“Sit down.”
He drops back into his seat immediately.
“Jules,” I say.
I hear her unbuckling her seat belt, and then she stands up in her seat in front of me and turns. “Yes?”
“No posts at all on any socials until further notice. We don’t want to seem like we’re ignoring it.”
“I understand.”
She turns around and sits back down, and I feel a flare of disappointment. I got nothing from her—not a one-second lock of her eyes on mine, or a clarifying question. I’d think sheregretted our flirting last night if I didn’t know she was stone-cold sober the entire time.
She wanted me to come back to her room last night, and now she’s acting like it never happened. Maybe it’s on purpose, because we’re not alone.
I hope so.
By the timewe land in Boston, the sun’s up and people are going about the start of the day. I feel like it’s the end of an exhausting one. I haven’t slept, and now I have to attend a meeting in a hotel conference room with Caroline, Shawn, our defensive coach, Robbie, and Jules. McClain, Deb, and a crisis PR guy are joining us by video.
Jules slept on the plane. I could see her and Talia through the crack between the seats. Talia had her head on Jules’s shoulder and Jules had her head on Talia’s. Jules looks fresh and ready for the day, wearing a gray sweater, black pants, and black flats.
“Good morning,” Deb says, opening the meeting. “This is Carson Hanover. He works in crisis PR.”
“Morning,” Carson says.
I don’t let on how aggravated I am. This is hardly a crisis. I swear, Deb’s actually enjoying it.
“Where are we this morning?” McClain asks.
“I checked the socials earlier and people are commenting on older posts of Lucien,” Deb says. “Some people say he went too far.”
“It’s definitely not the first time someone’s been injured in a fight,” McClain says.
“No, but there’s a contingent of fans who follow every game we play against Vancouver because they know about the personal history between Beaumont and Macintire.”
“And?” McClain says, unconcerned.
Carson Hanover steps in. “Sometimes the best response is to say as little as possible.”
He continues talking, but my attention turns to Jules. She’s across from me at the table, so it’s easy for me to look at her without anyone noticing. She stares at her nails, the wall, the phone on the table—giving everything in this room her attention except me.
I know it’s for the best. I’m tired, worried about Audra, furious at Kyle. I’m not in my best frame of mind. But I think that’s why I’m so drawn to her in this moment. She has a way of making the rest of the world go away, and I want that. Badly.
Deb’s voice pulls me from my daydream. “I don’t know if he’s been up all night playing private eye, but his posts have a lot of detail. He knows, based on Audra’s post before the game last night, that she’s not in Vancouver. He’s speculating about the marriage and what Lucien might know.”
“What the fuck?” I drop my brows, my anger leveling up. “Who is this guy?”
Deb’s lips part. “I don’t know ... a guy who spends too much time online?”
“His name’s Craig Melvin,” Jules says. “He’s a YouTuber and a Crush superfan who follows our socials very, very closely. He comments on every post and follows everything. Our flight times, where he thinks we might be staying, who the players might be dating.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “Is he mentally well?”
“I think so. He’s just a huge fan. He makes videos every day, and he’s always dressed in a Crush jersey and hat. He likesfeeling like he has an inside scoop, even if it’s not much. He has a following.”
“This is all good to know,” Hanover says, writing on a notepad. “Can you send Deb some links so we can get a feel for him?”
“Sure.” She looks like she’s about to say something else, but she doesn’t.
