This might take the crown for the worst.
I’m in the corner of the women’s locker room, hood pulled up, earbuds in. No music playing. Just silence and the illusion of distance. It’s early, too early, but I couldn’t stay in bed a second longer. The second I opened my phone, the notifications started bleeding through like battery acid. Every ping was another jab to the soft spot I pretend doesn’t exist.
So now I’m here, scrolling like a masochist, trapped in an endless digital loop of hate.
The clip is everywhere.
Luna W, influencer turned gold digger, trash-talking her golden boy. The captions range from mildly insulting to straight-up vile.
“She played the long game.”
“I knew she wasn’t legit.”
“She’s not even that hot.”
“Poor Beau.”
I press the side of my phone to black out the screen, but the image burns behind my eyelids. Me, mid-laugh, eyebrows lifted, mouth in that half-sneer I get when I’m joking about something I shouldn’t be. The part of the conversation no one was supposed to hear. Especially not like that. Not twisted. Used as a weapon. Why are people like this? Why do they insist on hurting each other? Strangers.
God. It wasn’t even recent. That clip was from weeks ago. Our first encounter. Back when Maisie, Beth, and I were venting after Beau kicked us off the ice. We were egging each other on, but no one was ever supposed to see it. I didn’t know it was being filmed.
I’d said something about him being an emotionally unavailable rich boy. But then I got to know him, and he’s not. And that’s why I know it’s going to hurt him. It was dumb and harmless and honest at the time. He was being a dick. But now that I know him better, I realize his head wasn’t in the right place.
But now it’s viral. I’ve already lost a thousand followers. Probably more. Brands are pulling back. My jaw is clenched so tight my ears ache.
Maisie slides into the stall next to mine. She doesn’t say anything right away, just bumps her knee into mine gently. Her presence is a warm thing, quiet and grounding. I love her for it.
“You ready for practice?” she asks after a beat, voice low. “I brought you a sour cherry gummy. For strength.”
I glance over. She holds one up with mock ceremony and plops it into my palm.
“I think I need five of these and a PR manager,” I mutter.
Maisie hums, unbothered. “We’ll start with the candy. Work up to the existential shift.”
I crack a smile. Barely. But it’s there.
Still, when I look back at my phone, the tightness returns.
Beau still hasn’t texted. Not a single message from him. Not even a vague “you okay?” or “WTF is this?”
And maybe I should feel grateful. That he’s not piling on. That he’s giving me space. But somehow it doesn’t feel like space, it feels more like a goodbye. Like he’s distancing himself from the bad PR. You’d think he’d understand. He’s grown up with this kind of scrutiny. But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’m a liability.
Maisie taps her stick twice against the bench, nods toward the tunnel. “Come on. Coach’ll make us do sprints if we’re late.”
I nod, pocketing my phone and forcing my legs to move. The air in the locker room is heavy with heat and detergent and the sharp tang of something acidic. My gear bag’s heavier than usual, even though it’s the same as it’s always been.
The ice is colder than usual. Not in temperature, exactly. Just in the way it feels under my blades, too slick, too loud, too hard. The sound of skate edges carving into it rings out sharp and hollow, like it’s bouncing off the inside of my skull.
We’re supposed to be warming up, running a loose circle drill, but my timing’s off and I can’t get my passes to land where I want them. I overcorrect, then undercorrect, like my body’s trying to fight my brain’s white noise.
Beth notices. Of course she does. She swoops by on a crossover and taps my stick with hers, subtle but deliberate.
“You’re good,” she says under her breath, eyes locked ahead like she didn’t say anything at all.
I nod, but my jaw’s tight, and my gloves are already soaked from how hard I’m gripping my stick.
Maisie glides past me next and smirks. “Pretend every cone is a comment section.”
