Page 154 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“I do like you,” I say with a laugh. Suddenly, I realize I mean it more than I should. I really, really like him.
How dare Huxley make me care about him?
He posts them with captions about away games and supporting each other, and I watch the likes and comments roll in. Our fake relationship is so convincing that sometimes I forget it’s fake.
“You okay?” he asks quietly as we’re unloading at the arena. “For someone whose job it is to talk, you’ve been really silent.”
“Fine. I promise.”
He studies my face like he’s cataloging every detail. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I poke him with a finger. “Stop trying to take care of me, you big brute.”
Hunter grabs our bags, shaking his head, and guides me toward the building.
I can feel a headache creeping in and feel chills that have nothing to do with the air conditioning. Every sound feels louder than it should.
Of all the days for me to come down with something, I swear.
By the time we get to the arena for pre-game activities, I feel like a truck has hit me. My fever is climbing, my whole body aches, and the fluorescent lights feel like they’re drilling into my skull. Hux is in the locker room, presumably getting changed or getting some kind of pep talk from Coach Cross.
I walk into the press room, dreading seeing my ex. The Houston Stars players are just filing in, their press conference before the Havoc’s. I lift my chin and make hard eye contact with him as he enters the room, tall, dark-haired, and rotten inside. A sharklike smile breaks out across his face as he heads to the conference table.
He’s smirking like a villain, all confidence and calculated charm. I can’t believe I ever thought that I was in love with him. He’srevolting. When a reporter asks about the dynamics of tonight’s game, he mentions his ex-fiancée, who’s here with the opposing team.
I want to sink into the floor and cease to be, but that’s not a choice I get. I have a very public-facing job. Part of it is going to be dealing with my shit choice in ex boyfriends.
“Juliet’s doing well for herself,” Patrick says. He grins, using the same smile that used to make me feel special. Now it makes my gut churn. “Good for her. Though if she ever wants something real again, she knows she can call me. We all know that what she has with Hunter Huxley is a sham.”
God, I loathe him with every fiber of my being. I roll my eyes, but don’t respond. Irefuseto give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But it shakes me more than I want to admit, hearing him dismiss what I have with Hunter as fake. Even though itisfake.
Patrick can’t know that. He can’t see the weakness in me, even if it means trying to hide the symptoms of a brewing illness.
I mop sweat from my brow. My fever climbs higher. I need to tell someone, but none of the women I would normally confide in are around. I can’t both Hunter with this either, not when he needs to focus in order to dominate in this game. So I find Coach Ryan in the hallway outside the press room, looking calm and professional as always. Sliding up beside him, I rest on the cool wall.
“I need your help.” Hesitating, I decide to give him the short version. “I think Patrick is going to do something hurtful. Someone needs to know in case something weird happens tonight. I… I don’t want Hunter to see him giving me shit and lose his mind.”
Coach Ryan nods, his expression serious. “Say no more. You need anything, you let me know.”
True to his word, when Patrick tries to approach me later near the press area, it’s Ryan who intercepts him. He just points right at Patrick and then beckons to him. “You! Come here.”
Patrick pales slightly. “I’m just trying to talk to Juliet.”
“The fuck you are.” He grabs Patrick’s arm and yanks him close, then murmurs something in his ear. Patrick’s eyes slide to me, but he shakes his head.
Calm and firm, Coach Ryan steers Patrick away without making a scene, physically forcing Patrick to back off.
It’s a good thing, too. I keep stealing glances at Hunter throughout warm-ups. He looks like he’s vibrating under the surface, always one second away from exploding. His movements are too sharp, too controlled, like he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will.
The entire team lines up, grimacing. Something in the Seattle Havoc’s water definitely makes them angry. Not a wonderful sign going into a game where I’m hoping Hux doesn’t demolish anyone. By the time the whistle blows, I’m shivering, my eyes never leaving #47.
Patrick is gunning for him from the first shift. Chirping him, shoving him after every whistle, trying to bait him into a fight. I watch every second, my heart in my throat, bracing for Hunter to snap the way he always does.
But he doesn’t.
He stays calm.
When Patrick shoves him in front of the net, Hunter just shoves back and keeps skating. When Patrick tries to get under his skin with whatever garbage he’s saying, Hunter ignores him completely.
