Page 46 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“That’s not true. I said I’ve got it handled.”
Ryan doesn’t argue. He just looks at me with an expression coaches get when they’re deciding whether you’re worth saving. “Then act like it.”
He walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway feeling like I just got benched.
I come home later, exhausted and sore from taking my frustration out on the weight room, only to find Juliet curled on the couch with her arms crossed and her phone in her hand. Her mouth is tight. Her eyes are even tighter.
I glance over her shoulder and freeze.
The headline reads ‘The Puck Bunny Playbook: From Hockey Lover to Hockey Wife?’
Underneath is another quote from Patrick, the gift that keeps on giving. “My ex-girlfriend is a real hockey god-chaser. She knows how to make a man feel like he’s her universe, until you realize you’re just a stepping stone to whatever she really wants. Then boom! Onto the next bed.”
Red-hot anger builds in my chest. “He called you a puck bunny?”
“Jesus!” Juliet practically leaps out of the chair. Her eyes widen and she splays her free hand over her chest. “Give a girl a heart attack, why don’t you.”
I nod at her phone. “Patrick talked about you again in the press?”
“Yeah.” She huffs out a breath and sags back onto the couch. “What an asshole. I want to hit back, but I know that’ll only stoke the flames of public interest. It’s hard, though.”
“I’m telling you. You should let me shut him up for you.” My hands form fists at the very tantalizing idea of punching Patrick Delacroix in his stupid, preppy face. I’d wipe that grin off for a good, long while.
“You’re already almost kicked off the Havoc. Let’s not put the nail in the coffin of your career, shall we?”
Juliet flashes a quick smile at me, and I hate it. I hate the way it makes my chest feel tight, like someone’s squeezing my lungs.
Juliet isn’t mine. She’s just here to fix my mess, not to stay. Not to confess her undying love for me. And I can’t blame her for that.
Girls like her don’t fall for guys like me. Not without regretting it later. She’s got ambition and polish and probably a perfect future planned out to the minute. I’m fists and chaos and a past I can’t scrub clean no matter how hard I try.
But while she’s here, we can at least be… I don’t know, comfortable around each other. She’s staring at her phone again, her teeth worrying her lush bottom lip. Thinking about her ex while I’m standing right here.
“Put shoes on,” I say.
“What?”
“We’re going to brunch.”
It’s my way of being helpful. Doing something instead of trying to find the right words, because comforting people with words feels impossible when you’re better at breaking things than fixing them.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Tough. You need waffles and mimosas. Let’s go.”
She glares at me. “Your dragging me out won’t fix anything.”
“No, but sitting here stewing in asshole quotes won’t either.”
She sighs, the sigh that means she knows I’m right but doesn’t want to admit it. “Fine. But I’m not smiling for anyone.”
We head to a trendy brunch spot by the water, the place that charges twenty-five dollars for eggs and calls itartisanal. The second we walk in, we’re swarmed.
We wade in line, looking up at the board before ordering at the counter. We’re stuck in line for about ten minutes, not talking because fans keep coming up with near-endless requests for selfies and autographs. Fans shout my name, hold out phones, ask for selfies. One woman actually asks me to sign her cleavage, which makes Juliet cross her arms and look like she wants to commit murder. I plaster on a tight smile, sign a few napkins, pose for three photos, and try to get us to our table before things get completely out of hand.
We get our food astonishingly fast after we order and head out to find seats on the terrace. Once we’re seated in a corner booth with a decent view of the water, Juliet stabs her fork into a biscuit like it offended her.
“You hate this,” she says.
