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“How about your arm?” I take the marker she’s holding and scrawl my name across her forearm before she can say no—or worse, drag her shirt up and expose her tits. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened, but I don’t really want to get into it with a minor.
“Can you get that posted?”
She does, adding a caption and then flashing me the video. I look… well, bruised and exhausted. But not too bad either.
I don’t think of myself as having a fan base, personally. It’s more of the team, and I just get swept up in it. Not like Knox, who’s made himself the poster child of the NHL. Star rookie, on billboards and advertisements. The media doesn’t leave him alone. Probably because he’s skilled, he’s young, and he’s objectively handsome.
“Thanks again.” I jog back to my friends and family, and I spit out some lie to my parents about a meeting. I hug my mother, kiss her cheek, and I don’t feeltoobad leaving them.
Greyson, Miles, Steele, and their girls join me. Or follow me.
I hand Willow my phone. “Can you keep track of notifications?”
Already, the little red flag above my Instagram icon is shooting up. It was at ten, but now it’s more like 200.
“They work fast,” she murmurs. “People are sharing the video.”
“What do you want us to do?” Miles asks.
“I need to know why she ran.” I take my phone back and dial her number. Something I should’ve done in the first place. But I know her.
This cannot be a repeat of the past.
It goes to voicemail, and I almost chuck my phone against the wall. Someone plucks it out of my hand.
I let them and repeat to myself that she left of her own free will. She isn’t in danger. She may be running—but that’s fixable.
It’s so unlike last time, when I was helpless to stop it from happening.
When I found her house abandoned and had to deal with the fallout…
42
MELODY
MEMORY—THIRTY-TWO YEARS OLD
I’m holding on by a thread. Today’s just been a lot. I got an email from my ex-husband, a veiled threat about telling my father where I am. Myfather. He’s in prison, and I can’t say I’ve ever worried about him figuring out that I’ve moved once again.
The fact that my father gained more prison time makes me feel a little better. But my ex knowing where I am is another issue all together.He’sthe one I have the restraining order against. The one I’m hiding from in Crown Point.
On top of that, a student is failing my class.
There’s nothing that makes me feel quite so much like a failure as having to failthem. So instead of giving him the F he deserves, I wrote,see me after class. Like that’s going to help. Like giving him a second chance means he’s going to take it.
He probably won’t, because I know his type.
Hockey player. Cocky. He’s going to grow up to be an arrogant jerk, maybe, or simply expect doors to open for him because he’s an athlete.
My gaze flicks to him, then away. Like I don’t care.
Because I don’t.
I know why he chose my class. Some of his hockey buddies probably told him it would be easy—and it would’ve been, two or three semesters ago. After a somewhat stern talking-to by the administration, I upped my requirements to pass. But holding the students expecting an easy A accountable has been tricky.
So when I got his dismal paper… I wanted to do something about it. Help him, rather than fail him.
But he’ll need to help me help him, or else he’ll fail. And failing will result in his coach shouting at me, most likely, or dragging this issue to the administration. All of it is a pain in the ass, but it’s not like I can ban student athletes who don’t give a shit.
