“It’s bad, isn’t it?” I sit up, my own Golden Gophers sweatshirt—the soft gray one I’ve had since freshman year—twisted around my torso. My mouth tastes like stale late-nightcoffee and regret. “On a scale of ‘mildly embarrassing’ to ‘pack your bags, you’re moving to Canada,’ how bad?”
“Actually?” Jessa’s mouth quirks into a smile. She crosses my room, socks padding on the hardwood floor, and hops onto my bed. The whole frame shakes. “It’s sort of amazing.”
I squint at her suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just—look.” She thrusts her phone at me.
The screen is too bright for my barely awake eyes. I squint at it, and there we are. Me and Brody at Ironclad Desserts. Him, looking amazing and handsome. His arm around my shoulders. My eyes doing that deer-in-headlights thing. The photo is everywhere—X, Instagram, hockey forums, Reddit. I wouldn’t be surprised to find it on the Maple Falls Facebook page.
My heart sinks as Jessa reads out the headlines. “‘Candy’s Mystery Girlfriend,’” Jessa points out over my shoulder. “And this one: ‘Hockey’s Heartbreaker Finally Has a Heart.’ Oh, here’s a good one: ‘Blue Ox Defenseman Spotted with Adorable Girlfriend—Fans Approve.’”
“They called me adorable?” My voice comes out as a pitiful squeak.
“Of course they did.” Jessa waves a hand as though that point should have been obvious. “They love you. They’re trying to figure out who you are. Someone thinks you’re a Vikings cheerleader. Another person swears you’re a grad student at the U.”
I take her phone, scrolling through the comments. The radiator clanks loudly, hissing steam that smells faintly metallic. Outside my window, I hear the muffled sounds of the city waking up—car doors, distant traffic, someone scraping ice off a windshield. But none of that compares to the sound of my thundering heart or the blood now rushing through my ears.
This can’t be real.
“This picture was taken last night. How are you seeing this now?” I check my own phone on the nightstand. “It’s nine thirty in the morning.”
“I set a Google alert for Blue Ox news.” Jessa shrugs at my raised eyebrow. “What? I write about hockey. I need to stay informed.”
Right. Jessa’s hockey blog. Because I’m apparently the only person in the world whose life doesn’t revolve around sports, who wouldn’t have recognized Candy Kane back in Barcelona if he’d been wearing a name tag and a hockey jersey. I let out a groan and toss the phone away.
“Nope.” I fling myself back down and toss the blankets back over my head.
Jessa leans in, her voice muffled on the other side of the covers. “What do you mean, nope?”
I peek back out. “I mean, NOPE. This isn’t happening. It’s a bad dream.”
Jessa laughs, completely oblivious to my torment. “You’re ridiculous. I would have loved to meet one of the Blue Ox players. Even Brody Kane.”
I close my eyes again. Coffee. I’m gonna need coffee before I tell her the rest of the story from last night.
I toss back the blankets, and my feet hit the cold hardwood. I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen, Jessa following.
The living room opens up, pale morning light through the window showing off my attempts at making this place homey: throw pillows on the secondhand couch, string lights along the bookshelf, my event planning vision board, covered with swatches, sample invitations, and venue photos, leaning against the wall.
I cross into the kitchen—galley-style with white cabinets, gray countertops. Dishes (mine) litter the sink. A small window looks out onto bare tree branches and the brick wall of thebuilding next door. A great view if you’re into the whole starving artist (or in my case, event planner) aesthetic. I reach for the coffee maker, then remember with a sinking feeling.
“We’re out of coffee.” I stare at the empty machine.
“Tragic.” Jessa leans against the counter. “But also? Not the biggest problem. You’re viral, Chloe. Thousands of comments. And they’re mostly positive.”
“Fantastic,” I say, opening the cabinet to confirm: no coffee. Just empty space where coffee should be.
“You’re being…very weird about this.” She sets her phone down. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I close the cabinet and lean back against the counter, the gray surface cool through my sweatshirt.
“Remember Barcelona guy?”
Jessa’s eyes go wide. “Mystery man who disappeared? That Barcelona guy?”
“That would be the one.” I wrap my arms around myself. The apartment is cold, the radiator doing its best but not quite keeping up with the single-digit temperatures outside. “Turns out Barcelona guy is Brody Kane.”
The silence that follows is so complete, I can hear the building pipes creaking.
