Chapter 10 Harper
The whole town’s in mourning the following day. Like, literally—half the school’s wearing black. I swear I even see some girl in a veil.
Part of me understands. I’m surprisingly melancholy myself. Not because of the hockey, but because of how crushed Dawson looked. For the first time, I felt kind of bad for him. It must suck to get defeated like that after putting in so much work.
I shake my head in disgust. No need to feel bad for the king of the jocks. I turn the corner, distracted by my own uncharacteristic sympathy, and bump right into someone in a Hawks jersey. They frown at me with way more aggression than necessary, shooting me dagger eyes. “Watch it, okay?”
I hold up my hands defensively. “Sorry! Not intentional, I swear!”
Serves me right for softening up. Dawson may have tried to call the rumor mill off, but you can’t put the genie back in the bottle.
I guess enough people still think I’m responsible for their coach’s disgrace.
At least the long Thanksgiving weekend starts tomorrow.
These people need to eat some turkey and relax.
And I could really use a break from all the drama.
Just one test, four periods, and an indeterminate number of annoying conversations between me and freedom.
Arriving at Ms. Moore’s classroom provides momentary relief. Surely people will be focused on cramming for our exam and shouting out final questions during the passing period.
I should’ve known better.
As I slide into my seat, Josie says loudly behind me, “Is it too late to get Coach Red back? I’ve never seen the guys play so badly.”
Luckily, Liv butts in on that conversation, using her theater kid projection skills so even her casual, airy tone carries. “I mean, unless he wants to turn back time and not embezzle… yeah, I think so.”
I toss her a grateful look, then open my laptop and fix my gaze stubbornly on my notes. I am not getting involved today.
But Josie raises her voice. “I hope no one took any joy in that kind of loss. It was embarrassing, you know? If it made you happy, you’d have to be totally heartless.”
That one almost gets me to turn around. The hockey team might get too much attention—why would anyone celebrate being surrounded by so much noise and cold—but I’m not out here hoping for people’s dreams to be crushed. What kind of a monster do they think I am?
But the game was brutal. Had I underestimated how important a good coach was? Because surely that wasn’t the same team everyone’s always drooling over? The team that won regionals last year? It was so hard to watch that at one point I almost tucked my head under Marissa’s arm like a baby bird.
I’m glad I didn’t, though. Dawson’s goal really was beautiful. And the way he unlatched his helmet at the end and shook out his hair…
My gaze snaps up when he enters the room. His head is down, shoulders a little slumped. A chorus of voices meets him—“Nice goal, dude” and “Tough loss” and a lot of “Why didn’t Coach play you more?”—and he forces a smile and some small talk. He clearly wants to be left alone to mope. I can relate.
Hope his bad mood doesn’t ruin the test for him. He was just getting the hang of permutations.
As if he feels my gaze on him, his eyes find mine in the back. For one long instant, we’re locked into a staring contest, and I’m wondering if he knows how much shit I’m getting, how I couldn’t help cheering for him at the game. Wondering if they’re going to be okay this season.
My cheeks bloom with heat, and I duck my head to my computer again.
He’s a conceited hockey player, Harper. He has a helmet for brains and padding around his heart. He’s going to be fine. Don’t let a pair of soulful eyes trick you into thinking there’s actually a soul in there.
I finish the test early, despite spending too much time staring at the back of Dawson’s head, and Ms. Moore gives me permission to pull up the Young Entrepreneurs portal on my computer while I wait for class to be dismissed.
The grant application is due right after winter break, and I want to get a draft of the essay done by Thanksgiving so I can give it to Marissa to edit.
No comma splice has ever been spotted by her and lived to tell the tale.
The question asks me to describe my business goals and the support I need, so I’m thinking about discussing the launch of my website and how I could use some guidance streamlining the e-commerce interface and learning best practices for online storefronts.
In the digital age, I type, having an online presence is crucial for business. I’m discovering that firsthand as I expand this year. Sales are up…
Hmm. How many orders have I fulfilled since I started the site? I open a browser window to check on my current stats.
But something doesn’t look right when it loads. I have to blink a few times, my eyes refusing to take in the information. My breathing is shallow in my chest. The scratching of pencils on paper roars in my ears.
The customer review portal looks a lot different today.
Average customer rating: 2.8 stars?!
I scan the latest reviews with my heart in my throat.
Placed an order and it was never fulfilled. Didn’t get a refund. Harper Braedon likes accusing other people of stealing money, but sounds like she does it plenty herself.
Supporting this business tells me a lot about your morals. I don’t talk to girls who wear those dumb charm bracelets anymore.
My grandma has better taste than Harper. At least she likes fun.
I scroll rapidly down. The good reviews from before are still there:
My new necklace is the number one thing strangers compliment me on. Guaranteed conversation starter.
harper’s jewelry cleared my skin and watered my crops!
Harper is such a professional! Great communication, timely delivery, excellent quality. Will be ordering from her again for my bestie’s birthday!
They’re just buried under the onslaught of hatred at the top.
What the fuck. My overall rating has dropped from nearly five stars to under three. All the bad reviews have appeared in the last week—and I haven’t even gotten any new orders in that time!
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s responsible.
I knew the hockey team hated me, but stooping to sabotage? That’s a new low.
My hands clench into fists beneath my desk. It takes everything in me to stay still and quiet when inside, I’m bubbling with rage.
I can’t believe I was just feeling sorry for the team. Was mentally wishing Dawson good luck on his test!
I grit my teeth. It couldn’t be him, right? I thought we agreed we both had too much to lose if we kept going after each other.
But then I remember, and my heart stops: I told Dawson about my website. The timing is too perfect for it to be a coincidence. I know he’s somehow to blame. Even if he hasn’t been review bombing me himself, he could have been talking about my work with his evil hockey bros.
Noah enters my mind in a flash of bleached blond hair and cold blue eyes and smarmy smile. He wouldn’t think twice about tanking my business.
The swift, sudden betrayal knocks the wind out of me. Serves me right for getting soft and complacent, for cheering at a hockey game. That team only cares about what they want, and anyone who stands in their way is merely an obstacle. Other people aren’t real to them.
“You good?” someone whispers.
I look up from my gremlin hunch over the computer to see Luke Dawson standing in the aisle by my desk, test in hand on the way to Ms. Moore.
Of course.
My cheeks burn with rage, and I shut my laptop screen before he can see what’s on it. Oh, hell no. Dawson does not get to make polite conversation with me.
“Sure,” I snap. “Just mourning the demise of my business!”
His eyebrows draw together, mouth falling slightly open in astonishment, and I clamp down on the way my heart flutters when my attention is drawn to his full lower lip. Hormones. Just hormones.
How dare he play innocent?
From the back corner, Ms. Moore shushes us. “Silence during testing, please.”
I don’t break eye contact until Dawson takes a slow step away.
Only when he’s retreated to his seat in the front row do I open my screen again, mind racing.
Shutting the site down would be a blow for my application.
Having an online storefront was one of the things that set me apart.
Plus it was good for growth, giving people a way to discover me that wasn’t just word of mouth, a way to place orders without finding me on campus.
I was starting to get requests from people I’ve never even met.
I frantically google how to remove the reviews, but I can’t figure out how on my e-commerce platform, and all the ways to get around that are beyond my limited coding abilities.
I don’t have a choice. I can’t leave this up to accrue more horrible reviews, tanking my reputation when I’m finally getting something off the ground. Bad reviews mean fewer orders, which mean less money for school, which means getting stuck in Hamilton Lakes forever, which means—
I take a deep breath and click the button to make the site private, blood roaring in my ears.
I’m not going to take this lying down.