Page 69 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
Titans Owner Gets Cozy with Unnamed New Beau
Wynn Scores a Goal with Titans Employee, Fans See Red
Beat It, Braun: New Titans Owner Spotted Getting Flirty with Favorite New Hire
The comments section of every article is a full-blown dumpster fire of fans typing in all caps, insisting that I’m even more of a joke than they first thought.
My heart bottoms out to my stomach, which proceeds to sink to my toes. I did the one thing that all the tabloids and gossipy hockey blogs predicted. I fell for someone involved with the team. And now all the fans see is the flirty, unfocused owner they feared I would be, and they want me out. Stat. I can almost feel my career crumbling into dust.
I throw my phone to the end of the bed, plunging my face into my pillow and releasing a scream that turns into a sob.
Fuck my whole life.
I manage to pull myself out of bed and trudge to the kitchen to switch on the coffeepot. I’m going to need a whole lot of caffeine to keep me from crawling back into bed, hiding under the covers, and never showing my face in public ever again.
I can’t believe this is really happening. One of the absolute worst-case scenarios, and it’s happening to me in real time.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and every nerve in my body jumps with anxiety. What now, a write-up in the freaking New York Times?
When it buzzes again, I work up the courage to look. It’s not another text or news notification, though. It’s an incoming call from Holt.
My stomach lurches, and after a few seconds of consideration, I make the difficult decision to press the IGNORE button.
Yes, this mess affects him, but it affects me more. I’m the one whose face is in the picture, and I’m the one with a career and a family reputation on the line. I need space to process this shitstorm, and as much as I’d like to cry into Holt’s shoulder, I’m not sure I deserve to. I’m the one who let my guard down. I knew what the media was capable of, and yet I still went out with him in public.
A knock sounds at my door, and I groan, flopping onto my couch. “Go away.”
Holt was right, it turns out. I need to have a talk with building security about who’s allowed to come up to my door.
“I could go away, but then I’d have to dump out this disgusting oat-milk latte, and that’s a total waste of five bucks.”
I perk up a little, both at the familiar voice and the mention of an oat-milk latte. It’s Gretchen, thank God. That’s one shoulder I can cry on all I want without the gossip sites having much to say about it.
I force myself up from the couch and let her in, trying to ignore the pitying look in her eyes as she hands me the largest coffee cup I’ve ever seen in my life.
“I was in the neighborhood when I saw the news,” she says, each individual word sounding like a miniature apology. “Are you doing okay?”
Part of me wants to laugh at that question. Of course I’m not doing okay. My budding relationship just got exposed on every sports blog on the internet, and pissed-off fans could come kick down my door at any second.
But I don’t even have the energy to call her on that bullshit question right now. All my brain capacity is currently dedicated to reminding me that I’m a complete and utter failure.
As we settle in on the couch, I blow the steam off my latte, blinking back tears as I explain to Gretchen the backstory behind the picture.
“We were at a player’s kid’s birthday party,” I say with a sigh. “And we were trying to keep the PDA to a minimum. But clearly, we weren’t trying hard enough. I mean, I thought we’d be safe there.”
Gretchen nods, her eyes narrowing, and I can practically see the question forming in her mind. “Do you know who took the picture? Maybe you could take legal action against them or something.”
I shake my head. “Any of Lucian’s friends or neighbors who were there could have snapped the shot and slipped it to a news outlet for a quick buck. It might have even been one of the catering staff he had there that day. Hell, for all I know, one of the news sites caught wind of a gathering of players and sent a drone.”
I sink deeper into the couch cushions, half hoping they’ll consume me altogether and I’ll never have to face the world again. “Do you think the witness protection program would turn me away for being too lame?”
“Drink your latte,” Gretchen says, gently guiding my cup toward my lips. “You always have a better perspective with some caffeine in your system.”
