Page 49 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
If I let it happen again, even once, I’ll lose more than just a kiss. He’ll take things I’ve spent years protecting. My image, my future, my carefully controlled detachment from men who think they can own me.
I should be worried about two things today.
One: that kiss. And I can’t stop thinking about it.
Two: tonight’s game. The Havoc’s first big home match of the season.
Against the Houston Stars.
Which means Patrick Delacroix will be in the building.
I force a smile and adjust the lapels of my blazer as I enter the arena suite. Jessa’s already there, feet up on the padded seat, sipping something way too sugary.
“There she is,” she chirps, tossing me a protein bar. “You’re late and you’ve got that ‘swallowed a porcupine last night’ expression.”
“That’s generous,” I mutter, sinking into the seat beside her. “That would honestly be better than this.”
Jessa frowns. “Is this about how Hunter carried you from the wedding venue like he was auditioning for a romance novel cover? Because I saw the photos. You looked hot. Like, two seconds from dragging him into a supply closet hot.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Ivy walks in carrying a clipboard and looking exactly like a woman who has never made a single poor decision in her entire life. She sits on my other side without saying a word, just raises one eyebrow.
I exhale sharply. “Patrick’s here.”
That gets their attention.
Jessa’s entire face twists. “Is thisthePatrick? Like the ex?”
“The same. He plays for the Houston Stars.”
“He’s your ex! Shouldn’t you get a reprieve?” Jessa asks, sounding irritated.
“The NHL doesn’t exactly call us up and ask if we’re avoiding any players on other teams,” Ivy sighs. “In fact, I think that would make them schedule us to play Houston more often.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I should’ve known that Patrick would show up with his smug little smirk and carefully edited sob story.”
Ivy narrows her eyes, her tone flat. “Are you sure you’re ready to see him?”
“Nope. Not at all.”
I glance toward the ice, where the players are just starting warmups. Hunter is already out there, loose and powerful, his jersey hanging perfectly off his broad frame. Patrick skates by a few seconds later, catching my eye for just a moment. He gives me a subtle smirk like we’re sharing a private joke.
I look away, nauseated.
“I hate him,” I whisper.
Jessa leans in. “Tell us everything.”
So I do.
I tell them how he used to tell me what to wear to team events. How his mother once called me ‘decorative’ to my face, and he didn’t defend me. How he cheated and then had the audacity to spin it like I’d been the problem. And now, how he’s giving interviews about how he’s worried for me. Saying I’ve always struggled with ‘boundaries and attention.’
“He’s painting me as a gold digger,” I finish. “Like I dated him for the clout and now I’m using Hunter to climb higher.”
“Jesus,” Jessa breathes. “That is next-level unhinged.”
Ivy shakes her head. “He’s a public relations nightmare. If he so much as breathes wrong tonight, I’ll bury him in spin so fast he won’t remember his own name.”
That earns a laugh, shaky but real. “Thanks.”
