Chapter 32
Winnie
The sun is warm on my face as I push through the front doors of the school, one hand raised in a distracted wave to fellow teachers chatting by the main office.
Someone calls out, “Tell Lucky congrats again! That game-winner was insane!”
I smile—automatic, polite, if a little too tight. I’m so happy and proud of Lucky for getting the game-winning goal, clinching a playoff spot for the Titans, but it’s been overshadowed by another barrage of nasty comments in response to a TikTok he posted last night from the locker room.
It was focused mainly on the postgame celebration, with players spraying each other with champagne and Lucky commentating with a hilarious faux sports broadcaster voice. At the end, though, he looked earnestly into the camera and said, “Win… can’t wait to get home and celebrate with you.”
I think something in me might be broken because a romantic gesture like that would send any woman into a tizzy with potential swooning as a side effect.
But for me… I cringed. Not because the words weren’t perfect but because I knew they’d be ruined forever in my mind once the trolls started posting their hateful shit.
Of course, I was a glutton for punishment and I read them. I read the sweet comments too, but honestly… those are meaning less and less to me.
This morning at school, Mrs. Dolan in the library gushed about how sweet and romantic Lucky is. I smiled and nodded and kept my eyes down, because she has an insider view into my relationship and it’s making me all kinds of bitter.
I really don’t want to be that way and I will work hard to get past this. Maybe it’s just because it’s all so new, and surely, this trend of tearing others down will pass.
Right?
I can’t dwell on that now though because tonight, it’s all about Lucky. I’m making him a celebratory dinner and he’ll be at my house in a few hours. I need to get home, shower the slime of snot and glue sticks off me, and then I’m going to make a new recipe I found… hot honey feta chicken.
From scratch.
Like some domesticated goddess I definitely am not, but tonight I want to try. I bought all the groceries yesterday, and I also want to make a fruit tart to go with it.
The team flew home on a red-eye from San Diego and landed mid-morning. Lucky’s been running errands, catching up on laundry and even snuck in a workout, the overachiever that he is.
I’m excited about seeing him. His travel schedule is definitely going to take some getting used to, but the homecoming I can make sweet. I want to celebrate him and I want to celebrate us.
My steps slow as I reach the teacher lot, the last bits of early spring sun streaking across the pavement.
I nod and smile at a few other teachers, but my mind is already creating my to-do list for when I get home.
I’m mentally running through my ingredients and the order by which I need to start preparing things when I see it.
And everything stops.
I blink once. Then again.
The shape is still there. Still real.
My car—my ten-year-old, dinged-up, slightly rusty but perfectly reliable silver car—is coated in black spray paint. Slashed across the driver’s side door in crude, dripping letters:
STAY AVERAGE, BITCH
It feels like someone has hit me in the stomach with a sledgehammer and my breath punches out of my chest so forcefully, my lungs can’t quite rebound.
It takes a full ten seconds before my brain catches up. Before I register what I’m seeing, what it means. That this is real.
This happened.
In broad daylight.
In the goddamn school parking lot.
I stumble a step closer, my stomach twisting.
My face flames so hot it feels like it might peel off.
I glance around—slow, panicked—suddenly aware of how visible I am.
The custodian across the lot pretends not to notice.
Two parents near the pickup loop glance my way, then avert their attention, like I’m contagious.
No one says anything.
No one does anything.
It’s like I’m frozen in some horrible alternate reality where I’m the punch line and no one wants to admit they laughed. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this bad in my entire life.
My hand flies to my mouth, and my eyes sting so fast, so hard, I can barely see. I might be on the verge of a panic attack, but all I know is that I need to get away from all this.
I fumble for my phone in my purse. My fingers shake as I swipe to Lucky’s contact and type. Hey. I’m so sorry—I can’t do dinner tonight. Something came up.
I stare at it for a beat, knowing how cold it sounds, how not me. But I don’t trust myself to say more. I’m not even sure I can say more. I only know that I want away from all of this.
I hit send.
Shoving my phone back in my purse, I wrench open the driver’s side door and slide into the seat, ignoring the chemical stench of spray paint filling the cabin.
My whole body trembles now—humiliation, fury, heartbreak tangling in my chest. I lift my hands, stare at them… horrified to see them shaking so badly.
One of Lucky’s hoodies is draped over the passenger seat. He left it at my house before the last road trip and I confiscated it. It smells like him and it brought me comfort.
Now for some reason, it makes me angry.
I grab it, crumple it into a ball, and toss it into the back like it’s poison.
I don’t know why.
I just can’t look at it right now.
I know I should call the police and report it, but having to wait here while other teachers and parents could see this… I can’t stomach the thought.
My vision blurs again, but I manage to start the engine.
Back out of the space. My tires squeal louder than they should, drawing more attention I don’t want.
I drive home with the windows cracked to air out the smell, blinking hard against the tears clouding my vision.
I remember I need gas as I’m nearly on fumes, but the thought of people looking at my car is so sickening, vomit rises in my throat.
At a stoplight, a car full of teenagers pulls up beside me. The savage words are on display, and they stare with wide eyes before they start laughing and pointing. I stare at my hands on the steering wheel in their white-knuckled grip and I scream.
Just once. Frustration and anger.
Loud and desperate and raw.
The light turns green and I move in a daze. I drive the rest of the way home in silence, trying not to fall apart.
But I already have.
Because the truth is… I can’t do this. I can’t be strong enough for both of us. I can’t keep pretending the comments don’t cut deep, that the stares don’t matter, that I’m not slowly unraveling every time someone calls me a mistake.
And now this?
Someone vandalized my car. On school property. During school hours, so now I feel unsafe. There’s no security anymore.
Because I’m dating a man who had the audacity to say he liked me online. That’s all it took and suddenly, I’m a target.
I pull into my driveway and sit there, engine ticking, breath shaky.
I was so excited to see Lucky tonight.
I have fresh mozzarella in the fridge for a caprese salad and I was going to break out the grill for the chicken. I created a playlist and had it queued. I was looking forward to curling up with him after dinner like we had no past and nothing to fear.
But now?
Now I can’t even look at his name on my phone without breaking. I’m not built for this. I don’t belong in his world. I’m definitely not built for this kind of scrutiny, this kind of attention.
I close my eyes, drop my forehead to the steering wheel, and whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
Then I sit in the wreck of my own thoughts and cry for a little longer.
?
I don’t remember falling asleep.
One minute I’m curled up on the couch, hugging a throw pillow like it might hold me together, and the next I’m jolting awake at the sound of banging—sharp, persistent, unmistakably someone at the door.
My heart kicks up and for a second, I’m disoriented.
The living room is dark except for the faint glow from a lamp I must’ve left on.
My face is tight and puffy, eyes gritty from crying and sleeping too hard.
Buttermilk is across the room, happily murdering a stack of magazines that had been on the coffee table.
Torn pages flutter across the floor like confetti.
The knocking comes again, more urgent this time.
I push off the couch and shuffle toward the door, rubbing at my eyes. When I peek through the window, my stomach plummets.
Lucky.
He’s pacing on the porch, hands on his hips, back lit by the soft porch light. The second he hears the deadbolt turn, he stops, turning toward me with concern etched all over his face.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice low and intense.
I squint at him, still half-asleep and caught off guard. “I’m fine. Why are you here?”
His brow furrows. “Because you texted me to cancel dinner without an explanation. That’s bordering on ghosting.”
I blink, the accusation hitting harder than it should. “No. Of course I’m not ghosting you. Can’t I just… not have dinner with you one night without being interrogated?”
“Sure,” he says, the word tight and clipped. “But that’s not you. You don’t cancel plans last minute and disappear. When we talked last night, you couldn’t wait to see me. So what happened?”
I don’t mean to get angry. I’m too drained for that. But it flares anyway, sharp and hot and aimed right at him.
“You want to know what happened?” I snap, stepping outside and grabbing his hand. “Come on, then. Let me show you.”
His confusion deepens, but he follows without protest as I lead him down the porch steps and into the driveway.
I walk to the driver’s side of the car, illuminated by a security light, and point. “This,” I say flatly. “This is what happened.”
Lucky stares at the cold, cruel message spray-painted on my car.
His mouth opens, then closes again, like a fish out of water. He’s speechless and I know exactly how he’s feeling, having no ability to voice the horror of it.
“Do you get it now?” I whisper. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Winnie…,” he starts, but I shake my head.
“I know you’re going to tell me to ignore it.
That people are assholes and this comes with the territory.
But it’s not just comments anymore. It’s not just strangers with private profiles and too much time.
It’s huge influencers, way bigger than I could ever hope to be, calling me out in ten-minute rants and tagging me so my followers see it.
It’s people physically coming after me on school property and cornering me in bathrooms.”
I pause, breath catching as pain slices through my chest. “And yeah… maybe you’re getting backlash too, but it doesn’t touch you.
You’re a famous professional athlete with millions of fans.
I’m just a kindergarten teacher who was lucky enough to have a side hustle that could give me extra financial security.
So I’m the one paying for it. Not you. Me. ”
He runs a hand down his face. “Then let’s stop posting. Let’s keep us private. That’s an easy enough solution.”
My laugh comes out hollow. “Don’t you get it?
This isn’t just about us. They’re not just targeting our couple content—they’re hijacking my regular content.
They’re flooding my skin care reviews. My book recs.
My classroom supply videos. They’re mocking my voice, my face, my freaking rabbit.
Big-name influencers are making drag videos about me and you, and those go out to millions.
I haven’t posted in six days because I’m scared, Lucky.
And this”—I gesture around us—“this house, this life? I can afford it because of TikTok. It’s my job. ”
His silence is deafening.
“I don’t even know if I have a job anymore,” I say softly. “Because what happens when the algorithm forgets me? When the brand deals dry up? When all I am is internet fodder who dated a hockey player for views?”
He reaches for me, but I step back.
“I really need to sleep,” I whisper. “I’m tired and I have to be up early for school tomorrow. Can we talk later?”
His expression flickers—hurt, but he nods. “Yeah. We can.”
I turn away but he gently grabs my wrist, causing me to pause.
He looks absolutely crushed and my chest squeezes so hard, I think my heart might have cracked. “I’m sorry,” he says with a sigh.
“This isn’t your fault, Lucky.” Something flickers in his eyes. Hope? Relief? It’s quickly dashed when I pull my hand free and turn away once again. I walk slowly back to the house, shoulders heavy, throat tight.
I close the door and lock it. I don’t dare look out the window at Lucky. I can’t bear to see him standing there confused and hurt. I can’t bear to talk about this anymore.
I just want to go back to sleep, and maybe tomorrow I’ll feel strong enough to figure out how to feel safe again.