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Tracy wasn’t named, thank fuck, nor was Stevie, but the picture presented was that I dumped Tracy because I saw Stevie and wanted to hook up with her. It was such a gross distortion of what really happened, and yet it has tainted my memories of that night.
The question is, did Stevie report what happened accurately and the reporter twisted it, or did she twist it herself to make it juicier?
“Look, Stone,” I say wearily. “Please just tell Harlow to let it go. I want to move on, and I’m sure Stevie does too.”
Which I know isn’t exactly true. I received several texts from her last night—even after I asked her not to contact me—asking for just five minutes to explain things.
I haven’t responded nor do I intend to do so.
“I’ll let it go,” Stone says, but then warns, “Harlow is a different matter. I can’t control her, and she’s friends with Stevie. She’s going to want to make sure she’s okay.”
I don’t argue because damn it all to hell, I want Stevie to be okay too. As much as I despise her, I don’t want her hurt. I just want to move on and put this behind me.
“That’s fine, but I don’t want to know anything about what they talk about. I’m not kidding when I say I’m done with this whole fiasco. I want to concentrate on hockey and get my life back.”
“Sounds like a good plan.” I hear the truth in his words, and that alleviates some of the residual guilt I’ve had about not hearing Stevie out. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”
“Yeah… see you later.”
As I drive into the city, my mind sifts through the last month, focusing on all the conversations I’ve had with Stevie. I especially reflect on the ones we had in bed after orgasms had us mellow and open to each other.
Not a fucking hint that she was playing me.
And what exactly did she get out of it? Was she paid?
Admittedly, she looked stunned when I showed her the article, and her denial was immediate, but then she admitted to meeting with the reporter.
“Fuck,” I curse out loud, tired of being so conflicted.
I need to move on, exactly like I just told Stone I was ready to do.
When I pull into my garage, I shut off the car and pick up my phone. I flip to the text chain I have with Stevie, which has been completely one-sided since yesterday morning after I stormed out of her house. I count up the messages from her—seven total—and they’re all the same.
Begging for five minutes of my time to explain.
It reminds me of how I just wanted ten minutes of her time to talk her into a date.
Should I reciprocate or let it go?
Without allowing myself to have this conversation in my head and remembering what I told Stone, I type back. I’m not interested in what you have to say. I’m moving on. You should too.
My thumb goes to hit the Send icon but stalls, hovering with indecision. This will make the break.
It will be clean.
It will be final.
It should be an easy decision, as angry as I am.
I close my eyes and focus on the memory of her expression when I showed her the article.
Pure fucking guilt. She knew she’d wronged me.
I get exactly what I need… another surge of hot fury, and my thumb descends on the screen.
There’s no doubt in my mind Stevie will see it immediately, and sure enough, the pulsing dots indicate she’s writing back.
I hold my breath, wondering what she’ll throw my way.
I’m not prepared for how short her response is.
Two letters.
OK.
CHAPTER 24
Stevie
“Load it up,” my dad says, settling down on the bar stool and nodding at the pizza I just placed there. “Can I get a beer?”
“No,” I say as I pull his preferred condiments out and set them beside the pizza along with some napkins. “But you can have some water.”
My dad grunts. “At least a Dr. Pepper.”
“Water,” I insist, turning for the back cooler to grab a bottle. I thrust it at him, and he glares at me. I doctor up his pizza just the way he likes it—garlic salt, red pepper flakes, and Texas Pete.
It’s surprising the number of these little pizzas I sell. They’re really only big enough to feed one grown man, and they’re dirt cheap for me to buy through a wholesaler, but I can sell them for $7.50 and they take all of thirteen minutes to cook. It’s a good profit margin. Not as good as the alcohol, but food keeps people drinking, so it’s worth it to offer a small menu.
Glancing down at the man and woman at the other end—new customers I don’t know but who wandered in for a drink—I lean my forearm on the bar and snag a piece of my dad’s pizza.
