Scrimmage is supposed to be a fun way to end practice, and it is, but I’m fucking exhausted because this practice started over two and a half hours ago, and to be honest, I had already been tired before we got here.
My father and our assistants sent me my to-do list for this week, which is going to consist of ass-kissing a few investors and inviting them to our hockey game this weekend—something we’ve never done before.
My father has always kept our college life separate from the family, wanting us to have a real experience, but obviously, that version of him is buried somewhere no one can reach right now.
Asher gets past the defender and sinks the puck over Finny’s shoulder. We all cheer, piling in to congratulate him. The praise leaves my lips, and I can sense the muscles in my face forming a smile, but I feel none of it. I just feel blah … nothing except defeat.
“Come on. We’re going to grab lunch at Flounder’s.” Griffin bumps me, his words sounding more like an order than a suggestion.
Honestly, I just want to be alone right now. “Yeah, I don’t know, I might just head home?—”
“Nope,” he cuts me off, slapping his glove on my shoulder. “We’re going to get lunch together. All of us, after Finny’s done with his punishment.”
I sigh, offering him the best smile I can. “All right, deal. Then I’m going home.”
We arrive at Flounder’s during the lunch hour. The place is pretty packed, but thankfully, we don’t have to wait too long to be seated, which is surprising, given that there’s six of us.
I order the same thing I always do—an Italian sub, foot long, with the works. It never fails me.
It’s been longer than I realize since I’ve said a word, and eventually, the guys start to notice.
“She’ll text you, man. Don’t stress about it.” Griffin shrugs it off.
Yeah, her lack of presence is weighing on me, but that’s not all. I feel like I’m starting to reach a point mentally where I’ve never been before, disappearing more and more in my mind.
It’s so goddamn confusing though because, some days, I feel normal, like myself, but then there are days like today, where I just want to stare at my ceiling and lie in bed in the dark.
I nod, and our waitress saves me from the spotlight, arriving just in time with our food.
Malik and Asher end up getting into an argument about which pro team is going to win the Cup this year—a recurring conversation that will happen multiple times throughout the season. Griffin even gets in on it and eggs me on with a couple of disses to my favorite team. I jump into the convo, laughing and smiling along with them and pretending that everything’s fine.
Because it is. Everything’sjust fine.
I mean, what could I possibly have to complain about? My massive house is too cold and empty. My bank account has too many zeros. Our hot girlfriend won’t text or call. In the grand scheme of the world, my problems feel insignificant.
But I feel this way all the same. If my money could truly buy happiness, I’d go broke.
My phone vibrates, and my heart jumps out of my chest as I rip it from my pocket, my breathing shallow with anticipation. Asher gasps, pulling my attention for a split second. I see him smiling down at his phone, and my gaze immediately drops to mine.
My pulse skyrockets as I see a new group text, including an unknown number and Asher.
Unknown Number: Hi. It’s … Princess, the girl from the gazebo.
Asher already sends a message before I can even gather my thoughts enough to type. I instantly save her number under Princess.
Asher: How can we be sure?
Princess: *attached photo*
It’s a zoomed-in picture of her mask sitting atop the flowers we gave her.
Oh, it’s definitelyher.
That’s a rude picture, Princess. Your mask is off, and we can’t even see your pretty face.
Princess: I’m sorry. Eventually, you will. You just have to be patient.
Asher: Have I told you that patience is my worst quality?
