Page 89 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Miffed, I get dressed quickly, still fuming from the encounter. This whole situation is spiraling out of control.
Someone has to deal with it. It looks like I need to get ahead of it before it destroys everything we’ve worked for.
I find the original list of house rules pinned to the fridge with a magnet. I stare at it for a long moment. If we’re struggling this much to maintain boundaries, fine.
We need new ones. Stricter guidelines. More distance.
No more walking around half-naked. The shared beds, even when we’re exhausted from events, have to end. There can’t be gray areas that leave room for misinterpretation.
If we want to make this work for the remaining months of our contract, we have to treat it like what it is. A business arrangement. Nothing more.
I head for my room, trying to reassure myself that this is what I wanted.
Boundaries. Professionalism. Clarity about our respective roles in this arrangement.
But when Hunter turns on loud music from his room, the same music I’ve learned to associate with him jerking off, I know exactly what he’s doing. And it drives me absolutely crazy.
Maybe he is more affected by our proximity than he lets on. Or maybe this is just his normal routine and I’m reading too much into it. I don’t know how often he got off before I moved in, but now it seems like it’s happening twice a day.
Is that normal for men? Patrick only ever wanted to have sex maybe once a month. Even then, it felt like a chore he was performing grudgingly. Then again, he was probably having affairs the entire time we were together.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling like everything is slipping through my fingers. Not for the first time, I wish I had another option than to have to talk to Hunter tomorrow. It soundshard.
The music from his room stops abruptly, replaced by the sound of his shower running. I try not to think about what that means, try not to picture him washing away the evidence of whatever fantasy he just indulged in.
Try not to wonder if I played a role in that fantasy.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ivy: “Damage control worked. No footage leaked. You did well today.”
I should feel relieved. Proud, even. I handled my first genuine crisis for the team without falling apart. But all I can think about is the look on Hunter’s face when his mother grabbed my hair. The way he immediately moved to protect me, even though it meant giving her exactly what she wanted.
And the way he looked at me in that towel. His eyes said that I was something dangerous he needed to avoid.
Four more months of this arrangement suddenly feel impossible. How are we supposed to maintain professional distance when every interaction feels charged with electricity? When I catch myself listening for the sound of his breathing through the wall that separates our rooms?
When I’m caring more about his wellbeing than my own career advancement?
I pull the covers up to my chin and close my eyes, trying to block out the sound of his movements in the next room. Trying not to think about how small and fragile his mother had seemed until she turned violent. Trying not to wonder what other secrets he’s hiding behind that carefully constructed wall of indifference.
But sleep doesn’t come easily. And when it finally does, I dream about gray-blue eyes and gentle hands and the way someone’s voice sounds when they’re trying not to wake the person sleeping next door.
I dream about things that can’t happen and probably shouldn’t. But feel more real than anything else in my carefully planned life.
Chapter21
Hunter
Practice is brutal today. Coach is in rare form, running us into the ground with herbies, those suicide sprints that leave your lungs burning and your legs feeling like jelly. Skate from the goal line to the blue line and back, then to center ice and back. The far blue line and back, then to the far goal line and back. Repeat until someone pukes or passes out.
You’ll get no complaints from me. I need the punishment. The noise in my head needs to be drowned out by physical exhaustion. My body has to hurt more than my brain does.
Thorne’s been speaking up more during practices lately, directing lines mid-drill. As the new team captain, he’s slowly growing more comfortable calling out what he sees and praising players when they do something right. It’s not perfect, but I’m seeing flashes of the captain he might become. Coach Ryan too, snapping at guys about spacing and redirecting body position with clipped gestures that somehow work better than yelling.
I haven’t thrown a punch all week. Not even once. Which is probably some kind of record for me.
During a water break, Thorne skates over, looking me up and down. “You’re taking this engagement awfully seriously.”
I grunt and squirt some water into my mouth. “What do you mean?”
