Page 28 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I need new media content for Hunter’s social accounts. I also need an excuse to burn off the nerves that have been eating at me since last night.
From the front row, I watch the team run drills. It’s a blur of speed and sweat and controlled chaos. Hunter stands out immediately among his teammates. He’s all aggression and raw power, but he’s surprisingly graceful on skates. It reminds me a little of Patrick, who was the opposite. His skating was choppy and ever so slightly uncoordinated. He made it look like work.
Not Hunter. He glides across the ice before turning his blades to stop short, such a big guy moving with such ease. I can see him getting into it with another player mid-drill. Something about positioning, voices getting heated.
I brace for the explosion. I know him. He’s a guaranteed meltdown in a jersey. I’m already cringing at what this will do to our carefully constructed narrative. Am I supposed to just sit here and support him when he’s being a monster?
But then Hunter makes eye contact with me through the glass.
He scowls, that familiar furrow between his brows that usually means someone’s about to get punched. But he doesn’t snap. Doesn’t throw hands at the other player. He breathes through it, shoulders tight, fists clenched, but he holds the line. No yelling. No shoving. He just skates away, slams his helmet down on the boards, and mutters something to himself that I can’t hear.
I blink rapidly. That was not what I expected. And I hate that it makes me feel something like reluctant admiration.
You shouldn’t admire someone just for not beating the shit out of someone else. That should be the bare minimum expected from a professional athlete. But I have a sinking feeling that he didn’t escalate because of me. Because I was watching.
Because he’s actually trying to change, at least when his so-called fiancée is watching.
That thought makes my stomach roll, uncertain.
My phone vibrates in my purse, and I swallow. There’s also that; I’m on pins and needles today because our engagement announcement went viral last night. The comments poured in the second I posted to Hunter’s Insta, and they’re exactly what I expected.
People are speculating if I’m the next WAG, whether I got my job because I’m dating Hunter, saying how lucky he is because I’m so bangable. I am the next WAG, temporarily. But the rest of the gossip is just out-and-out offensive. One user reposted the image of Hunter and me, but they zoomed in on my chest like my boobs were the actual story here.
I wonder if people will ever see me as anything but a puck bunny in lipstick. My relationship with Patrick certainly didn’t help matters.
I know this fake engagement is going to bring a lot of scrutiny. A lot of judgment. And undoubtedly, Patrick will have something to say as soon as he can get in front of a reporter. I flick through the comments on Hunter’s Instagram account, bracing myself for the inevitable backlash.
My eyes skim the congratulatory comments and only stop at the sexist, body shaming assholes screaming their opinions at the top of their lungs.
This. This feeling that I’m so terribly familiar with. I finally left Patrick six months ago, after waiting oh so patiently for him for five years to propose. Five years of his family, the famous Delacroix clan, looking down on me and treating me like I wasn’t good enough for their precious baby boy. Rubbing my arms, I shiver at the memory. I never should have gone with him to Houston. Never should have spent so many years on someone who, if I’m being honest, I never actually loved.
But it took me a lot of years to figure that out.
I watch the practice, pushing away thoughts of Patrick, and grudgingly admire how Hunter controls himself on the ice. The team does several puck-handling drills, an exhausting-looking 20 minutes of bag skates, and then sets up for a controlled scrimmage.
Using only half the rink, they play their usual roles aggressively. Coach Ryan shouts out the rules. For the first five minutes, he wants to see only backhand goals. Next, players need to make three passes to other players before they shoot. Five minutes of no skating backward. Finally, one-touch shots only.
The rookies prove their status by going hard for the first ten minutes and drooping in the last ten. The vets have cooler heads, only pushing themselves when it’s really necessary. Beck Tate seems like he’s pushing himself diligently, ignoring the rest of his teammates. I watch Hunter and the co-captain, Alex Thorne, as they play aggressively but each selects their moments. That seems like the sweet spot between running themselves into the ground and playing a very lazy game.
By the end of practice, every single one of the hockey players is dripping with sweat and panting for breath. The rookies, especially Shane and… I think his name is Connor?? They make it off the ice and have to lean against the walls for a minute before they hobble toward the bench.
My lips lift at the corners. Poor guys. I remember when Patrick was in Houston his first year and he would come home with legs like Jell-O, bitching about how hard practices were. While I’m distracted, my phone buzzes again. I look down and find a text from Ivy.
It’s a link to a gossip piece… and my blood runs cold when I see the headline.
#47’s New Fiancée: From Houston Puck Bunny to Seattle Treasure?
Patrick gave an interview. Of course he did.
I click and immediately feel sick. He laced his words with fake concern about how he wished me well and how he was ‘glad I’m finally learning how to work my way up’. The implication is disgusting. Everyone will read between the lines. I’m sleeping my way through the league. Supposedly, I used him for his connections. I’ll never be anything but a puck bunny.
The words make me want to throw my phone across the room. God, I hate that phrase. It’s used mostly by men to dismiss women who mostly just want to have unattached sex with athletes. There’s nothing wrong with that, and if the genders were reversed, I’m willing to bet the world would be a lot nicer about it. It’s just more sexism, and I loathe every bit.
But being labeled that way still guts me. It makes people think I’m only good because of who I’m dating, not because of my actual skills or intelligence. It’s ridiculous and insulting.
I read the article as I wait for Hunter in the hall outside the locker room. Hunter finds me shortly after he’s done with practice, freshly showered and smelling like soap and cedar. He takes one look at my face and immediately knows something’s wrong.
“What happened?” he asks, voice low.
