The expression on her face confirms it. I feel so sick. I pitch forward as I start to heave. Nothing but spit comes out, but my movements propel me off the couch, toward the coffee table. I fall in a thump, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. My vision blurs with new tears. I think about all the times I tried to be a good friend to her. All those nights I declined to go out with my teammates because she was having a bad day and needed a friend. The times I bailed on Tate because she was depressed and didn’t want to see anyone.
“I took you home,” Mallory says, her voice far, far away. “Got you there safely and didn’t touch you. Much.”
I feel queasy and heave again. And again. Nothing comes out.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t do anything too crazy,” she says. “I guess you’ve bewitched us all, Joss.”
“People only like theidea of me,” I say, or try to say. My words come out garbled. Still, I try again. “People only like the idea of me.You have to know that.”
I can’t make out her response, and soon, everything goes dark.
58
FINN
Istand up after tying my skates and hop once, then again. I haven’t been able to check my phone all day, and I smile when I see a text Josslyn sent me a few hours ago.
Josslyn: Indidfudhf
I frown and try to decipher it. It has to be some kind of acronym. After a moment, I text back.
Me: is that an acronym?
Me: coach is walking in. i’ll call you when i finish. I love you
Coach P starts talking, so I put my phone down and check the tape on my stick as I turn around to listen. He gives us the usual rundown, pep talk, and we’re off. We haven’t lost a game since Carolina, so we’re in a winning mindset. I score Bar Down right out of the gate, and not long after, Hammie scores. At intermission, we’re winning 3–0 and feeling pretty confident.
“Barlow cheesed the fuck out of the goalie,” one of my teammates says laughing.
“Don’t take your eyes off 85,” Coach P says. “He can dangle and he had that deke on you, Fletch.”
Dame nods. “I’ll stay on him.”
Another teammate laughs. “85 has eggs in his pockets.”
“Coach P is right,” I say after downing the drink I’m given. “He can dangle. His passing execution is off, though.”
“Yeah, it’s like he loses concentration when he’s right in front of Lundy.”
We talk strategy for a couple of minutes before everyone goes off to do their own thing—retape, bathroom, etc. Once I’m done with my tape, I check my phone. I don’t always do it during intermission, but I had no one to check on before.
“Dude, it’s official-official,” Lundy says behind me. “Barlow’s off the market.”
I frown and shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder.
He laughs. “Do you not look at your girlfriend’s accounts?”
“He doesn’t stalk her like Froggy,” another player says, and I automatically look for Froggy because what the fuck?
“Bathroom break,” Hammie says, grinning as he looks at his phone. “Holy shit. Good picture, too.”
My pulse quickens as I reach for my phone. I have seven missed calls from an unknown number, but I ignore them and go to Josslyn’s page. There, at the top, is a picture of us together. The guys keep talking and joking about our wedding, but I’m too caught up in the fact that she made this official. OFFICIAL. I don’t even bother smothering the smile that plays on my lips. To my left, I hear a commotion and see Damian drop his bucket and stick, and practically run out of the room.
“Someone needs the bathroom,” one of the guys says.
They laugh again, but my mind is still on Josslyn’s last post. From the moment I got social media, I’ve probably only commented on a handful of posts, but my fingers fly as I comment on hers now. I repost the picture on my own page with a simple caption: MINE. Once I exit out of the app, I look at my missed calls and texts.
Unknown number: it’s olivia. Call me NOW
