Page 88 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“Fuck around and find out,” he hisses. “You aren’t welcome in my life anymore.”
Her face changes again, like a switch has flipped. “You abandoned me,” she shouts, her voice echoing off the concrete. “You used me and threw me away like garbage.” I can feel eyes turning toward us, see the glint of phones being raised by fans and reporters at the tunnel’s edge.
Then she turns her venom on me, jabbing a manicured finger in my direction. “And this is the little fiancée? The one you’re using to replace your own mother?”
Hunter flinches as though she struck him, but he says nothing. Her smile twists with satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”
Security finally arrives, pulling her away as she calls over her shoulder, “You’ll come crawling back. They always do.” The sound of it follows us down the tunnel like smoke that won’t clear.
I turn my back on her, looking up at Hunter. He looks down at me, gripping my hips. On impulse, I press up on my tiptoes, dragging his jersey down until my mouth meets his.
The moment our mouths meet, the tunnel vanishes. Noise drains away to a faint hum, and all that’s left is the bright heat of him pressed against me. His lips are sure yet searching, tasting faintly of sweat, Gatorade, and the metallic tang of blood. My hands fist in his jersey. I drag him closer until there’s no space between us. His breath brushes my skin in slow, rough bursts, each one wound tight with restraint.
Fingers thread into my hair, curling just enough to tip my head back. The kiss deepens, pulling a sharp rush of heat down my spine that melts into something sweet. I breathe him in: firewood, salt, and male sweat. The crowd blurs. The phones vanish. Nothing exists except the weight of his palm, the solid press of his body, and the deliberate way his mouth moves over mine, like he’s memorizing it.
He tears himself away so suddenly I have to steady my feet. His breathing is uneven, and his eyes hold mine in an unyielding stare.
“Don’t mess with me,” he whispers. “I can’t take it right now.”
I don’t understand the warning, but it lingers between us, heavy and close, refusing to fade. Hunter brushes me off and storms down the hall without another word. I’m left stunned in the tunnel, everyone staring at me with a mixture of curiosity and pity.
* * *
Later that night, after making sure the footage hadn’t leaked to social media and helping Ivy spin the narrative with the few reporters who witnessed it, I plunk myself down on the couch. It’s naughty, I know, but the time has come for a little internet sleuthing.
If only to understand Hunter’s words from earlier.Don’t mess with me. I can’t take it right now.
Context will help me bring the picture into focus. Grabbing a Stanley Cup full of Diet Dr. Pepper for fortitude, I pull up old articles about Hunter’s history with his mother.
One headline talks about a court case. Something about financial mismanagement and stolen funds. Another describes a violent outburst at a restaurant that ended with police being called. The Hunter I know, grumpy and difficult and unfiltered, suddenly feels layered.
Heavy. He’s human in ways I’m not prepared for.
I hear noise from the kitchen and turn to find Hunter pouring whiskey from a bottle I’ve never seen before. The amber liquid splashes over ice cubes with a sound that seems too loud in the quiet condo.
I stand up and freeze in place like a deer in headlights. I’ve never seen him drink hard liquor, not even at the team retreat when everyone else was getting wasted. He’s always been a beer guy. He controls his alcohol intake just like his daily macros.
“Is everything okay?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me, actually. He just drains the glass in one swallow and pours another.
“Hunter.”
Still nothing. He guzzles the second drink, leaves the glass on the counter, and walks away. I’m left standing alone in the kitchen with the smell of expensive whiskey hanging in the air.
Wow. Hunter is more screwed up than I realized. What kind of number did his mom pull on him, exactly?
I give up trying to talk to him and go take a shower, hoping the hot water will wash away the lingering feeling of his mother’s hands in my hair. Afterward, wrapped in just a towel with my hair dripping, I open the bathroom door and run directly into Hunter in the hallway.
He jerks as if I startled him, eyes dropping to the towel wrapped around my body and then snapping away like he’s not allowed to see me in a towel.
“Be more careful,” he mutters.
I blink, offended by the tone. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
He disappears into his room without another word, leaving me standing there in my towel, agog. He might have had the shittiest day imaginable, but that’s no reason to take his frustrations out on yours truly.
