11. CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
11
The morning light filters another day through the blinds, casting a warm glow on the living room floor at home. I groan in exhaustion and think about hitting snooze. I smile, recalling Chicago and Wells. It had been a few days, but I was still riding on the high, and it helped me get out of bed.
I cradle a steaming mug of coffee with too much vanilla creamer and my half-eaten donut and stare at my laptop.
My frenemy.
While the device makes my cash flow continuously swim into my bank account, I’m tired of being with her all the damn time. It’s a portal to the outside world, and mornings are not particularly my favorite time of the day.
This is where most of the shit-talking happens, and the world likes to fight, making everyone feel like they are just not good enough.
I perch on the edge of the couch, sipping carefully, the ceramic warmth seeping into my palms. The to-do list for the day hovers in the back of my mind—a manageable swarm of tasks and reminders, but I pick up my donut anyway and take a giant bite.
I’m not ready.
I need a few more moments of peace without engaging in weird stories or the latest trends on how to get rid of ankle fat.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
I exhale into acceptance that I need to get the show on the road when my phone vibrates along my thigh.
Chloe.
CHLOE: DID YOU SEE THIS ABOUT WELLS?
Next, underneath her text, a link shows up, followed by a thumbprint of what looks to be a video. Mindlessly, I click on it, thinking it was yet another TikTok video of a bunny eating a strawberry, but she mentioned Wells.
Did he make an amazing play last night?
Did he get into a fight?
CHLOE: Girl, you dodged a bullet!
Wait, what?
The link sends me right to Instagram, where my room is filled with a Drake song that’s too damn loud for me to make out the words.
But it’s Drake because, of course, I know his sexy voice.
A body is dancing around, the center of attention, with a full bottle of liquor held up high in the air, and my heart doesn’t just sink.
It fucking nosedives and hits the cement below so hard that I gasp a bit from the impact.
NHL playboy Killer Wells caught in another threesome.
Who are they, and which (or do both) get a lucky one night with the sexy-ass lover boy next?
I can’t help but read the caption before movement catches my eye and a set of girls flock around him. Their bodies press close enough to blur individual lines and personal space while moving to the bass vibrating through my phone.
I see him laugh, even though I can’t hear it, but red-hot anger coils in me anyway. He doesn’t push them away. He doesn’t inch back. He doesn’t do anything.
You’re an idiot.
And here I was about to go for it with Wells.
This is a joke.
His words, sweet and confident inside his SUV last weekend, now reek of the cheap fragrance of deception.
I tap the screen, replaying the clip just to torture myself. Each second cements the realization of what it is.
He’s a playboy, and I’m not interested.
Period.
Oh, I could sit here and pretend. I could think about how he lied or tried to rope me into his bullshit about being together, but the truth has always been there.
I’m the daughter of the rival coach. What better way to screw them over than to screw the Coach’s daughter and knock the Blizzard right out of the playoffs.
Lord, it’s the oldest play in the book.
I didn’t dodge a bullet. I dodged a whole clip.
My fingers pull up his profile, thumb hovering over the three little dots that will give me the sanity I need. I bet he and his teammates have laughed about this whole setup. I bet he told them about the stupid drive-in movie and how we had sex in a rental.
I bet he said it was easy because, really, he didn’t have to put that much effort in. I wanted to do it.
All those words were perfectly put into place to make me think differently when it’s been there the whole time.
Judson Wells is a playboy. It’s on Google; you could look it up. It’s everywhere. It’s what he’s known for.
A killer on the ice and off.
He breaks hearts and minds and sends us women into emotional comas. All while he sets off for his next conquest.
Screw this.
The next moment, his smiling face is hidden behind a blocked message. It’s the easiest and the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Easy because he’s just another moron.
And hard because now I have to face myself in the mirror daily and try not to judge myself.
Judson Wells, hockey giant, off-ice disaster.
As for me, I'll be the headline that never was. The girl who almost fell for it all. Blocking him is more than just a digital action; it's reclaiming my space, my peace—myself.
And he can go fuck himself.