Not that she really needed my help. She was so good, she even got a Netflix stand-up special. I watched it a gross number of times. When Branson caught me watching itagainon a flight, he intervened.
“You ever going to call her?”
“We talk sometimes,” I said, brushing him off. “She knows I’m proud of her.”
“Bro,” Branson said, looking at me more seriously. “Have you ever talked to anyone about it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like therapy, man.” He eyed me cautiously. “You’re running through women like water. I heard a rumor you had SNL on while you fucked one of them.”
My cheeks heated. It was true. It wasn’t my fault that Kitty’s show was on during prime fucking hours. It wasn’t my fault that I looked for Kitty in every woman I had sex with. Sometimes I’d squint and try to imagine the eyes looking back at me were hers. I tried to mentally trick myself that it was her and not somealmost-stranger.
“Guess I need my agent to lock up my NDAs a little tighter.”
Branson sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Guy, I’m just worried about you. I’m afraid you’re never going to get over her.”
“What if I don’t want to get over her? What if I know it’s going to work out again?” I snapped.
One of our other teammates, Schneider, leaned over. “He doesn’t know, does he?”
“Know. What?” I bit out.
“Shut the fuck up, Schneider!” Branson warned.
“What are you keeping from me?”
“Look, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you,” Branson started.
“Tell me what?!” I demanded, fully yelling.
Branson put a hand on my shoulder. “Deep breaths, Guy.”
My eyes searched his, my heart sinking as the realization ran over my body like a cracked egg. “Who?” I whispered.
“Her castmate, Clark Sanders.”
I stopped breathing. I thought I had noticed chemistry in their scenes together, but told myself I was just jealous. I pulled out my phone and googled both of their names. Sure enough, there were paparazzi photos of them. Her feet in his lap at an awards ceremony, a laugh coming from her pretty lips. Their hands laced in Central Park. The two of them masked together in a deli.
The worst part of it all was she looked like she was in love. I knew what she looked like in love. I’d seen that face reflected back atme.
She hadn’t told me. Frank hadn’t told me. Both Gattos betrayed me.
The rest of the flight was a fever dream. People talked to me, but I didn’t hear them. Branson told our social media manager not to take any pictures of me. He also made me drink water. Coach didn’t bother making me put my suit back on to deplane.
When we landed in Seattle, Branson took me home. After he sat with me for a few hours, essentially holding a vigil for myshattered heart, I sent him home to be with Mel and the baby. Being the good friend he is, he refused to leave me alone. He had me pack for a stayover at his place. That’s how worried about me he was.
He was right to be worried. I was a walking nightmare. He must have given Mel a heads-up because she was ready for us with a frozen pizza and some wings. She didn’t even flinch when I cried into my plate. Not that I could care. I had no shame. I was completely broken.
Kitty was moving on without me. Everything in my whole body hurt.
My playing was abysmal, too. My legs felt like lead on the ice at morning skate the next day. I wiped out of my own accord a few times, and no one said a word. Coach started to bark at me, but someone quickly pulled him aside and mumbled something to shut him up. After practice, Coach called me into his office. I expected the reaming of the century.
Instead, when I sat in the chair in front of his desk, he gave me a sympathetic look.
“You want to be a healthy scratch or an upper body injury for tomorrow, Stelle?”
“Coach? I don’t understand,” I said, genuinely baffled. “I’m not sick.”
