Fine Fine
Adrian
Present Day
Ronan and I sit shoulder to shoulder in front of his laptop, staring at the screen filled with tiny, exhausted teammates. Last night ran late. We look like shit warmed over—and Wes might actually be dead. The celebration didn’t end with lunch, and I poured myself into bed after 2 a.m.
Brittney, the wife of our goalie and the team’s social media manager, is front and center, sharing her screen with the month’s social media schedule on display. She explains the different posts she wants us to create, ranging from team photos, game photos, and game schedules to the stupid videos solely responsible for catapulting our team to whatever you call the viral internet version of fame.
“I have a couple of books I am going to send with Dave. I’ve bookmarked a few lines for one of you to read to the group, and the rest of you will react.” She gets like this when she is excited about her idea.
This one falls flat. We all stare at the screen blankly except Wes, who appears unconscious while sitting up. I nudge Ronan.
“Look at Wes. Is he even breathing? He looks fucking green, man.” I whisper.
“Adrian, something to share with the class?” Brittney asks.
“If I wanted to share with the class, I would have said it louder, Brit.” I retort. Working to keep my tone playful. “I have a question, though. Why the fuck do you want us to read to each other? Who is going to watch that?”
God, I hate social media.
It’s a necessary evil, like taxes and Ronan’s opinions. I have an account because sponsors demand it, but no one has noticed that it has been private for years. If it didn’t raise red flags, I’d delete it entirely.
“I am so happy you asked that! Hockey romance novels are all the rage on social media right now. Has anyone among you ever done any reading?”
I was trying to be patient and friendly with this chick, but that snarky fucking comment pushes me past niceties. To avoid a retort that will inevitably leave me at odds with Dave - and he is a fucking weirdo loaner as it is - I sit back and seal my lips closed.
Ronan leans forward, clicks the button to mute our microphone, and turns our camera off.
“Makes sense that she is married to Dave. They are both fucking weird.” Ronan muses before facing me, “We going to talk about yesterday?”
“Talking’s not our thing. I met her five years ago and saw her yesterday. End of story.”
I do not want to get into this with the person with the least character depth in my life.
“It took you literal years to meet Alice and stop talking about that chick all the time, to stop looking for her. She is the one person you seemed to struggle to let go of. Also, the fact that you know right away who I’m referring to is a little telling.” His voice is free from its usual tone of arrogance. He wants to discuss this seriously.
Alice.
She’s waiting for me in my room.
Right.
“What do you want me to say? I was and am used to getting what I want. She wouldn’t indulge. It took me a while to accept that. I have Alice, things are fine. Everything is fine.”
His left eyebrow pops up. “Fine,” He says.
“Yeah. Fine.” I reach for the laptop to turn the camera back on, but he knocks it out of reach.
“Fine. Fine isn’t great. Fine isn’t even good. Plus, you went after the chick she was with at lunch. What did you two talk about?”
This fucking guy.
He has been one of my closest friends since high school. He’s also about as deep as a kid’s pool and has criticized every woman I’ve shown interest in beyond one night, including Alice.
This is a perfect opportunity to deflect.
“Aw, you jealous, babe? You know I only have eyes for you.” I tease.
He opens his mouth to retort, and we hear Brittney call out, “Adrian and Ronan, this is a team meeting. You need to participate.”
We both roll our eyes and turn our camera back on. She painstakingly covers the daily posts for the rest of the meeting and assigns our days to engage with people. I can’t help but wonder when she will give up on assigning me anything to do with social media. The only posts on my account are from Ronan stealing my phone to post. I do not engage with people. I fucking hate Instagram.
My thoughts drift back to the restaurant. She looked different—polished and professional. Her suit was perfectly fitted, and her long hair was swept back in loose waves. But those tattoos on her hands and collarbone were unmistakable. I haven’t seen her since that first night, but it felt like we hadn’t been apart. I spent more time trying to find her than even Ronan knows. It didn’t stop when I met Alice. I just stopped talking about it. The search has always been so futile. Lex is not her full first name, and I have nothing else to go on.
Back then, I checked the bar’s website. It offered zero information on employees. Their social media included photos and videos of patrons and employees but linked to no one. In one photo, she was shoulder-to-shoulder with that bartender, his arm around her waist. It would be best to move on and let it go. Normal people would move on and forget it, but that photo remains in a locked folder, hidden on my phone.
The bartender. The mother fucker feigned concern when I asked her for her information, but I could sense what it was really about. He was into her and unwilling to hurt his chances by connecting her and me. The guy looked like he still lived in Mom’s basement and spent his days off playing video games.
I have no idea how long I spend lost in my thoughts. Ronan pulls me back, thanks Brit, and ends the Zoom call. He opens the internet browser and asks, “What did you and the woman she was with talk about?”
This reminds me that she gave me her business card. I reach for my jacket and fish through the pockets, finding the glossy card.
Kendall Burke
Enterprise Account Executive
AM&T Enterprises
Ronan snatches it from my hand.
“This is a great place to start!” He exclaims, opening a browser window and searching the company.
I start to complain.
I don’t want to admit I still want to find her. Plus, I can manage this on my own. I shut my mouth when he lands on the corporate employee page, and she’s there. A headshot of her looking much like she did the other day, brightly smiling. She looks like she was laughing when the photo was taken, the smile extending to her eyes.
That smile.
Ronan exhales a slow whistle. “Alexandria Donnelly,” He reads, “Enterprise Account Executive. Sounds fancy.”
“It’s a fancy way of saying sales rep,” I reply.
He smirks and continues scrolling, clicking on her LinkedIn, and reading off her career history and endorsements. It’s all there, laid out in neat little sections. She’s been killing it, clearly—but the more I see, the more I feel that gnawing frustration.
Alexandria Donnelly.
She’s been here, living her life, while I’ve spent five years chasing a ghost.
Then Ronan pauses, his finger hovering over a line near the bottom of the page.
“She’s connected to Steve Jackson,” He says. “From college. Remember that guy?”
I rack my brain, but nothing about the name or face comes to mind. “Not really.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ronan says, pulling out his phone. “Steve’s the guy who knows everyone. Let’s see what he knows about our girl.”
Before I can stop him, Ronan has the phone on speaker, dialing the number.
“Ronan Pierce. It’s been years, man. How are ya?”
I return my attention to the photo on the screen, to her blue eyes.
Not a ghost anymore.