And worst of all, Trish was crying because of me. Because my nightmare was now hers. I wrapped my arms around her, hating myself for delivering this chaos to her doorstep all the way from Berlin.
“So, I was like, that makes zero sense, you dumb bitch.” Trish reenacted the story with a dramatic mix of wailing sorrow, feminist rage, and her original Milwaukee-hood accent. “Imagine my beautiful, smart, independent bestie out herethirsty for some hockey, bro! Get the fuck outta here—you know, I defended you like any best friend would. But then Claudia’s dragging me into the hallway, like I’m the one out here spreading fake-ass news!”
Trish paused just long enough to heave a deep enough intake of air to let her finish the story without having to worry about pausing to breathe again. “She was all, like, ‘You’re being out of pocket!’ And saying, ‘I warned you something like this would happen if you let her go to this game!’ And when I pointed out that she was part of the problem if she was going to keep smoking while this display of toxic masculinity went unchecked, she was like, ‘Well, I guess not everybody’s a saint like you.’ And I was like, ‘By saint, do you mean a decent person who refuses to sit by while the patriarchy runs over her best friend with a Humvee or whatever the fuck they drive in Russia?’ And then she just kept saying I was doing too much until suddenly she was like she didn’t think this was working out. She just dumped me!”
At that point, wailing sorrow took back over. “On Monday, she was begging me to take her to lunch with you because she couldn’t stand to be away from me after we spent every day together during winter break. And today, she just dumped me like I didn’t come back early from winter break to be with her while she finished out her season.”
Trish shook her head. “Like I didn’t spend all of Christmas biting my tongue at her conservative parents’ winter home in Florida.Florida, Lyds. Do you know how fucking nose wide open you have to be to spend Christmas in that armpit of a state? And she just dumped me! Turns out hockey players really are the worst—it doesn’t matter what gender they are!” Trish wailed before collapsing into tears.
I’d actually always wanted to go somewhere as fun and commercial as Florida after growing up in a fussy mansion overlooking Lake Minnetonka.
But I felt like crying myself as I guided a sobbing Trish over to the couch. My best friend had been so happy just a few days ago….
My heart twisted with anger and helplessness, thinking about the guy at the center of it all. How could one person wreak so much havoc on our lives?
I wish I could say that was the end of it. But over the next few days, I came to find out that the tyranny of my new Rustanov bully had only just begun.
Lydia
I hated studying at home—especiallywhen someone else was there. It reminded me too much of struggling to complete my schoolwork in my bedroom while my effortlessly smart older brother watched noisy hockey games in his. But I gave it my best shot, spending the next few days tending to Trish and trying to readDawnwith headphones on while “Smoke and Ashes” by Tracy Chapman played on an endless loop in the background.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask Trish to turn it off—or even down. I mean, it was all my fault that the girlfriend she’d been planning to follow to New York after graduation had dumped her.
But if I heard Tracy keen one more time about how her blind devotion had only led to heartbreak, the house would be smoke and ashes when I burned it down just to get out of hearing that song again.
By the time Saturday night rolled around, I was more than happy to fulfill Trish’s grief meal request of pretzel bites, a turtle custard mix-in, and a double order of fried cheese curds from the campus rec center’s Culvers—even if it meant having to stand in line for nearly an hour due to the pre-game rush and then havingto wait an additional twenty minutes to retrieve Trish’s order from the pick-up counter.
However, I did have to wave the counter attendant down after she pushed a tray full of food toward me instead of a to-go bag.
“Hi, sorry!” I said before she could walk away to retrieve the next order. “I asked for this as a carryout.”
The attendant glared at me before snatching up the receipt, which clearly had the word CARRYOUT written across it in block letters.
Her expression didn’t change, though. “Guess that’s what you get for being a crazy-ass stalker,” she muttered.
“Excuse me?” I jerked my head back. “What did you just say to me?”
“Here you go,Restraining Order,’” she answered with a fake smile before carelessly tossing a plastic blue-and-white bag on top of my food.
By the time I recovered from my shock, she’d walked away, and another attendant was asking me to move so he could place the next order on the pick-up counter. I’m pretty sure I heard him call me Restraining Order under his breath, too.
That was how I found out that the Black Bunny nickname Artyom had suggested to his teammates hadn’t stuck. But Restraining Order? Apparently, that one had gone viral.
You’re a Carrington. You’re a Carrington. You’re a Carrington, I chanted to myself when my long-dormant temper threatened to give rise.
As my mother had reminded me throughout the years, I represented the Carrington name wherever I went. Completely losing my shit like I used to when I got frustrated wouldn’t do.
Tamping down my anger, I gathered up my tray and turned to find another clear surface to pack up Trish’s order?—
“You got no business being here, Restraining Order! Rule’s two hundred feet!”
That was all the warning I got before a guy wearing the official Yolk’s game day jersey slapped the open tray of food out of my hands.
I nearly wailed like Trish when the pretzel bites and cheese curds I’d ordered for my grieving best friend scattered across the floor, right before the turtle mix-in custard splatted down in the middle of it, like a totally ruined cherry on top.
“It’s one hundred feet!” I called after the asshole—no “am I?” about it—on social work major principle.
But I was a Carrington. And I could already see a few students with their phones held up—eager to see me go off.
