And you think he’d tell someone? A reporter?
IDK. He was the first one I thought of. Can’t imagine anyone else doing it.
Can you imagine HIM doing it? Does it sound like something he’d do?
Yes.
It was my turn for a long silence. I kind of wanted to get up, stride down the aisle to Hairs’s seat, and give him a piece of mymind. There were a million reasons not to do that, though, so I stayed put. But my mind still raced. If nothing else, I’d be telling the travel coordinator to separate the two of them when Devon came back (assuming Vancouver didn’t keep him). Even if Hairs hadn’t done anything wrong, Devon obviously didn’t trust him and wasn’t comfortable with him.
I was midway through a thought about that when my phone pinged again.
Am I overreacting? They didn’t even say anything bad, you know? But I feel so fucking gross.
No. You’re not overreacting.
It takes a long time to get used to the press caring about your personal life. Having intimate details published without your consent? Nobody ever gets used to that.
So it’s not just me?
Absolutely not. Even when it’s nothing “bad”, it still feels violating and gross. You’re allowed to feel shitty about it.
He went quiet again. I exhaled into the relative silence of the bus. He was probably letting that settle over him. Sometimes, just having permission to feel shitty about something made it feel a lot less shitty. Hopefully, I’d said what he needed to hear so he could shake this off and get some sleep.
I wasn’t ready when his next text came through.
Can I see you?
My lips parted, and I reread those four words a dozen times because I couldn’t believe they were real.
Do you want to see me?
I need to see you.
My heart ached at those words, because I swore I could hear his voice breaking as he said it. I had no idea if he wanted sex or if he just needed to be in the same room as someone who gave a shit about him, but it didn’t matter because the answer was the same.
Where are you?
Dallas. We fly to Denver tomorrow.
I gnawed the inside of my cheek, and I quickly checked the Vancouver IceHawks schedule. They’d arrive in Denver tomorrow but wouldn’t play until the following night.
Pulse racing, I switched back to the text app.
I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Don’t you have a game tomorrow night? Where are YOU?
I’ll make it happen.
are you sure?
You need me. I’m there. End of discussion.
Gray dots. No gray dots. Gray dots. No gray dots.
Thank you.
It was bullshit thirty in the morning when the bus pulled up to our hotel in Kamloops. As everyone shuffled into the lobby, rolling suitcases on their heels, I caught up with Amy.