Skyler Shaw had messaged me.
No. Wait. Hold on. Back up.
I blinked at the screen, my brain doing that thing where it just . . . stopped . . . like a computer that’s been asked to run too many programs at once, and the little spinning wheel of death refused to stop spinning.
Except in that moment, the wheel was my entire capacity for rational thought.
PuckingSkylerShaw.
That couldn’t be real.
It had to be fake.
Some teenager hanging out in his grandma’s basement had created a parody account and was now DMing random people for kicks. That was the only logical explanation.
But also . . .
PuckingSkylerShaw wasexactlythe kind of dorky, dad-joke username an actual hockey player would think was hilarious.
“No fucking way,” I whispered, never wondering why I was whispering in my own den.
I clicked on the profile.
2.3 million followers.
Verified.
The little blue checkmark sat there, mocking my skepticism.
“Come on. Seriously?” I asked the screen. “Okay, fine. The little blue fucker is there, but verification can be faked, right?”
The screen didn’t answer back, but my spinning mind supplied a thousand replies.
People faked accounts all the time.
Photoshop existed.
Remember that documentary about catfishing, the one where a woman pretended to be a different woman for like three years?
Surely someone could fake a checkmark.
I scrolled through the account’s posts, throughyearsof content.
There were training photos, game highlights, and charity events.
I zoomed in on a picture of what looked like Skyler’s parents at some award ceremony. They even looked like the guy—or he looked like them, however that worked.
Then there were behind-the-scenes shots withteammates I recognized from TV.
This was either the most elaborate catfish in internet history, ortheSkyler Shaw had messaged me.
At midnight.
On a random Friday night.
I went back to the DM and read it again.
One word. Three letters. The absolute bare minimum of communication.
