eastlake that we've been coming to for weeks. The coffee is mediocre, and the hash browns are transcendent. Most importantly, nobody in here gives a shit about hockey. We slide into a booth and order a ton of food. I didn’t realize how starving I was until I smelled bacon sizzling.
The food comes fast. For a few minutes, it almost feels normal. Just the two of us in a sticky booth, her knee bumping mine under the table.
Mollie eats a little, then pushes her plate away, clearly wanting to say something. "I'm sorry you're benched. I'm sorry about Beck. I'm sorry that Savard showed up and ruined everything." She picks at her toast, not making eye contact. "If I hadn't told you about him, you wouldn't have reacted like that. I should've made you leave the rink."
