15. Nica
15
NICA
As soon as the apartment door shut, I sank to the floor in a blubbery mess of hormones and frustration. Tears soaked my palms until I curled into a ball and used my jacket as a tissue.
“Liar, liar, liar,” I wept, so fucking mad at myself for being such a coward. If only I had it in me to be cool. My alter-ego was cool as hell. To the world, I was a flirt and a good time. Underneath, I was a scaredy-cat who couldn’t keep her feels in check. Not even to get laid by a super-hot goalie, for crying out loud. Too afraid of the heartbreak when he inevitably realized how completely out of his league plain old Nica was.
I fell asleep on the floor. In the middle of the night, I hobbled to my bed and slept until late morning. When I woke up, I showered, made coffee, and sat down at my computer.
With a blank document open in front of me and all my notes at the ready, I rubbed my hands together. I didn’t need the third interview. I had more than enough so long as I did it right.
“Do not fuck this up, girlie. Make it damn good.”
“Nica! This is so damn good!”
I nearly dropped the phone at Audrey’s shout. Sticky notes fluttered from my forehead and my shirt. My mouth tasted like days-old coffee, and my teeth had sweaters fit for a New England winter on them. My back ached from sitting at the desk for so long.
“It’s… yeah?” I rubbed my eyes. Audrey had to have called several times in a row because my phone had been on do not disturb for five days straight. Since that bleak morning after a nearly perfect day in Boston, I’d done nothing but write, sleep, and drink coffee. Late last night, I sent her my final draft. According to the computer, it was 7am.
Audrey was clearly a morning person. “It’s everything I could ask for. You captured Ryan’s personality perfectly. The way you talk about his style of play and how it works with the Commodores… Puck Drop Daily is going to lose their minds. I absolutely love it.”
My foggy brain struggled to absorb all this praise. Even at my sharpest, such effusive compliments would’ve been a challenge. Now, my throat closed. For some weird reason, I realized I was blushing.
“I’m so glad, Audrey. Thanks again for letting me have this shot. Of course, I’ll change anything they want, but um. Thanks. Just… thanks.”
“Thank you . And you got it done so fast! I’m amazed at how much you got from him. Ryan’s not exactly an open book.” She laughed.
I croaked a laugh to keep from crying. Damn, I needed sleep. Before I could say goodbye, though, Audrey blurted, “Um, sorry but I have to ask. Are you guys dating?”
“What? No. Why?”
“Figured you’d seen it. One of the Boston dailies ran a photo of you two leaving a hotel last weekend.”
“What?” I hissed, suddenly wide awake. My stomach hit the floor. “Oh, god. That’s bad. I’ll—I’ll talk to you later, Auds. Bye.”
Shaking fingers ended the call and opened my phone. I had a fuckton of texts and notifications. I started with the texts. Six of them were from Bruce. The other six were all Ryan. I can’t deal with you right now, Goalie. I left those unread and opened Bruce’s.
Bruce: WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO
Bruce: Are you really fucking him?
Bruce: You have shot your platform to hell. I hope you know that.
Bruce: Good thing *I* suggested the other profile. Maybe that’ll save your ass.
Bruce: Really, Nica. I know you’ve always been a fangirl, but star fucking the backup goalie?? I’m so disappointed.
Bruce: I should’ve asked for a bigger cut. We’ve got work to do to fix this. Text me ASAP. Stop hiding from the mess you made.
Coffee turned to bile in the back of my throat. I didn’t give a shit about Bruce’s anger, but I almost couldn’t bear to open social media. With a hard swallow, I faced the music.
Flamed. Roasted. Absolutely massacred.
I’d stirred up controversy before, usually on purpose. But nothing could’ve prepared me for the thousands of comments on my page. The slut-shaming. The accusations of betrayal.
Again, the fucking slut shaming.
I was a hypocrite. A cheater. A whore. A lying cunt/tart/bitch/etc./etc./etc. A filthy whore. An opportunistic whore. A slut—with so many adjectives in front of it that I lost track. Pick a mean thing to call a woman, and it appeared at least once on my profile.
On the other hand, my Molloy page had surged in followers. His fans loved the gossip that their guy was skulking around swanky hotels with Paris’s superfan. They loved the irony, and while they still thought of me as an opportunistic sleaze, at least they didn’t seem to mind. I hadn’t betrayed them.
I put the phone face down on the desk and sat with my hands in my lap. The trolls had hit me hard, no doubt. I’d been in the game far too long to take it personally, but damn. Harsh was harsh, and that shit was harsh .
Plus, there was the bully in the back of my mind saying, You are worse than all that. You’re a wannabe star fucker. You’re a pathetic slut from nowhere who’s fool enough to care about a rich and famous athlete.
With a deep sigh, I stood up and went to run a bath. I brushed and flossed while the tub filled and then soaked in the bubbles until I was sleepy again. Showering and washing my hair perked me up, so I dressed and went back to the phone.
The first thing to do was to delete my profile. I got to the confirmation page and paused. A sad smile tugged at my lips. Mrs. Quentin Paris had been one of the most successful things I’d ever done. I built something out of literally nothing. I learned the tricks of the algorithms well enough to quit my job and work for myself. Plus, it had been fun. Without this profile, I’d have never gone to so many awesome events. Certainly not a Hamptons wedding like Quinn and Audrey’s.
Which meant I’d not have kissed a stranger at a bar.
And, obviously, would therefore not have fucked it all up with a sloppy kiss and a hopeless crush.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Paris.” I hit delete.
Gone were hundreds of posts, stitches, and reels. But that meant the trolls vanished, too. Nica Solance didn’t have a social media presence. As soon as the handle had taken off, I deleted every other profile I’d ever made for exactly this reason. Mrs. Quentin Paris was known only by that name. I used filters to change the shape of my face and eyes—not well enough, apparently. Not enough to keep the internet from figuring out who I was from one photo. I’d probably be forgotten quickly, but in the meantime, was there a way to avoid recognition?
I twined my finger around my hair, pondering that bit. Abruptly, I leapt up from the chair and ran back to the bathroom to stare in the mirror. The easy solution literally stared me in the face.
Nica Solance had a choppy, layered long bob. My straight, fine hair didn’t have the volume for anything fancy. I’d been wearing the clip-in extensions in public as a default forever, all the way back to waitressing days. They gave me long, sexy curls that I absolutely adored. But they supported the look I’d cultivated, and so they had to go.
I trailed my fingers along the makeup that littered the counter. “Maybe no more cat-eye for a while.” I sighed and picked up my eyeshadow pencils. After a few minutes of messing around, I’d managed a cool, smoky-but-subtler look that gave my eyes the pop I wanted. Without makeup, I always thought my eyes looked too small in my face. Washed out by my pale skin and dark hair.
The girl in the mirror wasn’t Mrs. Quentin Paris, that was for damn sure. Nica was toned down and a lot less glamorous.
But she wasn’t the target of hockey fandom’s ire.
Plain old Nica would have to do.
I wandered back to my desk and sat down with a melancholy huff. In a way, deleting the profile was a relief. Something I’d wanted to do for ages. But I missed my alter ego already. I missed having a sassy persona who stirred things up instead of skulking in the shadows. I liked playing that part. For once in my life, I was a diva. A big mouth. A tease. Damn one little photograph for taking that away.
Okay. One little photograph that captured one little moment that meant a hell of a lot to plain old Nica.
I gave myself the day to sulk and sigh. I watched trash TV and ordered takeout even though I couldn’t really afford it. Audrey had promised to pay me at the top of next week, so I put my dinner on a credit card and let that be Future Nica’s problem.
I also left the phone on do not disturb. There would be time to talk to Bruce. There would be follow-up with Audrey and the magazine. But for today, I just wanted to wallow.
Well. Wallow and watch the Commodores’ game. Which, I guess, was just a different form of wallowing. Especially when Ryan made the sickest save to keep Phoenix from tying. He blocked a shot on his right that rebounded straight to an attacker. I gasped and jumped onto the couch, sure it was a goal. But no. Ryan launched himself across the crease, glove extended, and nabbed it right out of the air.
He got a standing ovation even though they were on the road.
I gave him one from my apartment, too.
In bed later, I finally let myself open his messages. I didn’t want to read them, but there was more music to face. Probably the Imperial Death March . So I burrowed under the covers and opened up.
Ryan: I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed the subject. Please tell me you’re
okay.
Ryan: Take your time.
Ryan: We won tonight.
Ryan: If you, idk, need anything for your story, tell me. (Cringing & well aware of
how awkward I sound right now)
Ryan: L today. :/ I have to work on my glove save.
Ryan: Right. Okay. Hint taken. I’ll leave you alone. Take care, Nica.
Tears slid down my smiling face. I threw the phone on the bed and smothered myself with a pillow to drown out my groan. “Why do you have to be so damn kind ?” I shouted into the pillowcase. Really, though. This guy was unbelievable. What man cared that much? What person was that considerate? Yes, he could be salty and sullen when he felt awkward. Yes, there had been almost as many weird moments between us as there had been sweet ones. None of that undermined his decency. The way he brought me coffee, warmed my seat in his car, and put up with my teasing.
The way he thought of me enough to message even after that messy, fumbling night.
I debated with myself for about two minutes before snatching the phone again.
Me: Why the hell are you so nice to me?
Me: My phone has been on dnd. I wasn’t ignoring you specifically.
Me: I saw your glove save tonight. Looks like your practice paid off.
Me: I can’t stop thinking about you.
I stared at that last message with my finger hovering over send. After a long moment, I deleted it. Instead, I sent:
Me: Article is done. You’re off the hook.
My phone lit up with a call the moment I hit send. I yelped and went to throw it away again, but in my panic, I hit accept.
“Hold on,” I said. Reaching to my nightstand, I jammed headphones in and tried to keep my voice from sounding like I’d run a marathon. “Hello?”
“Hey, Trouble.”
Tears pricked my eyes again. “It’s weird you have a nickname for me, Goalie.”
His breathy laugh absolutely lacerated my heart. “Back atcha.”
“You are a goalie.”
“You are trouble. And you use goalie as a nickname.”
My face hurt from grinning, but those tears blurred my vision. “Rude of you to sneak attack a phone call. Etiquette dictates a preliminary text.”
“Mm. You know I’m bad with stuff like that. You were texting. I figured I had a narrow window of time to catch you.”
You caught me, Goalie. I am so caught by you. I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat. “What do you want?”
“It’s hard to know where to begin. There’s a lot . But—no, of course. First, are you okay?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’ve been silent for nearly a week after that, uh, awkward encounter. Seemed right to ask.”
“I was silent because I was writing the article. I told you, Ryan. It never happened.”
“I feel like I pushed you too far,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m totally fine.”
“Are you good , though?”
Good enough. I didn’t know how to answer him without making this worse.
He blew out a breath when I didn’t speak. “Anyway, I guess you know about the photo. I mean, if I know about it, then you likely got wind the second it dropped.”
I rasped a hateful laugh. “Oh, yeah, I’m aware. Didn’t find out until today, though. That gave the internet plenty of time to descend. I deleted Mrs. Quentin Paris once I saw the comments.”
Ryan hissed. “Wait. What? What happened?”
“Trolls, of course. Brutal.”
“About us? How can they talk shit about a simple?—”
“About me , sweetie. Of course they did. As soon as there’s a whiff of gossip, the trolls come out of the woodwork. That’s how it goes.”
“You? Why just you?”
“I want you to think for a second about that question. Tell me you don’t know the answer.”
He sighed. “I hate that. I hate the cruelty for nothing . The double standards. It’s all fucking bullshit. You did nothing wrong. We didn’t. And yet you get trolled? I don’t understand this world.”
“I know. It’s unfair as hell. But it’s the risk you take if you’re someone like me. I knew it when I started. Guess I just got lazy.”
“This conversation is creating more and more questions.” From his tone, I imagined him rubbing his eyes under his glasses.
“None of which need answering. I’m fine. You’re in Phoenix, making sick saves. We leave each other alone, and the interest dies. Headlines move on. We all do.”
Ryan was silent for a long time. Finally, he sighed. “Yeah. Okay. We move on. Amnesia, just like in a game. Dammit, Trouble. You’re asking me to forget a hell of a lot.”
“Last time. Promise,” I croaked. “No more accidental run-ins.”
“We’ll see.”
He hung up, and I cried myself to sleep.