Page 39 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Jett appears on my other side, toweling off his hair. Even after a loss, he looks like he’s ready to hit the club. He’s such a fuckboy, but he’s also my big brother. He gets the privilege of being able to lecture me.
“Kane’s an asshole,” he says simply. “Don’t let him get in your head.”
“He didn’t get into my head.”
Both my brothers give me looks that say they know I’m lying.
“Right,” Jett says. “That’s why you went full Incredible Hulk in the second period.”
I want to argue, but what’s the point? The video doesn’t lie. Kane said the magic words. And me? I took the bait like a fucking amateur.
Beck’s voice cuts through the locker room chatter. “Bus leaves in twenty. Anyone not on it can find their own ride.”
The threat’s mostly for show, but the message is clear. We fucked up tonight. We let emotions get the better of us, and it cost us two points we couldn’t afford to lose.
I’m still pissed when I walk out of the arena twenty minutes later. The Seattle air hits my face, cold and sharp, but it doesn’t cool the fire in my chest.
That’s when I see her.
Juliet’s waiting by the players’ exit, looking like she just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Navy coat, red lipstick, that expression she gets when she’s about to tear me a new one. She’s got her phone in her hand, probably already dealing with the social media fallout from my little tantrum.
“Well,” she says as I approach. “That was a disaster.”
“Nice to see you too, Monroe.”
“Don’t.” She holds up a hand, those dark eyes flashing. “Just don’t. I can’t believe you let them bait you like that.”
I stop walking. “We lost a hockey game. It happens.”
“You made it easy for them, Hunter. Like a rookie. Like someone who’s never played this game before.” Her voice is controlled, professional, but I can hear the anger underneath. “Kane played you like a fiddle. Now I have to clean up the mess.”
“So clean it up. That’s what you’re paid for.”
The words are out before I can stop them, and I see her flinch like I slapped her.
“That’s what I’m paid for?” she repeats, her voice dangerously quiet.
Shit. That came out wrong. But I’m too wound up to back down now, too angry at myself and the world to think clearly.
“You knew what you were signing up for when you took this job. I’m not some project you can fix with a few photo ops and a fake engagement ring.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. For a second, she looks genuinely hurt, and something twists in my gut.
“You’re right,” she says finally. “You’re not a project. You’re a grown man who should know better than to let some mouth-breathing goon manipulate him into a penalty that cost his team the game.”
“We lost because we couldn’t score, not because of one fight.”
“You lost because you gave them exactly what they wanted. You proved that Hunter Huxley is still the same out-of-control hothead he’s always been. And now, instead of talking about how well Thorne played or how Jett crushed in the third period, everyone’s going to be talking about your meltdown.”
She’s right and we both know it. That just makes me angrier. She walks toward the street, her heels clicking on the concrete.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m getting on the bus.”
And then she’s gone, disappearing around the corner while I stand here like an asshole, watching her go.
I think about following her, about apologizing, but my pride’s still burning too hot. Instead, I just let her go.
