“Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they’ll get tired of the witch hunt,” Dec says, trying to soothe my rising panic. “Things on the internet never last long.”
“I’m more afraid about how long this will last for Irina,” Boss mutters, green eyes locked on his phone again, rewatching that horrible video.
The internet might be ever-changing, but this is going to be an issue for a while. Right now, everyone’s curious. It might die down, but when that little shithead goes public with his story—it’s going to blow up to the stratosphere again. What then? Still no girlfriend? Still nobody to point at and say ‘see? Look at her! You’d punch someone for her too!’
Only Irina.
Not happening. Not even tempting. Give that girl an inch, and she’ll be saving my hair follicles in a jar to try and clone me.
“Boss!” Luka calls from across the weight room. “Spot?”
Boston lets out a groan, popping his pink gum. Luka isn’t a rookie, so he isn’t scared to look in Boston’s general direction or ask for favours. Boss will make time for him, despite his grumbling. He nods at the pair of us before stalking off.
“What about Nina?” I ask Declan quietly.
His jaw tenses as he shoots me a look that I don’t much love. “Fork.”
“What? She’s cool. She might do it.”
“I know we’re lying in general right now,” he says carefully. “But you shouldn’t fabricate thiswholething. I’d say it’s Arden, or it’s nobody. Don’t put another face out there. All it takes is one video, which I’m sure exists somewhere, to prove you’re full of shit.”
I sigh, covering my face with my hands, and let out a frustrated groan.
He’s right. People take photos and videos of us all the time. What if we were both in the background of one that night? What if I parade a girl around with jet-black hair, claiming she’s the woman I hit Collin for, only for someone to post a picture of me with a redhead who looks nothing like her? That can go very wrong.
I can keep this tame for the moment and hope it goes away, but shit is never that easy. If Arden was talking to me, maybe I could convince her to come to one game, pose for one picture, and hope the chaos goes away after that. She’s still pissed at me for asking about her house, though. Never answered my text.
My only option isn’t even an option.
Like the universe is listening to my thoughts, my phone vibrates beside me.
Arden
Hi Carter. This is totally Arden and not her friend. Completely innocent question for you, and not at all relevant to anything. I’m just doing a survey for the neighbourhood watch. You know, to try and improve the state of the criminal battlefield that I live in the middle of. So, for science, and for the neighbourhood, can you tell me the exact time you were born, and your place of birth?
My lips curl up into a smile, and I’m well aware I’m staring at the phone like it’s a winning lottery ticket. Truthfully, it is.
They’re looking up my birthday chart, or whatever the hell that thing is called. Girls don’t do that unless they’re doing their witchy, FBI shit.
Which means she’s interested enough to cyberstalk me.
I’m back in the fucking game.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
carter
You know what?I’m starting to believe in all of this universe, witchy, astrological crap that women harp on about. It has to be true, right? Fate and all of that? There is absolutely no other explanation for what I walk into one week later, on a rather cool Saturday afternoon.
It was a pretty shit morning. We had an early skate and the photographers outside the gates were gutless. So many questions were shouted at not just me but all the guys.Aboutme. Names, too. Heard Irina’s being screamed once or twice. I genuinely had to scan the crowd to make sure it wasn’t her, hiding somewhere in the masses, trying to get her name jotted down so it would appear next to mine in some headlines.
She scares me. Did I mention that?
Coach asked again about my girlfriend. It seems the mainstream media is relentless, but our team’s social media is being plastered with similar questions. He asked me to bring her by to tame the circus a bit. Make life about hockey again, and not my dick or my fist.
I walk into the animal shelter and smile sweetly over atShelly. She’s my favourite receptionist. Retired teacher, three kids, and a husband who is a baker. She works here part-time, just for something to do. She’s an angel and adores me. I met her on my first visit down here, and now I bring her tea every time I come by.
“Orange Pekoe. Two honey, Sugar,” I say, pulling my sunglasses off my face and tucking them into the neck of my shirt.
