“If he ever sees it, he’s going to think I’m a creep.” I sigh, shuffling back to my desk. I wince and clutch the hot water bottle against me when another cramp tears through my uterus—my monthly horror.
I glance up at the sticky notes, but my attention only lasts so long before I agonize over the message again. I don’t know why I care when, in reality, he’s a stranger. A completely unattainable stranger. One who doesn’t know I exist.
At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself to make me feel better because deep down, we aren’t strangers. We’ve already lived through a hundred lifetimes together. He just... he doesn’t know it. Yet. Ineedhim to know I exist.
Somehow. I haven’t figured out the logistics yet.
After two months, his posts are still the first thing I see when I open my phone. And maybe I shamelessly tap the Like button every time I come across one. And I peruse all the comments, including whether he’s responded to any of them in other posts. And I check if he has any new Story posts. And tags.
But it’s fine.
The only thing getting hurt is my feelings.
I just need someone else to obsess over. Someone fictional, ideally. Or someone so incredibly famous and unattainable—more so than Leo—that maybe then I’ll get over this damn writer’s block so I can publish a half-decent book. I’m screwed if I don’t because it’ll mean I have to go back to school to finish my degree.
Either way, doing the final edits of my last book,Knight’s Bane, was a breeze because it’s easier to envision a scene when I can imagine a real human acting it out.
Ergo, Leonard Duval, playing the part of Blake Olson.
He plays for the Detroit Serpents—an NHL team that left two hours ago for their first game in Boston. He’s twenty-five years old, has over forty tattoos, is six foot two, and weighs 209.3 pounds—as of two months ago, that is.
French Canadian on his father’s side. American on his mother’s. Dad’s a businessman, mom’s an ex-lounge singer, sister’s a stylist for a few big-name celebrities, but it doesn’t look like he’s close with anyone but the sister. Oh, and his aunt on his mom’s side goes to the Bahamas every three months to “reconnect with nature,” but leaves her husband behind to manage their construction business. Then there’s who I assume is Leo’s best friend—some guy he went to school with and is now one of the trainers on the team.
If Leo thinks I’m a creep, he’d be absolutely correct.
He’s considered one of the NHL’s most eligible bachelors, and I’m a failing author who writes books under a fake name.
And I maybe, possibly, perhaps, definitelydidmake a social media account dedicated to him, but have been too chickenshit to post anything because that would feel like sharing Leo with other people, and I don’t like to share.
It’s a pityKnight’s Baneis already published. Had I found Leo earlier, I would have written at double the speed since I’d be picturing him the whole time. What would have made it even easier is if he’d actually spoken to me; then Blake’s character would have been flawless, completely fashioned off a real-life human.
Maybe then it wouldn’t have flopped.
And I wouldn’t have a document with a list of scholarships I could apply for if my last-chance book dies the second it hits the ground.
I glance warily at my whiteboard.
I’m so screwed.
Joyce snorts as if sensing my turmoil and tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear. “If you’re so embarrassed about the message, why don’t you just unsend it?”
How do I tell her that I tried doing just that forty-eight hours later when I was choked by regret but had no luck? I’m too afraid to search up whether that means he’s seen the message and decided to ignore me, or if it’s a system glitch. I think the blatant rejection hurts more than wondering if the man with four hundred thousand followers simply hasn’t seen my message.
“And if he replies, what do you want to happen?” Joyce readjusts her drawing gloves before taking a sip of water. “Ooh, maybe he could do some modeling so you can have a limited edition with him shirtless on it.” She grins.
I’ll admit it. I’m a jealous person. Over my dead body will that ever happen.
“I don’t want anything other than male validation, and maybe a new business connection.” And a forest wedding. Kids at thirty. Maybe a house by the lake. Oh, and the satisfaction that I’ve successfully chased and caught my prey. And him. All of him. All his time and attention and love, and to experience a sexual awakening at his hands.
Joyce snorts. “You want to get laid.”
“That too. By him specifically.”
Leo and I live in the same city, so it wouldn’t be an impossibility for us to connect, if not for the fact that I’m not the type of person athletes would fall for—not because I’mnot like other girls, but because on paper we’re nowhere near compatible. Shit, I don’t even like sports. The last time I exercised would have been in high school PE. I dislike partying, socializing, physical exertion—the list goes on. I’m an introvert through and through, who loathes leaving the house.
I might be a romance author, but I’ve never experienced any real romance. My delusions have become my love interest.
“You could download a dating app again to solve that problem.”
