Page 36 of Puck Daddies
We drift a minute and sip the hot tea. I look at her face without staring. There’s color in her cheeks, even in the dark. No makeup. She looks rested for the first time in days.
We push again and make a loop along the shore. There’s a small ice shelf in a shallow spot. We give it space. The first hint of sunrise shows up low in the east.
“Thanks for planning this,” she says.
“Thanks for saying yes.”
“You always say that.”
“I always mean it.”
She’s quiet for a few strokes. “I want to keep doing stuff with you guys, but not make it complicated. I’m trying to find the line.”
“That’s why we have rules.”
Out here, it’s easier to talk. Nature has a way of opening us up. That’s why I wanted to do this.
We turn toward the small beach where we launched. The light is lavender-gray now. I feel the wind start to come up. It’s time. We slide in and hit the sand clean. I step out, steady her bow, and offer my hand. Her boots crunch on the frozen sand.
“Cold,” she says, looking down at her bare fingers. I pass her a hand warmer from my pocket. She squeezes it and sighs.
We pull the boats up to the grass and unclip the skirts. I reach for the paddles and hear a shutter. Then another. Two photographers at the end of the lot. Big lenses. They’re not close, but close enough.
I will never understand why paparazzi follow the team around. We’re not even that good. But I get it a little bit when it comes to me. I’m a Fitzwilliam on top of playing for the team. My people were on some of the first boats to the colonies. We own railways and lumber and other crap. My family practically owns the society pages.
It’s great for some things, and a burden for others. Like today.
I move without thinking, stepping between the cameras and Meg, and lift a hand. “Guys, give us space.”
Meg rolls her eyes. “It’s fine. I’m used to it with you three.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“You never have.”
I do the rest fast—paddles on the rack, bow lines clipped, boats up. The cameras click. I keep myself between them and her without making a scene. One of them calls, “Fitz, you skating first line Thursday?”
“Have a good morning.” I never answer questions. You’d think they’d learn that by now.
We drive out. Traffic is normal on the way back. We make it home before six thirty. The apartment is quiet. I’m not sure ifthey’ve left for the day or they’re sleeping in. I forgot to ask. “Shower,” I say, and almost add,Together?
It gets stuck in my throat. I want her pressed against the glass, moaning my name. But this morning was about us being friends, so I stop myself.
“Sounds good.” She goes down the hall to her bathroom.
I lean on the counter and stare at the hanging plant Hudson somehow keeps alive. I think about the question sitting on my tongue a minute ago. I let it evaporate. I make coffee instead of making things weird.
The shower runs. I pour the coffee and set it on a coaster near her seat at the table. I hear the shower stop. A beat. Her door opens harder than usual. She walks out with her phone in her hand and an upset face.
“What?” I ask.
She turns the screen so I can see. Review page. A flood of one-star reviews from accounts with names likeGina44321andAlexis_1989x. Same phrases repeated.Rude staff.Cold coffee.Owner yelled at me for asking for cream.Dozens in the last hour. New usernames. No real photos. She scrolls. It keeps going.
“Okay,” I say carefully, ignoring my boiling blood. “We’ll handle it.”
“Look at the time stamps. They’re coming in batches. Obviously fake.”
“Troll farm.” I bite back the rest of what I want to call it. I take her phone and read faster. Same language patterns. Same closing lines.
