Page 48 of Good Guy Gabe

“Then you need to let go of whatever’s set you off with Allore. I know you, Shaunessy. I know you’re not the guy to beef with others. Even if I didn’t know you personally, I can see it clearly throughout your career. This isn’t you, and you need to stop this.”

I sigh, the sound unintentionally frustrated as it rumbles over my vocal cords. I’ve fucked up just about every way I can with Joss, but the one thing I know I got right was pushing Allore out of my life, no matter how much that hurt. “I can’t. You don’t get it. What you’re saying, you’re telling me I have to pick my teammate over my girlfriend, and I’m not doing that.”

Keenan’s sigh mirrors mine. “So that’s what this is about, huh? I’ve gotten quite the earful about her. Emily Hess is not happy.”

“Emily Hess can choke on a dick.”

I immediately regret saying that, but Keenan only laughs. “I have certainly thought that my fair share of times. Game used to not be like this. You play well, you don’t commit any crimes, you don’t say anything too dumb in front of reporters, you’re good. Now we have to have social media specialists babysitting your accounts in case you accidentally drink a Coke five years after Pepsi ran an ad in the stadium of a team you weren’t even playing for at the time or wear a shirt that’s . . . too short, I guess.”

That’s Blaise, who’s gotten himself in enough hot water over inappropriate conduct that they had to add a clause into his contract saying he can’t do product endorsements in cropped shirts. After the Monster nipple incident this past July, he’s not even allowed in wet shirts anymore.

“Time was, as long as you weren’t openly fooling around with a married woman, no one cared who you were dating. And I want that to still be the world, and believe me when I say I’ve been going to bat for you. But this is affecting not just you and Allore and Emily Hess. We have hotshot contributors who are squeamish about seeing Ms. Page on the jumbotron.”

I scrub my beard, hating where this is going. Hating that Keenan is making it clear he truly does not want it to go this way. Hating what I have to say. “There isn’t a scenario where I don’t choose her.”

He stares me hard in the eye, but I don’t waver. I refuse to shrink and back off. I don’t need time to think about this or to reconsider. I’m not going to take back my words.

With a nod of his head, Keenan finally says, “That’s good. I like that. And I hope that means you’ll get it when I tell you she can’t sit by the sidelines or the tunnel anymore. I’m not saying nosebleeds, but lower visibility. And keep this thing between you and Allore off the field and out of the locker room. Now go on, get out of here. And keep up the good work.”

Chapter 22

Joss

MY KITCHEN DISTRESSES ME. I don’t know. All my favorite foods are in here, but none of them look right. My stomach’s been off all morning.

I bypass my usuals of yogurt, eggs, and cheese. Even the orange juice isn’t appealing to me today. I shuffle over to my pantry, poking around the sealed bags of flour and out-of-date spices, finally stumbling upon a dusty can of black olives.

Yes, this is what I want.

I wipe it down, pop it open, drain it, and toss the olives into a bowl before I make my way downstairs to the barn. I let out a sigh of relief when I see no vandalism has happened. My mums, my siding, my windows. Everything’s intact. Jerry ate the half burger I set out for him after my appetite turned last night.

Rose and Iris haven’t gotten in for the day yet, which surprises me until I realize it’s Thursday. They don’t come on Thursdays. Never have. Weird that I would have even thought that.

I’m just being absent-minded, I guess, because when I enter my studio, I realize I have no idea what I said I was going to work on today. I don’t usually forget things like that, but I’ve been distracted lately. I stand there at my desk, scanning the partial projects, the pile of half square triangles and the beginner’s foundation paper piecing flowers and the bargello on my longarm. Nothing clicks.

Silly. This is silly.

A flutter of irritation shakes my olive-filled belly. I’ve been a mess for weeks. Forgetting my schedule, misplacing my phone, walking into a room just to look around and realize I have no idea what I’ve gone in there for. It’s like telling Gabe what happened has sent me right back to how I was when it was actually happening.

I should have expected this. This is why my love life has always been disastrous, after all. They ultimately break under the weight of the reality of what all truly happened. I should have expected nothing else from Gabe.

But I did.

And bless his heart because he’s trying. But suddenly he’s too busy to see me most nights, or he makes sure we’re only in public places with limited time. He doesn’t hold me anymore, not like he used to, not in the middle of the night like he’s claiming every mote of me.

The bargello, I decide after sitting for too long contemplating. I’m scheduled to start in five minutes. Most days, that means I’m already logged in and going, but I can’t seem to get myself moving. If I’m working on that bargello, the camera doesn’t need to be on my face so much.

I fire up my computer, get all my monitors going, and check my progress on the quilt. It’s one of my favorite bargellos, a blend of tans and blues and greens, gender-neutral and giant, wide enough for a king-sized bed. It’s also an ancient one, a quilt that I started long before I ever had a show, when I was trying to make something more appealing for a masculine aesthetic because Brian complained about how the quilt I’d put on our bed was girly.

Six years, this quilt was jammed in a drawer, unfinished, a top I’d spent months on, and I finally thought I had it in me to finish it. Now, it’s what’s easiest for me.

The stream goes live. I have a camera on my face to open the show, but that’s fine. I can get my introduction out and then move on. It’s easy. No problem. Just have that game face on to say hello and then hyperfocus on the quilt. I can do this.

“Good morning, everyone!” I sing-song, selling my energy as best as I can. “And good afternoon, Sandy and Ingmar,” I tack on with a wink when I catch their names among the list of thirty-seven people who have logged on already. I have quite a few international subscribers, which I love. Not just because it’s super cool that I’m overseas but because they both pose an extra challenge and provide additional insight. They don’t have access to a lot of products I use, so I’ve had to get innovative in our one-on-one and small group sessions, but they’ve also clued me into some hacks that they’ve done because of it. I love this part of my job.

I see Cora and Gabe in the roster, but they don’t say anything in chat. They’ll both tune in if they’re working — or working out — but can let my show run in the background. I tell myself not to be bothered by Gabe’s silence, not when Cora’s also silent, but I can’t help lumping it into our recent distance.

“So unless there are any protests, I thought we’d have a casual day of free motion quilting. Just that good Zen vibe. How’s that sound to everyone?”

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