Page 37 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Apparently, hockey players aren’t supposed to draw. We’re supposed to hit things and grunt.
I think about starting something new. Maybe sketching helps me process things I can’t say out loud. But I snap the pad shut again and do nothing.
I lie on my bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling and listening to Juliet move around in her room. Water running. Drawers opening and closing. The soft sound of her voice on a phone call, probably with Jessa or Ivy.
Emotionally, I’m wrecked but holding it all inside like always. My mother is dragging old wounds into the light, making me relive the worst period of my life. I’m angry and ashamed and raw.
I’m also noticing Juliet. Really noticing her. The way she handled the guys tonight, how she made everyone like her within minutes. The way she looked at me when we talked about my mom, like she could see something under the surface that most people miss.
It makes me question what exactly I was thinking when I agreed to this ridiculous fake engagement. It’s already annoying to deal with. Then Juliet does something like touch me while asking if I’m okay in that soft voice, and I don’t know what to do with that.
It means nothing, though. It couldn’t. The thought terrifies me more than any lawsuit ever could.
Because people like Juliet don’t stick around for people like me. They get smart and leave before the damage gets too deep.
And I can’t blame them. I wouldn’t stick around for me either.
I’m tired of fighting with my mother. Tired of being painted as the villain in a story where I was the victim. I am tired of pretending her betrayal didn’t break something in me I’m not sure I can fix.
But tomorrow I’ll get up and put on the mask again. I’ll tour fake wedding venues with my fake fiancée and smile for cameras that will broadcast our fake happiness to the world.
And I’ll get through another day.
ChapterNine
Hunter
The ice feels perfect under my blades tonight. Sharp, clean, unforgiving. Just the way I like it.
Unfortunately, we’re up against the Sacramento Inferno. And though the Havoc comprises individual players who are way better, those guys have an edge. Their team plays well as a unit. They always kicked our asses when we played them in the past.
I try to push those thoughts out of my head and focus on the upcoming game, but it’s hard.
I’m skating warm-ups when I spot their enforcer, Marcus Kane, giving me that look. The one that says he’s been watching game tape, studying my penalties, figuring out exactly which buttons to push. He’s a big bastard, maybe six-five, with hands like anvils and a reputation for getting under people’s skin.
“You ready for this, Chainsaw?” Thorne mutters as he glides past me, his voice low enough that the refs won’t hear.
I grunt in response, keeping my eyes on Kane. The asshole’s already chirping at our rookies during warm-ups, trying to get them rattled before the game even starts. Classic move. Get the young guys nervous, and they’ll make mistakes all night.
“Stay cool tonight,” Beck calls out from center ice, loud enough for the entire line to hear. “We need you out on the ice, not in the sin bin.”
He’s right. We’re three games into a five-game homestand. But there’s something about Kane’s smug face that makes my jaw clench. I can already smell the scent of blood on the ice.
The anthem plays. I stand between Silas and Jett on the blue line. My brothers. My anchors. Jett’s bouncing on his skates like he’s got electricity in his veins, all golden hair and nervous energy. Silas is statue-still beside me, focused on something only he can see.
“Let’s fucking go,” I mutter under my breath.
The puck drops and we’re off.
First shift, I’m out there with Thorne and Grayson. We’re forechecking hard, trying to set the tone. Their defenseman tries to make a pass up the boards, but I’m there to cut him off. The hit sends him into the glass with a satisfying crack, and the crowd roars.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Coach Cross yells.
Kane’s watching, circling. Always waiting.
Second period, he makes his move.
I’m battling for a loose puck in the corner when he comes in late, way after the whistle. His elbow catches me in the ribs, just hard enough to sting.
