Page 139 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
It’s a letter. Not addressed to anyone, maybe not even meant to be read. But it’s about survival. About trying. About the daily work of holding yourself together when everything in you wants to fall apart.
Some days are harder than others,it says in Hunter’s messy handwriting.Some days I wake up and the anger is right there, waiting. Like it never left, just went dormant for a while. I used to think that made me weak. Now, I think it just makes me human.
The trick isn’t to stop feeling it. The trick is to feel it and choose something else anyway. Choose to be better. Choose to try.
I’m trying.
I sit there in the dark, holding the letter, completely undone.
Because suddenly I see it. How hard he’s working just to hold himself together. How much effort it takes for him to be the man he is with me, patient and gentle and kind, when his instincts probably tell him to run or fight or both.
He’s not perfect. Neither am I. But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe this fragile thing between us could take root and bloom. Maybe it’s about finding someone worth the challenge. Someone worth trying for.
I fold the letter carefully and put it back where I found it, then slip back into bed beside him.
He stirs slightly when I settle against his chest, his arm tightening around me in his sleep.
“Juliet?” he murmurs, not quite awake.
“I’m here,” I whisper back.
And for the first time in a long time, I think I might actually mean it.
Chapter31
Hunter
I’m on the third leg of this six city tour, and I’m dying. We won our first two games against Montreal and Ottawa. We were skating better, our defense seemed like they were more motivated, and our offense was playing pretty aggressively. Coupled with the fact that Montreal was coming off a five game streak and Ottawa played like they had never put on ice skates before, we crushed.
Then today, against Toronto, that momentum promptly crumpled. Their team is more coordinated, practiced, and has more to lose. They kept punching holes in our defense and leaving Jett in the goal to block every attempt. Our offense was trailing behind the Maple Leafs, trying desperately to steal the puck. Jett worked his ass off, sweat pouring off him, but there’s only so much a goalie can do when he’s on his own.
I did my part. I checked members of the opposite team into the boards at every opportunity, generally acting rowdy as fuck. I did my best to defend Jett in the goal, shoving and cross-checking Toronto’s center and left wing, who wouldn’t stay the fuck out of the crease. Thorne picked up on my attitude. He chirped, slashed sticks, and whacked skates like he was a born enforcer.
With the rest of the team struggling, even starting fights and tossing gloves wasn’t helpful. In the third period, I started scrums and chased Toronto’s captain like I was his fucking shadow, bumping, slashing, and talking shit. But it didn’t help.
Toronto won by a cringeworthy 4-2. After that crushing loss, the team gets screamed at by Coach Cross. We deserve it; the complete game was a fucking mess. I’ve never seen Coach’s face so red as he finishes his rant.
“Tomorrow morning before we load onto the plane, I want every single one of you to wake up and work your ass off in dryland training. We are going to run until everyone collapses.”
A dull headache throbs behind my eyes as I head back. I need to eat, hydrate, and focus on stretching before lactic acid sets in. I don’t want to get up tomorrow and already hurt before dryland.
The team has set up a team dinner for us in a private room on the ground floor of the hotel. I’m not in the mood to see anyone’s face, so I grab two plates and load up on grilled chicken, tortellini with pesto, broccoli, and fresh fruit. I grab a couple of bananas and a six-pack of Gatorade, then head up to my hotel room.
I collapse on my bed. Today really sucked all around. I’m glad that Juliet wasn’t here to see us drag ass around the rink. My head throbs as I wolf down my food and guzzle Gatorade. All I want at this moment is a little foam roller time and a fucking nap.
My phone buzzes when I’m halfway through my food. I check who it is, expecting to silence the call. But to my surprise, it’s Juliet. She didn’t text me at all today, which irritated me for absolutely no reason.
She’s not my actual fiancée. I can’t expect her to text me all the time.
But now she’s calling me. I’m a little taken aback because we don’t really have a phone call sort of relationship. I pick up her call, feeling a strange mix of excitement and dread.
“Hey, Juliet.”
“Hey. Do you… um… wanna FaceTime?”
I blink slowly. She wants to see me? “Sure.”
