There are a few positive ones sprinkled throughout.
“Okay but she literally set up heaps of goals. Like. She’s actually good tho?”- @sportsgirlie
“The Giants hadn’t won before she joined. They just won a championship. Numbers don’t lie.” - @statsgirl
“If she was mediocre no one would care. That’s why they’re mad.”- @hockeyhistorian
But then the tone shifts from outrage to something worse.
Something invasive.
“You’re telling me not one of them clocked those tits when they pressed against her on ice?” - @puckme
“Team must’ve needed a fuck buddy on ice.”— @hockeybro4life
I feel a wave of anger. But even more than that I feel… sick. Like I’ve eaten something sour.
“That’s enough,” I say.
Mercer scrolls again.
“Gets worse.”
“I said that’s enough.”
But someone else across the room laughs.
“People are losing their minds over this,” Mercer says, half-disbelieving. “It’s everywhere.”
I reach out and push his phone down.
“Stop showing me that.”
He frowns. “What? It’s not like we didn’t know it was going to blow up-”
“It’s disgusting,” I snap.
The room stills slightly.
I don’t usually snap. I don’t usually sound like that.
I look straight at him.
“It’s disrespectful,” I say. “And she plays better than you, so maybe shut your face.”
Mercer’s expression hardens.
Then he looks away.
Doesn’t argue.
No one does.
Because they all know I’m right.
We leave an hour later.
No celebration.
