Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
ME: Hockey gods decided to spare you tonight. Just found a groupie in my bed. Bows on her tits and my name in Sharpie on her ass.
HIM: Bahahahaha. You go girl.
HIM: Permanent marker, eh? Wish my stalkers had that kind of dedication.
ME: Getting a new room now, so don’t shout random shit at my door. Won’t be there.
HIM: Why didn’t you just come crash with me?
ME: Cuz I’m a grown man who doesn’t need his hand held every time I’m assaulted by a pair of strange tits?
HIM: Your loss. We coulda cuddled.
Snorting, I exit the chat thread and find Hannah’s name. With all the press crawling around this hotel, I’d expect the rumors to hit the web within the hour.
ME: Don’t look at any of the sports blogs. Maybe stay off social media altogether.
HER: You shank a ball and kill an endangered egret or something?
ME: Nah. Found a crazy naked lady in my bed. Hotel is trying to argue that’s a feature, not a bug.
HER: Lmao at least I wasn’t in the bed this time.
Guilt settles like a rock in the pit of my stomach.
ME: I’m sorry. I wish the pro athlete life wasn’t so goddamn intrusive. Just didn’t want you to get blindsided.
HER: No worries. I trust you not to cheat on me with some random puck bunny.
Not that I expected anything else, but Hannah being chill about this feels like the one win I’ve had today. She’s the single thing in my life I don’t have to stress about. We’re just good, always, no matter what. When everything else is out of control, this woman grounds me.
ME: I mean, if you want to be a little jealous, that’s cool too…
HER: Oh, I’ll cut a bitch. They don’t want to try me.
I catch myself smiling for what feels like the first time in days.
ME: Miss you. Can’t wait to get home.
HER: Hurry back. Love you.
It’s times like this I remember why I fell so hopelessly hard for this girl.
37
Hannah
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” my mother says, over the canned thunder of the supermarket produce aisle when the sprayers kick on. That used to fascinate me as a kid. “Are you breaking up?”
“No, Mom. Everything’s fine.” I’m lying on the living room couch with a packet of crackers that I can’t seem to eat. Every time I take a bite, I feel nauseous.
“Tommy at the meat counter just said something about an affair.”
Tommy at the meat counter should stay in his lane.
“Just some dumb gossip. Don’t pay attention to it. I don’t.”
The rumor mill spins up fast; the moment I opened my eyes this morning, my phone was blowing up with texts and DMs. My group chat with the girls was full of hilarious links from blogs running breathless articles about the naked woman caught in Garrett’s bed in California. Churning out all sorts of feverish speculation.
The writers over at Hockey Hotties—and I use the term “writers” loosely—finally retracted their previous speculation that Garrett and Logan are secret lovers. Now they’re convinced Garrett is cheating on me with a Palm Springs escort. And Logan is cheating too because apparently he wanted a turn with the call girl. It’s the kind of ridiculous, misogynistic garbage I’ve come to expect from the tabloids, these rags obsessed with the love lives of pro athletes. But the fact that the gossip reached my mother in Indiana is more headache than I bargained for.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” Mom is saying. “What terrible things to write.”
“It comes with the territory.” I knew that when Garrett went pro. Though it doesn’t make it any easier when you become the main character in the sporting news for the day.
My mom is very good at reading my mind, saying, “Still, these things can take their toll on a relationship.”
“It’s not my favorite thing,” I admit. “You know I prefer to stay out of the limelight these days.”
Being a songwriter and producer is something a select few have turned into a highly visible gig, but I prefer being in the background. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem getting up on stage and performing in front of an audience; I did it all the time at Briar. And I don’t lack confidence. But ever since my boyfriend became a national hockey sensation, I’ve come to realize I really don’t enjoy the constant attention. I could’ve tried my hand at a singing career after college, but it holds no appeal for me anymore. The paparazzi, the mean tweets, the public’s obsession. Who the hell needs that.
“I hope he knows how lucky he is to have you.”
“He does,” I assure her.
And while I’d expect my mom to worry about me, the truth is, I put up with all this nonsense because at the end of the day, being with Garrett is worth it.