Chapter 10
The numbness was a lie. A thin, brittle crust over a churning sea of hurt.
For days, I’d worn it like a shield, going through the motions at practice, giving one-word answers, pushing food around my plate.
The world had been muted, the colors washed out, all sound filtered through the relentless, three-word echo in my head: Don’t be dramatic.
But tonight, the crust was cracking.
It started when Shay and Felix showed up at my door, unannounced and armed with a case of cheap beer and determined expressions.
“We’re done watching you mope, Holt,” Shay declared, barging past me and into my apartment. “You’ve been a black hole of sadness since that team dinner. It’s pathetic.”
“I’m fine,” I said, the automatic lie tasting like dust.
“Bullshit,” Felix countered, cracking open three bottles and handing one to me. It was a command, not an offer. “You look like you lost your best friend and your dog. Talk.”
I took the bottle and drank deeply, the cheap, bitter fizz a welcome shock to my system. The first beer disappeared quickly, a temporary patch on the leak in my dam. The second one followed, and the room started to take on a soft, fuzzy edge. The third one loosened my tongue.
We were sitting on my floor, my back against the couch, the coffee table littered with empty bottles. The buzz was a warm, heavy blanket, smothering the sharp edges of my pain and leaving behind a dull, aching throb that was easier to talk around.
“It’s Emerson,” I slurred, staring into the amber depths of my fourth bottle.
Shay snorted. “What, did he finally trade you? Is that it? ‘Cause man, we’ll riot. We’ll start a petition.”
“Worse,” I mumbled. The alcohol made the words slippery, hard to hold back. “So much worse.”
Felix, ever the observant one, went still. “What did he do, Charlie?”
The sound of my name, spoken with such quiet concern, was the final straw. The dam broke.
It all came tumbling out in a messy, drunken torrent.
I didn’t look at them as I spoke, my gaze fixed on a scuff mark on the floor.
I told them about how the first dinner I had with im wasn’t just dinner, the chocolate cake, the kiss that had short-circuited my brain.
I left out the locker room—some shred of dignity, or maybe just sheer terror, kept that part locked away—but I told them about the texts, the way he’d watched me at practice, the charged meeting in the hallway, the way he made me feel seen and then invisible.
I told them about the team dinner, the way he’d looked right through me. And then, my voice cracking, I told them about the photos. Kira. The silver dress. His hand on her back.
“And I... I lost it,” I whispered, the memory of my texts bringing a fresh wave of hot shame. “I sent him these... these insane, jealous texts. Like a crazy person.”
Shay’s eyes were wide, his usual joking demeanor completely gone. “Holy shit, Holt.”
“And he answered,” I said, finally looking up at them. The hurt was a live wire in my chest, amplified by the booze. “He finally answered.”
“What did he say?” Felix asked, his voice gentle.
A bitter, watery laugh escaped me. “He said... ‘It was a business meeting. Don’t be dramatic.’”
The silence that followed was heavy. Shay looked from me to Felix and back again, his brain visibly working to process the nuclear-grade gossip I’d just dumped in his lap.
“Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “So all that time... when Felix and I were teasing you about having a crush on the owner... we were right? It wasn’t a joke? You were actually... and he was...?”
“Yeah,” I said, the word thick with misery. “It wasn’t a joke. It was real. At least, I thought it was.” I drained the rest of my beer. “Turns out I was just being dramatic.”
“Oh, man,” Shay breathed, his expression shifting from shock to a dawning, protective anger. “Charlie... we were just giving you shit. We never thought... fuck. We didn’t know.”
“How could you?” I shrugged, reaching for another bottle. The world was tilting pleasantly now, the pain becoming a distant, muffled ache. “I didn’t know either. Not really. Not until he decided I was too much drama.”
Felix shook his head, his jaw tight. “That’s a shitty thing to say. ‘Don’t be dramatic’? After all that? That’s cold, man.”
“He’s a cold guy,” I slurred, the ‘I don’t care’ facade slamming into place, fueled by alcohol and despair. “It’s fine. I’m fine. He’s a billionaire. I’m a hockey player. It was stupid. I’m over it.”
“You are very clearly not over it,” Shay said, grabbing the bottle from my hand before I could open it. “You’re a sad drunk, Holt. It’s not a good look.”
“Give it back,” I whined, making a clumsy grab for it.
“No. You’ve had enough. You’re going to feel like death tomorrow as it is.”
The sudden lack of alcohol, the cutting of my numbing agent, made the pain rush back in, sharp and immediate.
The ‘I don’t care’ act evaporated. My eyes welled up, and I didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore.
I slumped against the couch, letting the tears fall.
“He made me feel like I was nothing,” I choked out.
Shay and Felix exchanged a look over my head. The teasing from before was gone, replaced by a grim solidarity. They were my wingmen, my brothers. And one of their own had been hurt.
Shay sighed, his anger softening into a determined resolve. He put the bottle back on the table and clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Alright, listen up, you pathetic loser. We’re not letting some suit in a five-thousand-dollar haircut do this to you. He doesn’t get to make you feel like this.”
I looked up at him, my vision blurry. “What are you gonna do? Challenge him to a duel?”
“Better,” Shay said, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. It was the look he got right before he did something that would get us all fined. “We’re gonna make him jealous.”
A wild, reckless spark ignited in my chest. It was a terrible idea. It was a catastrophic idea. But in my drunk, heartbroken state, it sounded like pure genius.
“How?” I whispered.