Page 93 of Lovefool

In the past, I’ve picked fights just to pick fights. I wanted to…hurt…people so they wouldn’t try to save me. I don’t have those tendencies anymore—not since I’ve been with Sutton—but they’re starting to make an appearance that I didn’t sign off on. Hiding in the darkened corners of my body, worming into my stomach lining, somehow more volatile than my gastric acid’s pH balance.

“You don’t know him like I know him. Haven’t you noticed him playing poorly in the last period of every game the Mustangs have had this season? Seen him talking to strange people?” I snap.

I’ve got an unhealthy arrhythmia going on, and my skin feels suffocating. Hot, impenetrable, a nuisance that I need to peel from my bones if I want to breathe again.

His muscles tense. “But to jump to that intense of a conclusion? An accusation like that could ruin his life, Lake.”

I laugh. It’s certainly not the appropriate response, but I’m seconds away from needing to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital.

I begin to pace back and forth, hoping the cadence of something steady will ground me. My pulse is out of the question—that motherfucker is breaking the charts and crash-diving into an ocean on the opposite end of the planet.

Sutton straightens his posture. Despite being physically close to him, I’ve never felt so far away. Alone.

“How long have you been spying on him?” Judgment drips from his tone, which only alchemizes the anger inside me.

How is he more concerned with the logistics of things rather than the real problem at hand? Why is he downplaying what I discovered? Why is he treating me like I’m crazy?

“It only happened one time!” I half-shout before remembering to lower my voice—perks of having unwanted neighbors. Tears pop and fizzle behind my eyes, one belligerent push from cascading over my waterlines and blotching down my skin. “Do you not believe me?”

“I…I don’t know what to believe. The timing is really unfortunate, Lake.”

I fish my phone out of my pocket, enlarge the photo I took of Buford and the sports bookie, then shove the screen in Sutton’s face. “Why would I make this up, huh?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration, the tension in the air going absolutely haywire now that I’ve injected enough testosterone into our emotionally charged conversation to kill a small horse.

“Buford is rich. Why would he need to gamble illegally?”

“Because he’s greedy. Always has been,” I mutter, slipping my phone back into my jeans pocket.

“So you were just going to publish the article? During playoffs. Before talking to me first.”

“I was getting around to it! If I didn’t publish it, I’d be going against everything I believe in. I have a real shot of making editor in chief next year, and this is exactly the kind of story that should be reported. I advocate against suppressing stories like this.”

“Nobody can find out about this.”

Hold on. What is he implying?

It feels like my whole world has snapped clean down the middle, jagged crust forming a saw-toothed massif, molten core oozing out from its home in a subterranean sanctuary. I visibly stagger backwards, as if adding distance between us will save me.

Something foreign shadows Sutton’s eyes—all the warmth I’ve grown to love dissipating far more quickly than it took to stake its claim. I fear that I may never see it again.

Nobody has ever mastered the art of loving, but I thought I got pretty damn close.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Why would I tell someone if it could jeopardize us playing in the semifinal?” Sutton asks.

I feel so…small. Sutton has never made me feel small. And I’m all alone out here, hundreds of miles away from home.

“It would only affect Buford’s standing.”

I watch as irritation converts to brazen rage on his face. I’ve never been on the receiving end of my boyfriend’s anger before. It feels like my heart bruises my ribs with each dizzying beat, composing a melancholic percussion.

“Who knows the extent of who would be affected. If the world finds out that one Mustang was participating in illegal sports gambling, it will launch an investigation and not only ruin our reputation, but it could put other teammates’ chances of making it to the NHL in jeopardy. Everyone will hate us. We’ll be torn apart on the internet. Crew has worked so hard to curate this amazing image for the team.”

For someone who has never bitten before, Sutton goes in for the kill with ease. “Lake, this isn’t your story to tell.”

“I have to do the right thing, Sutton,” I retort, the meager rations of my last meal trying to take a one-way trip back up my throat.

“Just talk to Buford. Maybe you misunderstood what you saw.”