Page 61 of Famous Last Words
CHAPTER 25
FRAN
Me: Good luck with the game tonight.
I stare down at the last message I sent Robbie. The message I sent three hours ago. The message that has not only gone unanswered but has been left onread.
I mean, I can’t say I’m shocked. It’s been like this for the last few days. Me sending messages, only for him to either send a blunt, one-word response or leave me on read. At first, I was hurt. Confused. Racking my brain over what the hell I did wrong. Now, I’m just pissed.
I thought things between us were good. After Monday night at the bar, and the kiss—oh, Lord, thekiss—I thought we were better than good. Apparently, I was wrong. And despite being the best kiss of my entire life, that damned life altering kiss seemed to ruin everything.
On Tuesday morning, I woke up slightly hungover but brimming with excitement to speak to him. I was sure that after that kiss, and the way we’d been so touchy-feely afterwards, things had shifted between us. But I also knew I had to play it cool. You know? Just in case.
Me: Hey, how are you?
No response came through, so an hour later I tried again, keeping it strictly business while hoping for an opening.
Me: I was just checking in to make sure everything is good with the apartment. Let me know.
Obviously, the apartment was the last thing on my mind, but I figured that might get him talking since escrow closed on Monday and I knew he was in possession of the keys. Instead, all I gottwohourslater was a simple…
Robbie: Yep. All good.
Confusing, for sure. A little concerning, definitely. But I put it down to the stress of hockey practice and the chaos of moving into his new place, so I let it slide. But then I didn’t hear from him again all day.
The following day, Wednesday, the Thunder were due to play another home game at Madison Square Garden. But I couldn’t go because I had a shift at the bar, and I couldn’t ask Vera to cover for me because she’d been shooting all day and was due back on location early Thursday.
Me: Hey, sorry. I can’t make the game tonight. I have a shift at the bar. I hope you win!
I expected something—anything—but all I got was a thumbs up emoji. I knew then that something was seriously wrong, and all I could put it down to was the kiss.
Now, here I am on Friday, and Robbie is playing across the river in Jersey. I could have gone to watch him. But I didn’t go because… well, because I wasn’t fucking invited. And now he’s leaving me on read. Well, you know what? Fuck you, Robbie Mason.
Me: If you’re going to ignore me, the least you could do is turn off your goddamn read receipts!
I’ve barely touched the shrimp noodles I ordered in from my favorite Chinese place. I haven’t even finished the glass of wine I poured, unable to tear my eyes from the television.
It’s sixteen minutes into the first period and Jersey is already up 2-0. But it’s not just the score that’s got my stomach in knots. It’s Robbie. He isn’t playing like I’ve ever seen him play. In fact, he’s hardly been playing at all. Of the sixteen minutes so far, he’s already spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice. Two minutes for boarding, another two minutes for tripping, and five minutes for getting up in the ref’s face for which he was almost ejected from the game entirely.
It’s almost as if he’s choosing violence over the puck. I don’t know much about hockey, and I’m not ashamed to admit that Robbie Mason looks damn good when he’s all aggressive on the ice, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the way to win a game.
When the camera zooms in to a close-up of Robbie in the box, knee bouncing, eyes blazing, mouthguard clamped between his teeth. It’s hot but there’s something else there. Something unfamiliar. Something I’m wondering if only I can see. And, despite how pissed I am at him for blatantly ignoring me these last few days like a jerk, I don’t miss the way my heart lurches in my chest at the thought that maybe there’s more to this.
Now, it's almost two a.m., and I’m wide awake.
Even after forcing myself to drink my glass of wine, sleep evades me, and I lie here, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows cast from outside as they dance across the room.
With a resigned sigh, I grab my phone from the nightstand, checking the screen to make sure there’s no new message from Robbie, like I might have possibly missed it; I’ve always been a sucker for punishment. Of course, there’s no message.Idiot.
I re-read the last few texts I sent to him.
Me: I saw the game. Are you okay?
Me: I just want to check you’re okay?
Me: Can you at least let me know you’re okay?
Nothing. Not even a fucking thumbs up.
