Page 105 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I can see Juliet in the VIP section throughout the game, arms crossed but watching intently. Every time I make a play, I look for her reaction. Which is stupid, because this is supposed to be about hockey, not about impressing my fake fiancée.
But when I score the second goal, a beauty of a wrist shot that finds the top corner, I swear I see her smile before she catches herself and goes back to looking professional.
After the game, after all the interviews and handshakes and bullshit, I make my way back to the hotel. I’m exhausted in a way that only comes after a perfect game, when you’ve left everything on the ice and your body is finally coming down from the adrenaline.
I kick the door shut with my foot and collapse onto the bed, still in my post-game suit. I’m too tired to move, too tired to think about getting undressed. That’s when I notice Juliet is already there.
She’s kicked off her shoes and changed into sweats. There’s another room-service tray on the desk. She looks comfortable in a way that catches me off guard. She acts like she belongs here.
“I figured you’d be hungry after your little hero routine,” she says, pulling the tray lid off dramatically.
I peer over at what she’s ordered, and my brain short-circuits a little. “Is that... chicken parm?”
“With garlic bread. And a protein shake that doesn’t taste like chalk.”
I stare at her. “How do you know all this?”
She shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “I pay attention. You always order like 5 chicken parms from the performance kitchen. You must like it.”
She’s right. Chicken parm is my go-to comfort food, the thing I always crave after a good game. And that protein shake is the exact brand I’ve been trying to find in hotel gyms for the past five years.
“Uh, thanks,” I say awkwardly.
She gives me a funny expression. “Don’t be weird, Hux.”
She got the same thing minus the protein shake, so we end up eating on the bed with the TV playing some muted baking competition show. It’s domestic in a way that should make me uncomfortable, but doesn’t. At some point, I nudge her shoulder with mine.
“You were a menace out there today.”
Juliet shrugs, stealing a piece of my garlic bread. “Someone has to make sure you don’t ruin your fake life.”
“Right,” I say. “Fake life. Fake fiancée. Real garlic bread.”
She snorts. Something about the sound makes my chest feel warm. We fall into a conversation that shouldn’t feel easy but does. Maybe it’s the post-game endorphins, or maybe it’s because we’re both too tired to maintain our usual walls.
“My brothers and I used to fight over rink time,” I say. “Our dad said we all played or nobody did. So we rotated shifts like a prison schedule.”
“Sounds weirdly wholesome.”
“We still fought. Just not about ice time.” I think about those early mornings, the three of us taking turns, always trying to prove we deserved more time than the others. “My younger brother Silas was the talent. Natural everything. Made the rest of us look like we were playing in concrete boots.”
“What about your older brother?”
“Jett was the smart one. Captain of everything, straight As, full ride to Seattle U. Hockey was just another thing he was good at. He’s an amazing goalie.”
“And you were...?”
“The angry one.” Before I can stop them, the words flood out. “The grinder. The one who had to work twice as hard for half the recognition.”
She’s quiet for a moment, processing that. “Sounds lonely.”
It was. But I don’t say that out loud.
Instead, I turn it back on her. “What about you? Any siblings to compete with?”
“Only child. But I had plenty of competition anyway.” She sets down her fork and wipes her hands on a napkin. “They forbade me to swear. Or dye my hair. Or look at boys. My parents weren’t really around, but they still expected me to be their buttoned-up, emotionally repressed princess.”
I raise an eyebrow. Thinking back to the girl I knew in college, it doesn’t really track. “You made up for it later.”
