Page 103 of Lovefool

Fuck, I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and pretend like everything will go back to normal when I head back home. The stale taste of the granola bar I had to hold me over lingers in the back of my throat, and my breath is yet another variable I can’t control. The air is stifling as it sits on top of this burgeoning sardine can—refusing entry into my trembling body—and the irrefutable warning signs of a panic attack are beginning to set in.

I need to get out of here. It’s all too much. Everything is too much.

With my fear of perception suddenly blowtorched away, I’m about to steamroll anyone who intercepts my beeline to the exit before some conspicuous pointing captures my attention from below.

Two girls whisper amongst themselves, and I can pick up on a few choice words like “Mustangs” and “lose.” One of them is holding up their phone with a picture of Buford’s headshot, and the other seems to be scouting the ice for his jersey number.

They seem rather confused, like he’s not here. Have I really been so out of it that I hadn’t noticed he wasn’t present? And how do they know Buford? I pray they haven’t shared any fluids with him. Though, considering we’ve been here for a few days, it’s not above him to hunt down the locals for a pitiful pump and dump.

He has to be here somewhere. Buford is still on the team. Sutton didn’t go to his coach about this, or I would’ve heard about it.

What if Sutton did have a change of heart?

He would’ve told me, right?

You’re not his keeper. You two may not even be together anymore. He doesn’t need to run anything by you.

Right, I…I screwed everything up. I lost the privilege of being in his life when I turned my back on him.

Considering my day has already been comically awful, it truly takes me by surprise when the world chooses to laugh at my misfortunate by flooding my phone with a vibration of notifications. A sense of gut-rotting apprehension pierces the veil of my brain fog as I slowly slip the device out of my pocket, forcing myself to face what appears to be my article, plastered on the homepage of MU’s website.

No. No, no, no. How is this possible? I didn’t publish this. I didn’t—oh my God.

Time plummets like the felling of a tree in the middle of a snow-laden forest, and the girls in front of me break out into a hushed conversation of shock, now scrolling through paragraphs upon paragraphs of information that weren’t supposed to see the light of day until after the tournament. They’re reading my article. Everyone in this fucking arena could be reading it.

Did Tamara do this? It’s the only reasonable explanation. She decided to publish the article without my agreement.

The hockey game still clamors around me, screams from the onlookers erupting in volcanic bursts that overlay the unprecedented decibels of the arena.

Droves of tears wet my eyes while I’m reduced to incoherent sobs that are thankfully drowned out by the surround sound. Guilt gorges on my barely beating heart, and I follow through with my escape plan by tearing through the crowd and taking one of the hidden stairwells down to the floor level.

I descend each step with an unsteady gait, narrowly colliding into other pedestrians as the reminder of how seemingly inconsequential I am in the grand scheme of things spades into the depression of my belly.

The image of the article strikes at my brain like a whetstone, the bold words ILLICIT and DISGRACED nipping at my heels. It’s getting harder to see—sweat mingling with tears, a headache roosting behind my eyes, my hospital-admittance-worthy heart rate impeding my ability to operate like a normal human being.

And call it a symptom of my fleet-footedness or a laughable dice roll of fate, but the minute I exit the stairwell, I slam into a wall of a person. My eyes crimped shut, I brace for the impact of the fall before I realize that their hand is latched around my arm.

“Lake?” a deep voice asks, that familiar affectation drawing my gaze back to the light.

I crack an eye open. “Sutton?”

He plops me upright with his big, strong arms, hair trussed and chest heaving because he must’ve just gotten off the ice.

Holy shit. Did I seriously miss the end of the game? I came here to support him, and I didn’t even give him all the attention he deserved.

Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t seem annoyed to see me. The corners of his eyes are pleated with crinkles, and there’s a genuine, dopey smile looming over his lips. “You’re here.”

He’s not looking at me like the catastrophe that ruined his life—like the pitiful girl sewn together by scars and secrets that have spelled trouble for him from the moment we met. There’s an unspoken forgiveness warming his expression, wresting the despondency right out of my heart’s greedy grasp.

A mass exodus of fans begins to bottleneck the nearby passageways—some with their heads lodged into their phones, others casting what could be judgmental glares at me and Sutton.

I wish I could rejoice in our reunion, but my regret is harrowing, punching in all the pressure points of my very volatile temperament.

As tears blot my vision, a disorganized parade of words flakes off my tongue. “The article…something happened. I didn’t—I swear it wasn’t⁠—”

Sutton rubs his hands down my arms, ferrying me off to the sidelines so we don’t get flattened by the stampede of egressors. His touch feels so nice. I was worried I’d never experience it again.

“Slow down. What’s going on?”