Page 20 of Famous Last Words
@MasonStan92: He went from Lola Grey to THAT???
@ThunderLover: A solid 4 with the lights on LOL
“They’re so mean,” I mutter under my breath.
A message notification pops up on the screen.
Asshat: You’re looking at TikTok aren’t you?
Me: Who are these people?
Asshat: Mostly losers with nothing better to do.
I’m on the verge of a panic attack, quickly doing as he said and switching every social media profile I have from public to private.
When I agreed to be Robbie Mason’s fake girlfriend, I knew I’d need to work on my patience in order to deal with someone as intolerable as he is. I certainly didn’t think I’d need to deal with online bullying. The comments on the video are horrible, and they go on and on, based on nothing more than pure speculation because hefollowedme onInstagram? Man, I’m going to get eaten alive when we’re actually spotted in public together.
Raking my teeth over my bottom lip, I briefly consider myself before tapping out a new message, sending it before I can stop myself.
Me: So, why me, anyway?
Asshat: What do you mean?
Me: Why did you ask me to be your fake girlfriend? From what I can see on social media, you could have your pick of literally anyone. I’m certainly no Lola Grey, that’s for sure.
Asshat: Okay, first of all, don’t ever mention her name to me again. Got that?
I bristle at the tone of his message. But before I can try to analyze it, he sends a follow up.
Asshat: Second of all, who better to fake a relationship with than someone you can’t fucking stand?
I scoff. But then I find myself looking at the mean comments again before forcing myself to close out of the stupid app.
Me: I’m going to be the most hated woman in New York City.
Asshat: The price of dating a superstar, baby.
Me: Question: is your hockey helmet custom made?
Asshat: Random, but no. Standard Bauer. Why?
Me: Your ego’s so inflated, I just assumed you’d need a custom size to fit your humongous head.
Asshat: Nah. My cup’s custom tho ??
Me: Ew.
I spent most of my afternoon at work frantically searching the internet for ideas on what the hell one is supposed to wear to a hockey game, met with links toRedditandPinterest, andInstagramfeeds full of beautiful women dressed in cute wintry outfits.Puck bunny chic, apparently. Who knew there were entire blogs dedicated to this exact topic? Not me, that’s for sure.
But now, after leaving the office early so I could rush home to get ready, it seems my research has been in vain, because the longer I stand here, staring at myself in the reflection of the mirror, I can’t help but come to the conclusion that instead of an adorable littlepuck bunny, dressed in a pair of jeans and Robbie’s stupid jersey, I look more like Adam Sandler.
I’ve always been a little thicker. A size twelve for most of my adult life, at only five-foot-four, sometimes I can’t help but feel like an actual meatball. Sure, I’m pretty. I’m not denying that. Big blue eyes, blonde hair that’s probably my best asset. But my hips have always been wide, I’ve never had a thigh gap, I’ve often wished my D cup would miraculously shrink to a B cup overnight, and as a long-time sufferer of PCOS, I’m conscious of the extra weight I carry around my middle depending on what time of the month it is. Sometimes, being a woman really blows.
Realizing this is as good as it’s going to get, I throw my head back with a groan.
Slipping on my checkerboard Vans, I shrug on my leather bomber jacket, and that’s it. I’m done. I mean, let’s face it, I’m definitely not winning anypuck bunnyawards any time soon, but maybe I’ll get lucky and take home runner-up in some Adam Sandler lookalike competition.
With a quick mental pep talk, I shove my things into my purse and make my way to Madison Square Garden to watch my fake boyfriend chase a stupid puck around a stupid ice rink. Because what else would a single girl rather do on a Friday night in New York City?
