Page 182 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
That night, after she’s read my note and kissed me, soft and grateful, we lay in bed talking about the future. No more abstract terms. In real, concrete ways.
“I want to keep getting better. I’m tired of being controlled by all the shit that happened to me.”
She squeezes my arm. “Good. You deserve to be free of it.”
“Will you be patient with me? While I figure it out?”
“Hunter, I’ll be patient with you for as long as it takes.”
“Even when it gets messy?”
“Especially when it gets messy.”
I pull her closer, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, feeling something I haven’t felt in years. Hope, maybe. Or just the belief that I could actually become the person she sees when she looks at me.
As she falls asleep in my arms, I think about Dr. Chen’s homework assignment. Writing three things I’m grateful for each day.
Tonight, it’s easy. Juliet’s fierce loyalty. The way she sees my potential instead of just my problems. For the first time in my life, I’m actually trying to heal instead of just surviving.
It’s a start.
Chapter42
Juliet
Jimbo Greene calls asking if I can travel with the team for tonight’s quick away game to Las Vegas. It’s a turnaround game, where we fly there and head back right after. The management thinks I have a calming effect on Hunter.
Which is fair. He makes all the noise in my head vanish when I touch him. Maybe it’s the same thing for him.
Team management wants him to be ready for what’s shaping up to be a high-stakes matchup. This game is a big deal and crucial for playoff positioning. Honestly, I needed little convincing to hop on a flight.
Hux seems thrilled with the idea. He spent the nearly three-hour flight with me on his lap, his nose buried in my hair. Apparently, I smell good. I’m not about to protest spending time with him. I’ll take all I can get.
I can feel the tension from the team management as we settle into the visiting team’s box. Jimbo and Jared are here, watching everything below the box like two predators studying their prey. I do a few interviews while we’re up here, filming quick sixty-second sound bites about how the team is excited to face old rivals like the Vegas Suns.
The media coverage of Hunter has shifted remarkably in the last few days. There were exactly two full days of hell after the video emerged, then a goalie from Florida drunkenly smashed his car up and a bystander caught it on film. The sharks circling Hunter flipped over to that story with barely a backward glance.
Reporters are now calling the Havocsurprising contendersand praising theirbalanced playandnewly disciplined front line.
Hunter’s name still shows up in every coverage reel, but now it’s next to team accomplishments, not tabloid drama. The worst has passed; the world forgot his drama when something juicer appeared. Such is life in a twenty-four hour media cycle.
I’m reading through the latest round of coverage and keeping one eye on the rink when I see her.
Darla Huxley.
She’s sitting three rows down, dressed impeccably, and watching the warm-ups with calculated attention. She’s not screaming or making a scene this time. Just watching. Waiting.
I can tell the exact moment when Hunter spots her from the way his shoulders go rigid during drills. His movements suddenly get a little too abrupt.
I don’t wait to see what she’ll do. I excuse myself from the box and make my way down to where she’s sitting.
“Mrs. Huxley,” I say, sliding into the empty seat beside her. “What are you doing here?”
She turns with that practiced smile and ignores my question. “Juliet! How lovely to see you, hon. I was hoping we’d chat.”
