Chapter Twenty-Three
Following the meeting, I take the elevator down to the underground parking lot at MSG when a familiar voice stops me like a referee’s whistle.
“Nice digs, LeClerc.”
Rocky’s leaning against his car, an old station wagon he’s had for a decade.
“What’re you talking about?”
He gestures to his phone. “You didn’t see?”
“See what?”
Rocky laughs. “Of course you didn’t. Jesus, you’re always the last one to know when you’re trending.” As I approach him, he turns his phone screen towards me, and there it is: A carousel of Instagram photos of my apartment. Not the old, sad bachelor pad version that looked like a discount furniture store’s clearance section. This is the new version courtesy of Claire. The photos showcase walls that are no longer bare, furniture arranged by someone who understands spatial relationships, and lighting that suggests moods beyond “bright” and “off.”
The post from Claire has tens of thousands of likes. The caption reads like poetry for people who care about throw pillows. “A modern yet masculine transformation in the heart of Manhattan, courtesy of dream client @LiamLeClerc and my growing obsession with natural light. More to come! #InteriorDesign #NYCApartments #HockeyMeetsHome”
“Yeah, LeClerc,” Rocky continues, enjoying my confusion with unseemly glee. “My wife follows all these interior design accounts, and apparently, this post hit the algorithm just right. They’re blowing up.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “Huh, wow. I guess that’s good…”
Rocky clutches his chest. “Holy jumpin’, LeClerc, was that an actual emotion? Are you pleased with something?”
“Wouldn’t go that far, Rocky.”
He grins. “Hey, at least you’re going viral for something wholesome. You know how rare that is these days?” He claps my back with unnecessary force. “Enjoy it while it lasts, buddy. Because I’ve seen far worse ways guys end up going viral on social media.”
“As have I,” I say. “Thanks for showing me, Rocky.”
Rocky winks before getting into his car. “That’s what I’m here for.”
On my Uber ride home, watching Manhattan blur past like a time-lapse of capitalism, my phone buzzes with a missed call from Claire. She probably wants to celebrate our mutual journey into interior design fame or at least explain how she turned my sad apartment into clickbait gold.
I put her on speaker as my driver navigates 6th Avenue with the aggressive confidence of someone who’s given up on the concept of lanes.
“Claire,” I say as she picks up. “Just saw the viral post. Congrats!”
A long silence follows. Then her voice comes through, quieter than someone who just went viral should sound.
“Yeah. I saw.”
My internal alarm system, finely tuned by years of reading teammates’ moods, starts pinging. “You okay?”
“I’m not, Liam. I’m not doing well.”
My stomach drops. I’d been expecting excitement, maybe some humble bragging. Instead, I hear fear in her voice, devastation even.
“What’s going on?”
Another pause. The kind that makes you brace for impact.
“I can’t keep lying to her, Liam.”
I exhale slowly, lowering my head like it might help me think better. The weight of Claire’s secret—the fictional Parsons acceptance, the elaborate deception to keep Petra from Saint Petersburg—rears its head.
“I keep thinking about how much she’s sacrificed,” Claire continues, her voice cracking. “She turned down a principal role in Saint Petersburg, Liam. Aprincipalrole. Do you know how impossible that is to get? And she didn’t take it because ofme.”
I don’t argue because Claire is speaking the truth.
