Sitting at my parents’ kitchen counter in the gloomy predawn hour, I pull up the article again. I don’t read it because I’ve nearly memorized it since it came out yesterday morning.
Instead, I go down to the comments and reverse filter them to most recent.
It should be a balm reading them because almost universally, the fans are pissed. The reporter, Carmine Betta, has been called out for trying to sensationalize individuals who have been traumatized by the crash and hurting the very people busting their asses for this city.
But some of those commenters, while in the course of defending anyone named in the article, have called for Stevie’s head.
Well, not hers specifically, but for whoever the “source” is, which hasn’t been revealed. She wasn’t named in the article, and Carmine merely referred to her as “an unimpeachable source.” He didn’t even identify if it was a man or woman who gave him the information, but obviously, I know.
There have been a slew of follow-up articles and even local news anchors commenting on it, wondering who was so deep in the organization that they could give up that level of information. I know if word ever got out it was Stevie, she’d be retaliated against. I’m sure her bar would be vandalized, possibly her customers driven off over the furor this has caused.
As angry as I was… am… I don’t want that to happen to her. Truly, I don’t want anything other than to forget about Stevie.
Christ… I rub at my breastbone and figure I must be having a heart attack. That shit hurts, but admittedly only when I think about her.
“You’re up early,” my mom says as she enters. She doesn’t turn on the overhead light but rather flips on the one over the stove to illuminate the coffee pot right next to it.
“Couldn’t sleep.” I shut off my screen and set my phone down. “Why are you up so early?”
“Because you couldn’t sleep,” she says, smiling over her shoulder at me.
I can’t help but smile in return. She’s one of those moms who knows when her kid is in pain. I watched her grieve Rachel’s death, which is the ultimate horror for a parent, but I also know it hurts her when I hurt.
I had no choice but to tell my mom, dad, and Rory what happened. My parents don’t know Stevie other than what I’ve told them. They were pretty quiet on the subject, only giving me their support and assurances that my feelings were valid.
Rory wasn’t quite as nice. She refused to believe Stevie gave up all that information, and we got into an argument.
“You had one lousy breakfast with her, and suddenly you know her entire moral compass?” I groused.
“I’m a good judge of character,” she said.
“She admitted to me that she met with the reporter. Wake up, Rory,” I snapped.
Her eyes flashed with the fires of hell, and she pointed a finger at me. “Don’t you talk to me like that, Hendrix Bateman. I get you’re upset, but that doesn’t give you the right to invalidate my opinion.”
Duly chastised, I apologized, but I refused to engage in further discussion.
It’s been an absolute shit show since I got that first text from Bain yesterday morning when he sent me the article. The rest of the team started texting and then Coen called me. As team captain, he wanted to figure out what was going on and keep us united. I didn’t tell him anything that first call as I was busy packing my shit to get the hell away from Stevie, but I called him back in the car.
I told him the truth, that Stevie was the source, and Coen was stunned. “You’re kidding?”
That’s been the response from a lot of the players. Well, at least the ones who have met her. Like Rory, they’re having a hard time believing it.
Bain, in particular, told me via text, Not Stevie. No way.
I got a lot of that too.
My standard response: She admitted talking to the reporter.
I threw her further under the bus because I didn’t tell anyone that she also denied giving up that information. I think I want everyone to be as mad at her as I am so I can ignore my guilt over not letting her explain.
It’s silent as my mom brews coffee and slides a cup before me. “You going to head back?”
“Yeah… got a lot of stuff to do.”
She takes the seat next to me, her coffee sitting before her. “Will you see Stevie when you return?”
My eyebrows draw in so fast, I’m surprised they don’t fuse. “Why would I do that?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe to hear what she has to say. You’re not interested at all?”
“Nope,” I reply.
Well, maybe I’m a little interested.
Interested to know how I had so badly misjudged her. How I let her capture my heart and then destroy it just as quickly.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“I’m sorry this happened to you, honey,” she says, reaching over to rub my shoulder. “I never wanted you to have a broken heart, but I’m not sorry you fell in love.”
“Don’t worry about not being sorry,” I tell her, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “I’m carrying enough regret for both of us.”
In fact, I’m swearing off women.
Well, not all women. Maybe I’ll just stick to the ones who offer threesomes with no strings attached.
♦
I’m almost back to Pittsburgh when Stone calls. He texted yesterday wanting to know how I was. My reply was short. Dealing.
He called last night, and I ignored it. I was absolutely avoiding him since Harlow is such close friends with Stevie, and I didn’t want to hear him defend her.
But I can’t hide from him forever, so now I need to suck it up and answer. “Hey, man, what’s up?”
“Just checking in, buddy. Harlow and I are worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
There’s dead silence.
“I swear, I’m fine,” I repeat.
Stone sighs. “Then I’m going to have to figure out what the fuck is wrong with you because no one should be fine after finding out the girl he was dating blabbed to a reporter about intimate details.”
We were more than just dating, but I don’t share that with him. I don’t want to intensify his worry.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask in a brittle voice. “That I’m pissed? Hurt?”
“All of the above.”
“Okay, fine… yes. All of the above. She fucking betrayed me, and I didn’t see it coming.”
Stone utters a low curse. “I’m really sorry, man. Harlow has been trying to talk to Stevie, but she won’t return her calls.”
“Don’t,” I say harshly. “Don’t get involved. I just… I want to move on and forget this. The Titans’ organization and all the players are united in saying ‘no comment,’ and our media department says it will die down when no one engages.”
That’s right… I spent part of my Christmas talking to our media attorney on how best to handle the allegations in the article.
Some of it was true.
Some of it had a hint of truth.
Some of it was twisted and looked nothing like the truth.
The one that bothered me the most wasn’t that there was information about Rachel and how I felt about her death—because I’m not ashamed that I grieved—but rather the misrepresentation of my relationship with Tracy and Stevie.
Tracy wasn’t named, thank fuck, nor was Stevie, but the picture presented was that I dumped Tracy because I saw Stevie and wanted to hook up with her. It was such a gross distortion of what really happened, and yet it has tainted my memories of that night.
The question is, did Stevie report what happened accurately and the reporter twisted it, or did she twist it herself to make it juicier?
“Look, Stone,” I say wearily. “Please just tell Harlow to let it go. I want to move on, and I’m sure Stevie does too.”
Which I know isn’t exactly true. I received several texts from her last night—even after I asked her not to contact me—asking for just five minutes to explain things.
I haven’t responded nor do I intend to do so.
“I’ll let it go,” Stone says, but then warns, “Harlow is a different matter. I can’t control her, and she’s friends with Stevie. She’s going to want to make sure she’s okay.”
I don’t argue because damn it all to hell, I want Stevie to be okay too. As much as I despise her, I don’t want her hurt. I just want to move on and put this behind me.
“That’s fine, but I don’t want to know anything about what they talk about. I’m not kidding when I say I’m done with this whole fiasco. I want to concentrate on hockey and get my life back.”
“Sounds like a good plan.” I hear the truth in his words, and that alleviates some of the residual guilt I’ve had about not hearing Stevie out. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”
“Yeah… see you later.”
As I drive into the city, my mind sifts through the last month, focusing on all the conversations I’ve had with Stevie. I especially reflect on the ones we had in bed after orgasms had us mellow and open to each other.
Not a fucking hint that she was playing me.
And what exactly did she get out of it? Was she paid?
Admittedly, she looked stunned when I showed her the article, and her denial was immediate, but then she admitted to meeting with the reporter.
“Fuck,” I curse out loud, tired of being so conflicted.
I need to move on, exactly like I just told Stone I was ready to do.
When I pull into my garage, I shut off the car and pick up my phone. I flip to the text chain I have with Stevie, which has been completely one-sided since yesterday morning after I stormed out of her house. I count up the messages from her—seven total—and they’re all the same.
Begging for five minutes of my time to explain.
It reminds me of how I just wanted ten minutes of her time to talk her into a date.
Should I reciprocate or let it go?
Without allowing myself to have this conversation in my head and remembering what I told Stone, I type back. I’m not interested in what you have to say. I’m moving on. You should too.
My thumb goes to hit the Send icon but stalls, hovering with indecision. This will make the break.
It will be clean.
It will be final.
It should be an easy decision, as angry as I am.
I close my eyes and focus on the memory of her expression when I showed her the article.
Pure fucking guilt. She knew she’d wronged me.
I get exactly what I need… another surge of hot fury, and my thumb descends on the screen.
There’s no doubt in my mind Stevie will see it immediately, and sure enough, the pulsing dots indicate she’s writing back.
I hold my breath, wondering what she’ll throw my way.
I’m not prepared for how short her response is.
Two letters.
OK.
