Chapter Forty-Three – Fawn
Something feels strange in the air this morning. Heavier. As though the air itself just landed on my chest and is determined to stay. I’m trying to give it a name, to shrink it, but it clings to me silently and persistently.
Dylan and Torin were checking in with me all night long, every hour. Texts, calls, everything, until I finally fell asleep, if I can call it that. My brain wouldn’t shut down. Every time I was about to close my eyes, I would relive the fight.
They were violent because of me, and I don’t want that. The first time Torin stuck up for me, threw a punch on my behalf, I took it as manly. Protective. I don’t want them to fight on my behalf, risking their careers and futures. I don’t want to be the cause of their pain or consequences.
I breathe in, square up to the mirror, and find a version of myself I barely recognize. I feel hollow. I feel smaller somehow, like I’ve been folded inward too many times. A cold void is spreading in my head, swallowing my thoughts one by one.
That’s when the voices start.
You’re nothing.
Laughingstock.
You’re nothing.
You don’t belong.
You’re nothing.
Horrible body.
You’re nothing.
Who could love you?
You’re nothing.
Every word penetrates me — Torin and Dylan’s teammates, laughing too loudly, everyone’s eyes lingering too long. Harper’s false smile, her saying I don’t belong. And then Jason — straight through all of it, louder than the rest.
You are . . .
. . . nothing.
The words pile up until I can’t distinguish his from the ones I’ve started to believe myself.
Perhaps they’re onto something. Perhaps I really am the joke — the girl everyone whispers about, who everyone looks at but nobody respects. I stare intently at my reflection, picking myself apart piece by piece.
I’m the problem.
Never once is Dylan’s or Torin’s name heard. Never once are they challenged or mocked. The stares, the pointed fingers, the criticism — all of it is directed at me. I’m just here — the mess. The girl people glare at, analyze, and transform into a cautionary warning.
Maybe I drag them down. Maybe I make things harder just by existing beside them.
They protect me. Defend me. Risk things for me.
Maybe loving me comes at too high a cost.
Before my mind can delve further into the turmoil, my phone rings.
Dylan.
Just seeing him appear on the screen loosens something in me. My heart melts in an instant, as if it knows even before I do that all I need is him. I pick up, and as soon as I hear his voice, my eyes prickle with tears.
“Morning, princess . . .” he says gently. “Did you sleep okay?”
I glance at my reflection in the mirror, phone pressed to my ear. My eyes are bloodshot. “Hey, you,” I say, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I slept like a baby.”
It’s a lie, and I pray he can’t hear it cracking in my voice.
“Good. Are you still coming to the rink?” he asks.
“Yeah . . . yup.” I swipe at my cheek with the back of my hand, pushing a tear back before it can fall. There’s a pause, just long enough.
“Wait . . . are you crying?”
“Oh God, no,” I say too quickly. “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”
He hums uncertainly. “Listen, I’ll cancel practice. We’ll swing by and run you a hot bath, watch some movies.”
This offer breaks me. “No, no,” I burst out, sniffing a little. “I’ll be fine. Don’t you dare cancel practice for me. I’ll see you at the rink, alright?”
“Okay,” he says, voice warm. “By the way, I’m sorry about last night.”
“Dylan, it’s fine. Let’s forget it happened. Ok?”
“Ok. Well, I’ll see you soon, beautiful.”
The line goes dead.
And just like that, the weight shifts — not completely, but enough to haul in a true breath without the pain. It rests in my chest, a steady weight. Doubt. Fear. What-ifs that won’t quiet.
I grasp my phone against my chest as if it’s the only thing keeping me standing. What the hell is wrong with me? I try to convince myself I absolutely can’t let my own thoughts bring me down right now.
Dylan and Torin are my everything. When I look at them, I instantly feel better.
I always do. I’m going to be seeing them very soon, so I throw up the shield and patch it, brick by brick.
A fake smile creeps across my face, and I take a deep breath.
All the ugly and fragile pieces get hidden deep inside.
****
I feel a sense of release as I enter the ice rink, as if the morning’s weight just lifted. The team is already on the ice, moving swiftly as they do drills. Dylan and Torin are right in the thick of it all — laughing, pushing each other, grinning from ear to ear as if they’re still teenagers.
Damn, I could watch them all day like this. On the ice, they’re different — unburdened, alive. And God . . . hot. Effortlessly fucking hot.
“Fawn.”
My stomach sinks at the recognition of that deep voice. I turn to find Coach standing there, arms folded and face set in stone. Unimpressed. Unamused.
“Coach Richards . . .”
“Could you follow me?” he asks, curtly. “I’d like to speak to you in the office.”
This can’t be good. I know what this is about — the fight. The repercussions are finally making their presence known. Swallowing hard, I nod in acknowledgment. Hopefully, there will be no negative outcome for Dylan and Torin. I’ll take the hit if that’s the case.
I look back at the ice one last time. My men haven’t noticed me yet. With that, I turn and follow Coach up the stairs. Just as we get to his office, he closes the door behind me. I swear, the click is too loud. Memories come flooding in from last night — knotted laces, getting tongue fucked.
No.
Not now.
This is serious.
And whatever’s coming, I have to be strong enough to hear it.
“You seem to be creating a stir around here, Fawn,” Coach says, his voice low as he perches on the desk.
The same one I was bent over last night.
Instinctively, I straighten and clear my throat. “Coach, if this is about the fight, I’m so sorry. I don’t want Dylan or Torin kicked off the team,” I rush out, words tumbling over each other. “I promise it won’t happen again. Harper wasn’t hurt. Just my ex—”
He lifts a hand, cutting me off, then lets out a deep breath through his nose, like he’s exasperated just to be dealing with me. “You’re making this team a mockery in Ivywood.”
My chest constricts.
“All I keep hearing,” he continues, “is that the captain’s dating a girl who’s also sleeping with his best friend . . . at the same time.”
The weight of what he just said pulls my gaze down. I lock eyes with the floor and shift my feet like a kid being scolded, feeling a burning in the back of my eyes.
“I knew letting you close to my players was a mistake,” he adds, clearing his throat, as if that is the moral failing here. “This is gonna end badly. Look what has already happened,” he says, the tone dripping with conviction.
“What we do doesn’t concern anyone else,” I reply.
“But it does. Everyone in Ivywood is talking. I had Harper’s father on the phone, threatening to pull his sponsorship. I’m not losing my job and team for the sake of some silly little girl.”
“I’m not a silly little girl,” I spit.
“Really? Little girls like to play games, and that’s what you’re doing here.”
With a slight tilt of my head, I force myself to look up, though I can’t look at the coach. My eyes travel to the glass window over the rink below. There they are — Dylan and Torin. Their jersey numbers flash as they move effortlessly across the rink.
“Three people can’t be together. It’s fucked up and wrong. Live in the real world,” Coach says right behind me.
Sweat forms at the base of my neck.
“What happens when they want to get married? Have kids?” Scorn drips from his words. “They’ll look back someday and be ashamed of this.”
The word echoes. This. Like I’m a phase. A mistake.
“I care about them. They mean everything to me,” I whisper, choking on the words.
“Then let them go,” he snaps back quickly. “Stop this embarrassment.”
That’s the last straw. I look at him. I really look at him; his face is solid, nothing there but a bitter man.
“I can’t let them go. I love—” I choke on my voice, unable to continue. My words are reduced to sobs.
Coach’s face remains hard. “This isn’t love,” he says flatly. “It’s just a silly phase. A delusion. Get it together. Leave them alone, for their own good.”
Something in me snaps. “I can’t!” I shout back, hands shaking at my sides. “I won’t! They’re my world. My everything!”
“Your world? Yet you let them turn against their teammates. You let Torin, who has PTSD, get violent.” He looks at me for a long moment, as if he is trying to calculate something.
Then, he sighs and turns away. “I didn’t want to have to play this card, but you’ve left me no choice,” he says, too calm; it’s scary.
This can’t be good.
My face tightens.
Coach ambles around the desk, fingers moving purposefully on his cell phone.
A video plays on the screen.
It is the office. This office. My gut plunges to the pit of my stomach.
The angle is high and frozen. Then, I see myself, bent over the desk, legs spread, my men between them. Immediately, I know it’s enough to ruin everything. To ruin me.
My breath punches out in a broken gasp. “What the fuck? There’s a camera in here?”
On my heels, I turn too fast, everything lurches. My eyes scan the room, but nothing. My skin crawls, as if I have been touched against my will all over again.
He speaks too calmly. “There was a hidden one until I pulled it down this morning. I had to watch Dylan; you know, to make sure he was actually doing his job.” He tilts his mouth. “But instead, I found this video. Jeez, you really can spread your legs, huh?”
Bile burns in my throat; I want to throw up. “You’re sick,” I choke. “That was a private moment. Delete it. Now.”
He lets out a sinister chuckle. “Why would I do that? I’ve got leverage.”
The sentence sinks deep. “No, you don’t. I’ll go to the cops and have you arrested. You’ll be thrown in prison.”