Chapter 3
Ingrid
It’s barely past ten, and I’ve already lied three times tonight.
First to Madison. I told her I needed fresh air and wouldn’t go far.
Second to Marv. I said security could stand down, that I was exhausted and not planning to leave the hotel.
And third to myself, when I stood in the bathroom mirror, pulling on the worn gray high school hoodie Madison left hanging on the back of the door, and tucking every strand of lavender-streaked hair beneath a faded Yankees cap.
I told myself I wasn’t really going.
But I am. Every step away from the hotel is proof.
I wince as my sneakers hit the sidewalk, feeling the tender blisters on the back of my heels from the boots I wear on stage.
The pain is worth it though. I look amazing in those boots.
Like always, I push the pain aside and duck away from the buzzing streetlight.
I’ve performed all over the world, in big cities and massive arenas.
Wittmore is small, but there’s an energy from the student population that gives it a bigger feel.
More worldly. The old brick buildings are pretty, and have alleyways that smell like pizza or stale beer.
It’s the kind of place that would’ve made me ache when I was sixteen, stuck in green rooms and dressing rooms and rented-out luxury suites.
College life: classes, dorm rooms, frat parties…
a whole life where I didn’t wake up every morning, worried about what the tabloids were saying or the weight of employing hundreds of people who help form and shape my career.
According to the map on my phone, The Badger Den is only a few blocks from campus, the kind of college dive that’s never seen a reservation and wouldn’t know what to do with a vegan menu.
From the tags on socials, it appears to be a hockey bar–the spot where the team and fans hang out during and after games.
I’d looked it up after he messaged me, just to see if it was walkable.
It was. Too walkable. Stupidly close. Close enough that I’ve been wandering for half an hour trying to talk myself out of this.
Because what the hell am I even doing?
Meeting a fan?
Definitely.
Meeting a hot, six-foot-five hockey player who wants to carve a notch in his bedpost? Who wants to tell his friends and teammates he hooked up with Ingrid Flockton?
Probably.
I looked him up. There’s no way he doesn’t know everything about me, so I should know something about him, right? From the sports blog I found, Jefferson Parks’ is an ‘enforcer,’ whatever that means, and stats include:
Height: 6'5"
Weight: 230 lbs
Shoots: Right
Year: Senior
Team: Wittmore University Badgers
Position: Right Wing / Enforcer
Post College Commitment: The Surge: Jacksonville, Florida
The photo gallery gave more insight. His hair is sandy blond, the lines of his face chiseled, except for the crooked slant in his nose. His lips are way too soft looking for a man. Solid fuck-boy features. A man who knows what he wants.
Which would track. He did leave the note on his locker. Not through a friendly security guard, or an attempt to get to Madison. Not with an ask for a selfie or a shoutout, or a ticket upgrade. Just a scrawled line on folded paper, like we were in high school. It was cocky. Sweet. Weirdly sincere.
It was a huge swing and, yeah, I’m the kind of girl that likes a man who takes initiative. I spend every moment of every day making decisions and being the boss. Beyond that, it made me feel seen.
Which is ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous.
I’m Ingrid Flockton. I’ve sold out stadiums. I’ve lost my voice from singing under purple spotlights.
I’ve bared my soul publicly, one line at a time.
I’ve dated a guy whose face is on the cover of Rolling Stone and still somehow managed to feel lonelier next to him than I do tonight, anonymous and hidden in my best friend’s hoodie.
Jake always said I needed someone to “tone me down.” As if I was too much. Too loud. Too pink. Too passionate. I wrote Thirteen Steps to Disappear after we broke up. He thinks it’s about addiction. My therapist thinks it’s about grief.
It’s actually about me and how easy it is to lose yourself one step at a time. Allowing others to erase you. Control you, which is probably why I just want one night that isn’t a headline.
I stop at the edge of the alley that curves toward the bar. There’s a cluster of students out front, someone laughing too loud. My stomach flips. Maybe I should go back. Maybe I’ve already pushed this too far. I could just say I got lost. Say I needed a walk. Say–
“Hey.”
I spin, heart in my throat, but it’s him.
Jefferson Parks.
He’s even taller in person, taller than me, and let me tell you, that’s as rare as it is a fucking turn on.
He’s all shoulders and messy hair and a dimple that ruins me on sight.
His hoodie is half unzipped. In one hand, he’s holding a brown paper bag that smells like salt and grease and something deeply unfair.
“I figured you might chicken out,” he says, shrugging as if not a big deal. As if I’m not a sideshow freak in a traveling circus.
I blink. “I was about to.”
He shrugs. “Good thing I intercepted.”
Then he lifts the bag.
“Jefferson Parks Special. Double cheeseburger. Bacon, avocado with crunchy fried onions on top. Fries. No paparazzi. You want to hang out somewhere not swarming with people?”
I hesitate. Only for a second.
Then I nod.
Because, although I do know who I’ll be tomorrow, up on that stage, giving everything I have to people I’ve never met, tonight I want to experience something different.
Something I don’t know how it will end. Right now, I’m just a girl in a borrowed hoodie, standing in front of a boy who brought her dinner.
And for once, that’s enough.
He doesn’t wait for me to speak again–just turns like he expects I’ll follow.
I stare at his back, his broad-shouldered, ridiculous wing-spanned back, until he turns and says, “Coming?”
No! I want to say. I almost do, because what the hell am I doing?
This is crazy. No. It’s fucking dangerous.
I’ve had stalkers before. Mentally disturbed fans.
Parasocial relationships that blur the lines of reality.
But for some insane reason, I just nod and take a step after him, my long legs working double time to catch up with his even longer ones.
Why? Because I’m curious. Because I’m hungry.
Because, despite all the good reasons to stay put in the safety of the hotel, I’m starting to think the suites and tour buses and arenas are starting to suck the very life out of me.
We walk side by side in silence for the first block, the only sound between us the shuffle of our sneakers on pavement and the crinkle of the brown paper bag swinging gently from his fingers.
He turns us off the strip, passing a street of large houses lit up like Christmas.
Greek letters hang over the doors. There’s a guy in a backwards cap yelling from the second-floor porch while holding a red plastic cup.
Down below another group stands around a wooden table, and one of them lets out a half-hearted “Wooo!” before recognizing Jefferson and shouting, “Good luck, Parks!”
“Bring home the trophy!”
Jefferson lifts a hand at the guys, but makes no move to join them.
“Are you in a frat?” I ask, trying to sound casual, like I understand this world.
“Not a chance,” he grins, flashing that dimple. “Although I guess my team is pretty close to a frat. We’re like brothers; we live and party together. We’re there through thick and thin.”
“That makes sense. I get close to the people I work with, too.”
“Those guys…” he gestures to the frat boys who are back to playing some game on the tabletop. “They’re fans. Hockey is very popular at Wittmore, I’m pretty well known on campus.”
Across the street are similar houses, although bigger and cleaner.
No tabletop games or couches in the yard.
A girl exits her car by the curb, and I look away quickly, but it’s unnecessary.
Her eyes skirt past me and land squarely on Jefferson.
That’s a first, but I think I get it. He’s got a magnetism.
And from what I can tell from the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, a killer body. “Hey, you.”
“Chantel,” he says, eyebrow raising.
“I heard Reese issued a no-partying rule tonight?”
“No partying here,” he says, positioning his body between me and the girl. I realize he’s keeping her from being able to see my face. “Just showing a friend around campus.”
“Well,” she tilts her head, “if you end up looking for a place to crash tonight, you know where to find me.”
“Will do,” he says, flashing her that grin. “See you around.”
Even after we’re a house away from the girl, I tug my hoodie lower, pulling the brim of my cap down. “That happen a lot? Girls inviting you to ‘crash’ at their place?”
“Pretty often,” he replies with zero shame.
“Is that what you think is happening here? That your little private tour and greasy hamburger will lead to a hook up? A one-night stand with Ingrid Flockton? A way to get tickets? An autograph? Details on what really happened with me and my ex to sell to the tabloids?”
He stops and looks down at me, a piece of blond hair falling in his eyes. “Babe, if I wanted in your pants, I would’ve brought condoms, not fries.”
A beat stretches between us, and I feel stupid and out of my depth, which rarely happens to me.
Usually, I’m the one in control; I make sure of it, but at this moment, out on the cold street in Wittmore, I’m anything but in charge.
Also? Marv is going to kill me. I narrow my eyes.
“How do I know you’re not going to murder me? ”
“Jesus, you sound like my roommate’s girlfriend,” he mutters. “I’m a hockey player, not a psycho.”
“That’s not entirely reassuring.”