I hold my breath, praying she didn't tell them I'm the fucking creep who won't leave her alone. At this point, I wouldn't blame her. I know I'm coming on strong. I know she has every right to block me and tell me to fuck all the way off.
Obsession like this can't be healthy, right?
It should worry me how little I care about the answer to that question. I want to be this obsessed. I want to keep messaging her, thinking about her,dreamingabout her.
I just want her, dammit.
Evie: I told her that you were nice to me.
"Yes!" I shout like I just sank the puck and won the Cup. As far as I'm concerned, this is better than a winning goal. My girl could have told the reporter that I won't leave her alone. She could have told the world that she doesn't know me, or that I'm ridiculous, or any number of other things that would have made it clear that there's nothing between us. She didn't.
She told them that I'm nice to her. They're going to eat that shit up like she just told them that we're fucking, and I know she's smart enough to realize that.
Me: I'll always be nice to you, Evie.
I stride into the bedroom, waiting for her to respond…praying she does. Two days without her messages is my limit. I'm ready to snap. Had I not been in Cincinnati for a game, I probably would have hunted her down.
Evie: Have you really been listening to my album, or was that just a line?
I grin, settling back against the pillows.
Me: The cracked blacktop is an old, familiar friend who never judges our vices and our sins. But it's a damn cold substitute for what we're too afraid to let begin.
Evie: Did you just Google the lyrics?
I laugh softly, my hands flying across my screen.
Me: Hell no. I memorized them. You wrote that one with Clayton Devine and Bentley and Cami Reynolds.
Evie: Yeah. They're good friends with my dad.
It's wild to me that she grew up surrounded by some of the biggest stars in the world. I've been stalking the fuck out of her Instagram. A lot of girls in her position would be spoiled little princesses. Not Evie.
She's so fucking sweet. There isn't a single story about her being rude to fans or to waitstaff or to anyone. Everyone loves her. They all want to be close to her.
I'm sure having a father in the music business didn't hurt when it came to getting a foot in the door, but she started in dive bars, just like he did, as if she were determined to do it the hard way just to prove to herself that she could.
Me: Did you always want to sing?
Evie: My dad and I wrote a song when I was nine. The first time he performed it, he brought me up on stage with him. I think I knew then that I wanted to be the one singing my words someday.
Me: You really do have a beautiful voice, baby. You were born for this.
Evie: Thank you. You're not so bad at the hockey thing, either.
Evie: Were you really MVP two years in a row?
If I smile any bigger, my goddamn mouth is going to get permanently stuck.
Me: You looked me up.
Evie: What? No.
Evie: Okay, maybe. You've been messaging me a lot. Like a LOT a lot, Kingston. I was checking to make sure this obsessive behavior was normal for you and not a sign of a serious condition.
Me: Liar. You like me.
Evie: If your head gets any bigger, it won't fit in your helmet.