“It might seem cringy to you,” I announce, “but what’s important is that it got the haters to shut up and leave Riley alone. That’s all I wanted.”
“Mission accomplished, Campbell.” Coben sticks up a thumb. “All everyone can talk about is how you’re a simp for this girl. Now, please turn in your man card.”
“If Cambell’s a simp, what does that make me?” Chance arches an eyebrow.
Coben’s smile wipes off his face.
“Let’s not forget. I’m still the champion of the ‘simps’.” Chance slings an arm over Coben’s shoulders. “When people were being disrespectful to April online, I held a press conference and told everyone how amazing she was. A playlist can’t compare to a press conference, right?”
Coben shakes his head. “Sorry, McLanely. A press conference is old school. Campbell posted to his stories for the first time ever. Social media is where all the buzz is at. You don’t need a press conference anymore.”
Chance pouts and removes his hand from Coben’s shoulder. “I’ll keep that in mind on the ice later, Rookie.”
Coben’s eyes tremble in fear.
I pick up my phone, tuning out the noise of their conversation as I check my notifications.
No new messages.
My stomach sinks to the bottom of my toes.
It’s ironic.
The entire team, no, the entireworldknows how I feel about Riley, but our relationship is in the worst shape it’s ever been.
Still, I don’t regret making the video. I thought long and hard about how I was going to address what Layla did. I even consulted Renea, who advised me the way I thought she would.
‘Layla is a clout chaser. People are already questioning the premise. Just ignore it and it’ll die down eventually’.
But I didn’t want to ignore it.
I wanted to make a statement about my feelings for Riley in a way that wouldn’t give Layla any of the attention she was looking for.
The post I made was a success. Without directly calling Layla’s name or referring to her podcast, I declared that I’m more obsessed with Riley than she ever was with me.
But it still hasn’t fixed what’s wrong in my relationship.
Riley has been ignoring my calls and texts.
“Until you decide to see a doctor and get medical treatment, don’t come to me.”
I was hoping she was just lashing out in fear, but I should have known that Riley doesn’t say things she doesn’t mean.
After practice, I get the urge to stop by Riley’s shop, but I somehow resist. I don’t want to test her boundaries, so I give her the space she demands, hoping that she’s seen the video and knows that I still love her.
That I still want her.
That I would do anything for her.
Except go to the doctor.
Conflicted, I stay late at the stadium to practice, fighting through the pain without my usual dosage of pills.
It’s a struggle, and I have to cut practice early.
This is torture.
I miss Riley.
