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As I rounded the corner, I heard voices. Then, standing at the desk—I saw him.
Beauregard Moreau.
Best forward out there. I’d stalked his career for years. He was the reason I loved this sport so much and also the reason I took it as seriously as I did.
I’d watched hours of him playing—not only because he was hot, which he absolutely was—but also to learn his moves. Beau was a master player on the ice. And a master player off the ice.
Everyone knew that.
The photos of him on social media with a new girl every week were nothing new. Beau had been linked with famous movie stars, models, and even a princess.
And I’d wanted to scratch the eyes out of each one of them. Even as a twelve year old girl, I’d been horribly jealous whenever a picture showed up of him with some smexy girl on his arm.
“I wonder when we get to see the girls,” one of the guys standing near Beau said. “I bet they’re hot.”
I snickered at that comment. None of them had turned around so they didn’t know I was there.
Beau cocked his head toward the guy. “Man, are you serious right now? Chick hockey players? They probably look like a bunch of lumberjacks. Make that amateur lumberjacks. On skates,” Beau said, making the other guys around him chuckle and agree.
A stabbing pain shot through me at his words.
“I bet not all of them look like lumberjacks, Beau,” the guy beside him said.
Shaking his head, Beau put his arm around the man. “Luis, if you’re looking for a date, I wouldn’t waste your time on them. If fact, I’d bet they’re probably busy dating each other.”
That caused an uproar of laughter.
It also caused bile to rise in my throat. Did he—Beau Moreau—just say that? My hero? The person in this sport I most looked up to?
For as long as I could remember, I’d dreamed of marrying Beau Moreau.
Now I dreamed of punching him right, directly, square in the junk.
No matter that he’d just crushed my heart and my dreams in less than a minute. Creeping away from this jerk was not my style. I slipped on my well known “Gigi attitude” and strode up to the group of Neanderthals.
A guy emerged from the back and stood behind the desk. “I’ve got your team keys,” the man said holding one key in each hand.
Instead of waiting, I pushed myself to the front of the desk. Without even looking, I could feel Beau’s eyes on me. “Hi, Gigi Martin. Captain of the Lumberjacks.” I gave the guy behind the desk a quick smile before yanking one the keys out of his hand.
He looked surprised but slid a big, blue binder toward me. “Sign here, Ms. Martin,” he said, holding my eyes and the pen a bit longer than he probably should. I took the pen, signed my name, and in the appropriate spot, I wrote, ‘Lumberjacks’ for our team name. Then I took the liberty of writing ‘Neanderthals’ for the men’s team name. “Thanks, for your help,” I said as I looked at the employee’s nametag, “Paul. You can call me Gigi, everyone does.”
I turned to hand the pen to Beau, who was currently standing with his jaw open, eyes staring directly at me. “Do you want this next?” I asked, making like I was giving the pen to him. His hand reached for it, but I quickly stole it back, leaving him with his hand hanging in the air, looking like an idiot. “Or do you need some help with writing your name?” I said in the most condescending voice I could muster.
The guys around us burst into laughter as Beau narrowed his eyes at me. I tossed the pen to him. “Paul can help you out if you need it, right, Paul?”
Paul chuckled then cleared his throat. “You bet, Gigi. See ya later,” he called to my back as I walked away.
And just like that, a decade of stalking and idolizing Beau Moreau went up in a burst of flames.
It was funny if not a little sad how quickly ten years of hero worship sank down the drain. I tried to swallow over the burning, dry lump in my throat. No matter how much I wanted to go home and cry into a bowl of ice cream, I wouldn’t let that jerk get the better of me.
In the past, whenever something shitty had happened, I’d call my dad. He’d say, “Gigi, how many fucks do you actually give?” Then we’d laugh as he put everything in perspective and joke with me until I felt better.
The answer to the question was always, “Papa, I give zero fucks.”
That was the real kicker.
Because this time I cared way too much.
