Chapter Four – Fawn
The sun is low in the sky, casting a golden-orange hue over my bedroom walls, all fuzzy and warm. Sunset is my favorite time of day — it’s when everyone and everything is slowing down.
The moment my fingers wrap around the cup of coffee, I relax my shoulders.
This is just the energy boost I needed. It’s like motivation and sanity put into a mug.
I can’t help but slouch back in my office chair and get a sniff of the steam as it rises in swirls.
My computer screen just glares up at me, waiting for me to start a mood board.
Before I start writing, it’s something I do: get myself into the vibe.
It’s a strange feeling — just sitting around, waiting for inspiration.
I never had to do that. My first book came pouring out, like the story was always sitting there, waiting for me to catch up.
I didn’t plot it or agonize over every word.
It just came to me. So easy. Effortless.
Like breathing. I was in a stale relationship.
I needed something — anything — to take my mind off all the drama.
So, I wrote. I stuffed all the emptiness he created with words.
I made my characters experience all those feelings I couldn’t verbalize.
So what’s going on now? I’m not getting over a heartbreak anymore. There is no drama to resolve, no hurt to mend, just this blinking cursor and a strange, frustrating silence.
I take a final sip of my coffee. Fuck, this stuff is really strong.
My face sort of scrunches up as the bitter heat reaches my chest, but I power through and continue drinking, allowing the caffeine to kick my brain into gear.
I understand I shouldn’t be drinking coffee this late — I’ll definitely regret it when I’m lying in bed, watching the ceiling in the early hours of the morning, pondering all the stupid decisions I’ve ever made.
After finishing my long sip, I set my mug on the desk and close my eyes, cutting out the glow of the screen. Gradually, it all just disappears.
Delilah is at work, so I don’t hear her usual singing or trashy TV programs. All I can hear are the crickets through the open window.
Right, back to work. I need to try and picture a mood board.
With my eyes still closed, I try to picture my story, getting a sense of the setting and characters.
But then—
Crawley.
I physically wince.
No. Get out of my head, you cocky fuck.
It’s too late. His stupid, arrogant grin is firmly implanted in my brain, glowing like a smug little spotlight and interfering with my concentration.
There’s this pesky voice in my head. I know, I’m nosy, okay? I take a deep breath and open my eyes, but before I can rationalize myself out of it, my fingers are already in motion. I pull the mouse toward me and jump to social media, my thumbs flying across the keyboard as I type his name.
I’m pretty sure women are better at finding people on social media than the FBI.
I just want to get to know Crawley a little better, that’s all, for characterization purposes.
Nothing more.
His profile appears immediately, as if the world is completely supporting my questionable choices. I’m preparing for an onslaught of smug selfies: you know, mirror photos, gym photos, and possibly even that timeless shirtless locker room photo dudes like him can’t resist posting.
But instead—
There’s a professional profile picture of him sitting on a bench at the rink, resting his helmet on his knee, and looking directly at the camera. His eyes are dark green, really intense, and they sort of size up whoever is staring at him.
I blink and come to, but I really can’t help gripping the mouse harder. How is he even better looking up close?
His nose is perfect. It’s straight and pointed — seriously, why do some people inherit such great genes?
And his face? Heart-shaped, with just the right level of sharpness to make it absolutely handsome.
A hot flush runs through my body. Now that I can actually see him without his helmet, his hair is exactly what I imagined — light brown, faded cut on the sides, messy on top.
Without realizing it, I start scrolling.
Birthplace: Ivywood. Age: Twenty-eight. Relationship status: Single.
I pause for a moment, looking at the screen.
Whoa.
Crawley being single is completely unexpected, but honestly, he’s probably a complete womanizer, with a new woman in his bed every other week.
Still, I catch myself biting my lip before I force my eyes away from the screen.
I should not be this invested.
Out of nowhere, a small, beautiful goldfinch perches on the windowsill, cocking its head as if examining me. As if considering what to make of me.
I move my head slowly, trying not to scare it. “Stop judging me. I am not stalking. I am just conducting research,” I whisper to the bird.
God forbid I have access to public information and know how to utilize my resources.
The bird releases a sharp, audible tweet, as if it actually wants the final word.
“Don’t give me attitude, little birdie,” I tell it, gesturing with a pen, as if that will reinforce my argument. “I’m attempting to write a book here. It’s not a simple task, you know.”
The bird puffs out its feathers and seems completely unruffled.
Gosh, I must look crazy, talking to a bird.
My eyes manage to find the screen again, looking at Crawley’s photo before scrolling through his profile. Nothing wild — just hockey, hockey, and hockey. A couple of team photos, a few videos of him skating, something about a charity game.
And then, it hits me. A conclusion.
“That’s it!” I shout so loudly, it scares off the bird, its wings flapping.
I need to interview Crawley, the team’s captain. It’s perfect. He’s got to have some insane stories — like outlandish, absurd, locker room mayhem sorts of things. Things that’ll make my book sizzle. Things that will actually make people want to read it.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for half a second before I start typing an email to Coach Richards. No overthinking — I just go for it.
Hi Coach Richards,
Hope you’re doing well.
I just wanted to thank you for letting me watch the practice. Would it be okay for me to stop by the rink again and maybe interview some of the players? I’d be so grateful.
Let me know what you think.
Regards,
Fawn Higgins
I read it back a few times. It’s a little vague on purpose.
No point in making it obvious I’m into one particular player.
If I’m lucky, Coach Richards will say yes, and I won’t have to go through a million hoops.
I hit send before I can even think about it and let out a slow breath.
My knee’s bouncing under the desk, and I’m getting nervous.
It’s out of my hands now. Maybe he’ll say no after I made a fool out of myself.
Maybe he’ll completely ignore it. Or maybe — just maybe — I’ll get exactly what I’m hoping for.
Right.
There’s no real need to overanalyze it, so I shove the thought to the back of my mind.
Rather than returning to my mood board like a normal individual, I can’t help but go back to Crawley’s social page.
Casually, I find myself searching for Torin Anderson.
After the intense stare-off I had with him, how could I not?
It’s like a part of me wants to look in his eyes again.
I hardly have to scroll — he appears immediately, and his profile is as sharp as he is. No selfies, info, or meticulously curated albums displaying his existence; no, there’s only a profile photo of a cream and red vintage truck. A Ford F-150.
Rough and solidly built . . . just like him, I suppose.
It feels like his profile is top-secret — no family pictures, no status, just his name and that truck.
The mystery makes him that much more intriguing, and it really gets under my skin. I shouldn’t be this curious. I shouldn’t be wondering what kind of pictures he posts, what his life is like when he isn’t on the ice, or what his voice sounds like when he looks all serious.
Wait!
Am I internet-stalking ice hockey players?
Yes.
. . . No?
This is research.
Important, necessary, and completely professional.
Quickly, I click back to Crawley’s profile then glance at the search bar, where Torin’s name lingers like a guilty whisper. Then, out of nowhere, it hits me: a completely unexpected — but incredibly graphic — flashback. Anderson and Crawley doing warm-ups, grinding on the ice.
Damn, their hips moved effortlessly. My stomach lurches and a wave of heat floods my face.
Am I thirsting over them?
A sheepish grin paints my lips, and I try to think of something else, but really, there’s no way that’s going to happen. My brain is a sellout, and them humping the ice won’t leave my mind. It’s been six months, and I haven’t hooked up with anyone. Half a year! No wonder I’m blushing.
I lean back in my chair and rub my temples.
Perhaps I need to chill out for a little, like go for a walk.
You know, do something normal, something that doesn’t involve scrolling through the lives of guys who have no idea I’m alive.
I grab my coffee and take the last sip. It’s gone a little cold, but I don’t mind.
I need anything to distract me from humping flashbacks and internet-stalking.
Abruptly, a message appears on the edge of my screen, completely interrupting my coffee break.
It’s from Coach Richards. My fingers linger for a moment before I eventually click it, and my heart begins racing as if I just ran across the room.
That constricted sensation in my chest hits me immediately, really strong — like an elephant sat on me.
With my lips pressed together firmly, I open the email.
You can interview the players after their game tomorrow.
The game finishes at 6 p.m. Try not to fall over.
Martin Richards.
Damn, his email is pretty blunt, and that part where I fell over? Completely unnecessary. But hey, I get to interview the players, so that’s a plus. Six in the evening is even better — it means it won’t interfere with my visit to Grandpa’s tomorrow.
I don’t even have time to fully relish the victory of having secured an interview with the team before I notice my phone on the desk pinging. A text. It’s probably Delilah checking in or bored at work. Peeking at the screen, I clench my teeth so hard, my jaw aches when I see the name.
Oh fuck. It’s not Delilah. It’s Jason.
The message preview displays on the screen.
I miss you—
I don’t even need to read on. I know how this works.
Just when I’ve almost forgotten about him, he reappears and tries to stir things up again.
There’s always some pathetic reason to talk to me.
Last time, he texted and said I’d forgotten something at his house.
Of course, I assumed it would be something I needed, like a charger, but no, it was just a stupid pencil.
Once I was there, he groveled, coming up with empty promises, the “I’ll change.
I’ll never talk about your stretch marks again.
You can go out with your friends. You will never find anyone better than me. Please!”
All were pathetic attempts to convince me I had made a mistake, to get back with him.
I’m not stupid. I never gave him a second chance.
I haven’t called the cops on him for harassment because, you know, he isn’t exactly threatening me or anything. Just . . . loitering, like this pesky odor that refuses to disappear. My phone buzzes once more. Jason again. I leave it alone, unread. I’m not going to give the fucker the pleasure.