Page 137 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“Juliet Monroe? Doug Kellerman, Pacific Sports Media.”
I recognize the name. He’s one of those media executives who thinks he runs Seattle sports from behind a desk, the guy who name-drops and schmoozes and probably has never actually watched a full game.
“Mr. Kellerman.” I force a smile. “How can I help you?”
“I just wanted to introduce myself. It’s always exciting to see fresh talent in the industry.” His smile is too wide, too familiar. “Especially someone with your... connections.”
There’s something in the way he says connections that makes my skin crawl. My dad is literally sitting right across from me, though he focuses on the big screen TV.
I shift in my seat. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, come now. Patrick speaks highly of you. He says you two had quite the partnership.”
I freeze.Patrick. Of course. Because apparently I can’t escape him, even here.
“That was a long time ago,” I manage.
“Was it? Because from what I hear, you two made quite the team. Shame it didn’t work out. Though I suppose these hockey players can be... challenging.”
He glances down at the ice where Hunter is lining up for a face-off, and there’s something dismissive in his expression that makes my hands clench into fists.
I can’t deflect fast enough. Can’t come up with the right words to shut this down without causing a scene. That’s the moment that Ivy pokes her head into the suite.
I give her a wide-eyed look and she rushes over, intentionally interrupting.
“Is everyone doing okay over here?” she asks. “The team likes me to keep on top of these things.”
Mr. Kellerman looks her up and down like he’s found a tasty snack.
“Doug Kellerman. Pacific Sports Media. I would love to meet the man who was smart enough to hire both of you.”
Ivy’s expression twitches. “What now?”
“You’re both just so beautiful.” He looks between us, pleased as punch. “Has anyone ever tried to put you two in front of a camera?”
Ugh. As if I would ever leave a job with an NHL team to work for this jackass. I open my mouth to tell him that, or a more polite version, but Ivy stumbles, tripping over absolutely nothing.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry!” she gasps, somehow spilling her entire soda down the front of Kellerman’s expensive shoes. “These heels are impossible to walk in. Let me get you some napkins!”
Before he can respond, Jessa is there, linking her arm through mine. “Juliet, we need you over here. Sponsor emergency.”
She leads me away without another word.
They never speak about it afterward. Don’t make a big production of it or wait for thanks. They just handle it, smooth and seamlessly, like they’ve been doing this kind of thing their whole lives.
But I realize deep in my bones that these women have closed ranks around me. I’m not alone anymore. Not like I was with Patrick, when his friends became my friends by default and disappeared the moment we broke up.
This is different. This is real.
I don’t see Kellerman’s face again after that, so I can only guess that a member of the group lured him away. Either way, he’s not in the tunnel when I rush through it.
After the game, which we win by two goals, I’m standing in the hallway outside the media room when my mother reappears, looking refreshed and ready to interrogate me about my life choices.
Hunter emerges from the locker room still damp from his post-game shower, hair messy, wearing that satisfied look he gets after a good game. When he spots me, his whole face lights up.
“There’s my girl,” he says, loud enough for half the hallway to hear.
I blush, unable to hold in a smile. Grabbing his biceps, I direct him toward my mother. “Mom, this is Hunter Huxley. Hunter, this is my mother, Melissa Monroe.”
