She scans her phone and mumbles something under her breath.
“Go home and get some rest,” she says. “We’ll put out this fire tomorrow after you meet with the doctor and we have more information.”
I hesitate before walking away, but my head is spinning with what-ifs and thoughts about retirement from the league. Whoever she was, she planted a seed in my head—and in the head of every major news organization that covers professional hockey.
Fuck.
My stomach turns at the thought. I’m not ready to quit. I don’t need to quit—my shoulder is fine, and the meds are working. I can’t let some reporter get under my skin. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
Chapter 9: Is It Really You?
Claire
Ireally should’ve kept the jacket until I got back to my apartment, and then I could’ve gotten rid of it properly instead of leaving it behind with those bitches and freezing my ass off.
Wanting to clear my head, I decided to walk home, but with every step, the bitter cold has sunk deeper into my bones, and now I’m just angry. Mad that I was too stupid to figure out that he was sleeping with me on the side. Furious that he lied so often, and I believed him every time. Enraged that I mistook Lily’s kindness for friendship.
Fuck him and her and Monica and all her friends for making me feel like this.
I’m almost back to my place when I pass by Fritz’s Hideaway. It’s a dive bar down the street from my apartment that I’ve always seen but never entered. But tonight, something about it calls to me. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m nearly hypothermic, or maybe I’m just not ready to go home alone. But, without giving it much thought, I pull the heavy wooden door open and walk inside.
It’s a small establishment. Exposed brick and worn wooden floors give it a warm, welcoming atmosphere. There’s a long bar on one side, and on the opposite wall is a row of retro pinball machines. The walls are decorated with an eclectic mix of video game and movie memorabilia. Two TVs are mounted on the back wall in front of two red couches. A group of men are gathered and playing some old-school video game.
Already feeling a little warmer, I brush off some of the snow stuck to my clothes and remove my hat. Smoothing my hair, I make my way over to the bar and sit on one of the leather barstools.
It’s relatively quiet, but Rick Springfield’s “Jessie’s Girl” is playing just loud enough that you can enjoy it without getting a headache. Other than the small group in the back, there are two men sitting at one of the tables playing handheld video games. A woman and man are sitting at another table deep in a game of chess.
It’s clear I’m out of my element, but there’s something comfortable about being here.
“What can I get ya?” the bartender asks with a warm smile. He’s an older man, with graying hair and wrinkled skin.
“Um, any chance you have coffee? I’m freezing.”
“I do.”
“I’ll take one with some cream.”
He nods and walks away.
Pulling out my phone, my finger lingers over Raph’s contact, and I blow out a long breath. I don’t want to relive the humiliation that I experienced back at the arena. I don’t want to hear him try to explain himself. I just want this shit show to be over so I can move on and focus on me. Today was a good day until he ruined it.
Clicking on his name, I pull up our text thread. My whole body recoils as I read the last thing he sent me, causing me to drop my phone onto the bar top.
Raph:
Don’t make plans for after my game. I have a feeling I’ll be hungry later
Sitting there, I contemplate if I should text him. What a fucking douchebag, sending me that shit when he has a girlfriend.
This is why I don’t usually mess with hockey players. This is why I steer clear of athletes—because this shit always happens. They’re all cocky. They’re all playboys. And they all think they can get away with absolutely asinine behavior.
The bartender returns with my drink, and I pick it up, taking a few sips. The hot, creamy coffee dances on my tongue, warming me up and giving me the confidence to do what I should’ve done before I left the arena.
Placing the mug down, I grab my phone. The tongue emojimakes my stomach churn, and I do my best to ignore it as I type out my message.
Ran into Monica after the game. Lose my number you piece of shit. We’re over.
Harsh, but valid and completely deserved. I hit send and set it back on the bar top, feeling proud of myself for not giving him the chance to try to explain himself and risk falling for his bullshit. I don’t care if he responds. I’d actually prefer it if he didn’t.
