Page 10 of If All Else Sails
Despite my lack of interest in sports, I do use social media, and I once ran across a video of fans wearing shirts that featured Oscar the Grouch peeking out from his trash can with a hockey stick and a Boston jersey with Wyatt’s number. I’m not sure whether those shirts were aboveboard from a licensing perspective, but who cares? I immediately bought one. Even if I’ve only ever worn it to sleep in, lest anyone find out that I own it.
Because the cringe part of the new name is that his ladyfans now refer to themselves as Grouchies. As in, groupies for the Grouch. I’m definitely no Grouchie, but I do love the shirt. It’s just so...fitting.
The shirt is packed in my bag, I remember with no small amount of discomfort. As though somehow Wyatt will sense its existence.
It’s at this moment I realize Wyatt and I are—perhaps for the first time ever—alone in a room together.
My mouth goes dry, and I don’t think it’s just the heat this time. It’s a strange surge of nerves, exacerbated by his cool gray gaze and permafrown.
“We skipped right over the pleasantries,” I say. “Hello, Wyatt.”
He gives me the smallest of nods. “Josie.”
The way he says my name makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. Or maybe that’s just a remnant of the heat exhaustion. I can’t read his tone, but it’s definitely not neutral.
“I’d say it’s good to see you again,” I tell him, “but...” I shrug.
“But it isn’t,” he finishes for me. Or is he agreeing with me? Probably both.
“You didn’t have to roll out the red carpet of the law to welcome me. Answering the door would have been just fine.”
“You didn’t knock,” he says, like this is the most logical explanation for calling the cops. “You were wandering around the yard, taking pictures.”
“Ah. Criminal activity for sure.”
“I thought you were a reporter.”
“A reporter?” I snort. “You’re notthatimportant.”
He says nothing to this, probably because he vehemently disagrees with my assessment.
And he’d be right.
IknowWyatt is a big deal. Though this place is too far out of the way to be crawling with paparazzi, it wouldn’t shock me if some enterprising sports reporter drove out here hoping for a story. Or something else. I can imagine Grouchies lined up outside the door or peeking in the windows.
Hockey fans aren’t unlike the fans of any major sport—they can be obsessive to a degree that frightens me, and there is adistinct percentage of fans who would cross a lot of moral and ethical lines to get close.
Or to brag about spending time—or the night—with a player.
But wait—Wyatt thoughtIwas a reporter?
As in, he really didn’t recognize me?
I hadn’t considered the extent of how insulting this is until now.
Wyatt and I have spent enough time together for him to recognize me, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like I’ve gone through a magical transformation or extreme makeover since I last saw him. My hair is longer than it’s ever been, and I’ve taken to letting the natural waves do their thing rather than straightening it the way I used to. I’ve been the same height since my fifteen-year-old growth spurt, when I shot up to a respectably average five six. I’ve gained a little weight, but not enough to make me unrecognizable.
Here I thought Wyatt and I had a shared rivalry. A bond of equal dislike. But instead, maybe Wyatt hasn’t ever cared enough about me to pay attention. The disdain I saw was perhaps more disinterest. Could he even pick me out of a crowd? A lineup?
Guess not. He can’t even pick me out of his own yard. By myself.
It shouldn’t sting. Wyatt is Jacob’s friend—or client slash friend. Not mine.
But it bothers me. Deeply.
My phone, sitting face down on the coffee table, starts to buzz.
“That will be your brother,” Wyatt states.
