“You’re not worried about me; you’re worried about your precious reputation.” Taking a deep breath, I try to explain itas if I were talking to the elementary students in my upcoming internship—God. I wonder if I’m even going to have that when this catastrophe is over. “Someone put a picture of me online without my consent?—”
“So you say,” he interrupts.
I grit my teeth before continuing. “Why won’t you believe me?”
“It affects my image. I can’t let anything or anyone affect my chance at making it to the pros.”
Anger whips through my fear and hurt. “But it’s okay for someone to have illegally put a sexual picture of me online. Without my consent? Violated me? You don’t even care if I’m okay?”
“I…I just…” He shoves his phone in his pocket with one hand and runs his fingers through his hair with the other. “I don’t have time to deal with this kind of mess, Amy.”
“A mess.” My laugh is hollow even to my own ears. “So, that’s all I am to you?”
His stillness says more than any words ever could.
I storm over to the door and point my finger at the opening. “Get. Out.”
“Amy…”
“Get out. Right now.”
“I’m…sorry. I can’t risk anyone in the NHL thinking I’m associated with someone who would do something like this.”
In the seconds before he makes his way to the door, I recall meeting his parents via FaceTime. Vacations we took together. Slow kisses, hot nights. Plans after graduation, where we had discussed moving to whatever city drafted him.
Gathering myself together, I ensure my voice is colder than an empty ice rink when I return, “And I refuse to be with an idiot whose only plan is to skate through life without using his brain.It’s obvious yours is used only for plays and gossip. Get out of my life. Right. Now.”
He hesitates for barely half a second before storming out without a word.
I slam the door behind him. I don’t know how long I stand there—minutes? Hours? It feels like days before I recognize my phone buzzing in my pocket, pulling me back into reality. I pull it out with trepidation.
My soul weeps with relief when I realize it’s my best friends texting furiously.
Maya:
Hey, are you ready to grab lunch?
Christin:
We’re on our way.
Emery:
Answer the door or we’re breaking it down.
Hands shaking, I type back:
Me:
Don’t worry. Someone else did before you.
With the Herculean effort that small conversation takes, I sink to the floor in a sobbing heap, unable to believe the boy I gave all my firsts to—my first date, first kiss, first...I can’t go there.
Not now. Maybe never.
Less than two minutes later, I’m shaken from my pain when there’s pounding on the door. “Amy!” Emery shouts. “Don’t make me break down this door! You know I can!”
I give serious consideration to ignoring my friends and remaining in my looming pit of despair. In the time it takesme to answer them, I’ve received no fewer than seven messages from “friends.” Each one is questioning me about the choice I made to upload that photo.
