Page 47 of Pucking Obsessed

I can’t put it into words. I’ve never felt like this before.

I struggle for a moment.

Robyn laughs. “Don’t even think about it.”

My shoulders stiffen.

I snatch up a cloth and start to vigorously clean down the counter, wiping off the flour. “Tea?”

Robyn shakes her head. “Later. Look, I’m serious. You didn’t put D’Angelo at risk.”

“I did.”

I ignore the throbbing headache and the way that the light is hurting my eyes.

I know how to deal with a fucking concussion.

I don’t need to bother Robyn with my shit. Especially not when I’ve just caused this crisis for her.

“You took a beautiful photo of D’Angelo looking relaxed on a beach. That’s all. Do people think that professional athletes should be training, playing, or miserable the whole time? D’Angelo and Shay are already being wrecked enough at practice right now. So, fuck keyboard warriors. They’re simply trying to get a reaction. Security are dealing with the worst of it. We can ride out the rest. Famous people arereal.D’Angelo doesn’t deserve to be hurt like this. We won’t let him be.”

I nod.

Robyn catches the determined look in my eye.

Startled, she leans forward, grasping my forearm. “And that doesn’t mean hunting them down and burning their computers, as you suggested.”

“Burningthem,” I mutter.

“Vetoed,” Robyn adds, “again. Remember my plan? Delete and block.”

My plan would work better.

I won’t tell her about the secret burn list that I’m keeping of those who are leaving death threats.

No one hurts my family.

Who would want to be famous?

I’ve discovered, since trying out for the Bay Rebels with my twin, that fame is shit.

It’s safest in the shadows.

I’ve spent my life being invisible. My twin has taken the spotlight. But then, we deal with trauma differently.

Fame is dangerous. It infects your life.

Ice hockey has been Shay’s salvation. It’s his gift. He’s never lusted after fame. He wants to use his talent.

I guess, however, that he doesn’t have a choice. The two come as a package deal.

“We can control this if we act like it doesn’t matter,” Robyn says, but I can hear the anxiety that she’s trying to hide. “Trolls are going to troll.”

“But why?” I smack the cloth against the counter, letting go of it. I imagine that the counter is a troll’s balls. “Is it fun?”

Robyn drops the sticky spoon back into the half-eaten jam jar, which is going to drive D’Angelo crazy later. “The edgelords find it fun to make people cry.”

I nod.

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