Chapter Twenty-Three
This Won’t Hurt a Bit
Scarlett
My phone is possessed.
It starts buzzing before the sun is even up, vibrating across the nightstand with the fury of a thousand rabid romance fans. I bury my head under the pillow and groan. Maybe if I ignore it long enough, the notifications will give up and go haunt someone else.
Spoiler: they don’t.
Eventually, the buzzing gets so aggressive it knocks a lip balm onto the floor.
I sit up with a dramatic sigh and squint at the screen.
Ninety-seven unread messages.
Why?
I swipe through them with bleary eyes. Texts from Harper, Lucy, my editor, and even my brother, who hasn’t read a book since The Very Hungry Caterpillar, has somehow joined the party.
Harper: WTF DID YOU DO?
YOU’RE TRENDING
YOU AND HOT HOCKEY GUY = INTERNET MELTDOWN
Lucy: Hey, ignore the chaos. You were brilliant. Also, Bennett says if you don’t marry Chase, he’s personally going to adopt him.
Okay, that was a weird comment. I keep reading. The next message is from my editor.
Tabitha: *Whatever you’re doing, KEEP DOING IT. Also, it would be great if you could ride this wave into a new draft?? :) *
I groan and toss the phone on the bed like it’s personally betrayed me.
Because of course. Of course the entire internet has lost its collective mind over one harmless (okay, slightly chaotic) book club debate.
I open social media next. Big mistake.
There’s a fan cam of Chase smirking at me while I’m mid-rant. Someone captioned it:
“He looks like he’s already picked out their honeymoon destination.”
Another one:
“I didn’t believe in enemies to lovers until this moment. I would die for this tension.”
And the cherry on top?
A poll:
“Do you think Scottie Calloway will cave and go on a date with Chase Remington?”
The current vote?
96% YES.
I stare at the screen. Hard.
Then I close the app and let my head thunk back against the pillow.
I am never leaving my apartment again.
Ever.
A minute later, a new message pings.
Chase: You okay?
My thumbs get to work immediately, and since I’m so worked up, I have to retype my message three times to avoid any typos.
Scarlett: Absolutely not.
Chase: The fans are unhinged. But I kinda love it.
I roll my eyes so hard I see my childhood.
Me: Of course you do.
You thrive on chaos.
Chase: You say that like it’s a bad thing.
Also, you looked good last night.
Like, really good.
Just saying.
I toss the phone aside again before my brain short-circuits. Because I’m not doing this. I’m not engaging. I’m not going to smile at my screen like a giddy idiot because a hockey player who drives me insane says I looked good.
(Okay, fine. I do smile. But it’s small. Barely counts.)
I push the blankets off and drag myself to the kitchen, trying to remind myself that I am a grown woman with a career and a backbone—not someone who gets flustered over banter and a stupidly charming smile.
I open the fridge. Nothing but oat milk and half a lime.
Perfect.
Maybe I’ll go for a workout. Clear my head. Avoid the internet.
And definitely not text Chase back.
Probably.
Maybe...
Ugh.
The house is gorgeous, of course. One of those airy modern builds with oversized furniture, giant windows, and enough throw pillows to smother a grown man. It smells like a candle store and success.
Lucy nudges me inside with a grin. “You’re going to love them. They’re chaos in the best way.”
“I don’t do well with groups,” I murmur under my breath.
I’m still not sure why I agreed to this, but when Lucy suggested a girls’ night out, I said yes. I’d had so much fun with her—both at the hockey game and when we went out for margaritas—but now?
Now I’m regretting saying yes.
She rolls her eyes. “Please. You’ve survived book club meetings. This’ll be cake.”
We walk through the open-concept kitchen and into the living room, where a handful of the Stampede wives and girlfriends—WAGs, apparently, which sounds like a golden retriever convention—are already gathered around a charcuterie board the size of a sled.
The wine is flowing. The laughter is loud.
Lily—wife of the goalie—Lucy whispers to me, is mid-story. “—and then I walk into the kitchen, and my husband is trying to fix the garbage disposal with a hockey stick. Like, as a tool. Just jamming it in there like it was Excalibur.”
The group erupts in laughter.
“Wait, did it work?” someone asks.
“No! He broke the stick and somehow made the disposal even more jammed. We had to call a plumber and the team equipment guy.”
Lucy lifts her glass. “To hockey husbands—beautiful idiots, the lot of them.”
“Hear, hear,” someone chimes.
Lily grins at me. “Your turn, Scarlett. Got any horror stories?”
“Oh, I’m not married,” I say. “Or dating a hockey player. Or anyone. I’m the token emotionally detached feminist here tonight.”
Lucy winks. “That’s why we like you.”
A brunette in leggings pipes up. “Okay, but listen to this. My husband tried to name our dog Zamboni.”
Collective groans from around the room.
She continues, nodding. “And I said no, but he literally started calling it that anyway. Now the dog ignores me unless I use that name.”
I nearly spit out my wine. “A fluffy traitor!”
“Exactly,” she groans.
“I have one,” Lucy says, already giggling. “So Bennett made me a smoothie last week and accidentally used pre-workout instead of protein powder. I was just trying to have a chill morning yoga session, but instead, I blacked out and reorganized our spice rack by pH level.”
We lose it.
“And don’t even get me started on game-day superstitions,” another girl says, shaking her head. “Six alarms. Starting at 4:36 a.m. Two minutes apart. Every game day. I now know true psychological warfare. And it comes in the form of iPhone ringtones.”
“Okay, but points for creativity,” Lucy says.
Harper would love this, I think. I can practically hear her saying See? These women didn’t give up their whole identity. They’re still brilliant and independent… just also in love.
“I’ve said it before,” another woman says, reaching for a cracker, “but I’ll say it again: they may be elite athletes, but they’re also one bad day away from eating cereal for dinner out of a measuring cup.”
The group erupts into laughter, and Lucy leads me to the couch with a glass of white wine already in hand.
“Everyone, this is Scarlett,” she announces. “Author. Book club co-host. Tolerates Chase Remington on a semi-regular basis.”
There’s a chorus of oohs and “God help you,” followed by a spot being made for me on the couch between two of the women, who immediately offer me cheese and emotional support.
Okay, so maybe tonight won’t be so bad after all.
A dark-haired girl who is going hard on the prosecco turns to me. “I honestly love your books, by the way.”
“Oh?” I blink, caught off guard.
“Yeah,” says a blonde with a sharp bob. “It’s refreshing to hear someone say you don’t need to lose yourself in a relationship. I got married young, and it took me years to realize I was allowed to still have opinions.”
“You’re the one who writes those empowerment books, right?” the brunette next to me asks. “The ‘you don’t need a man’ manifesto?”
I blink. “That’s… probably an oversimplification, but yeah.”
Her eyes go wide. “I love that. Honestly. I wish I had that mindset before I got married.”
More laughter. More wine.
And then suddenly we’re all just talking. About relationships. About expectations. About how hard it is to hold onto yourself when your life gets tied to someone else’s schedule, career, or spotlight.
“You’re kind of living the dream,” one woman says. “Like, don’t get me wrong, I love my guy. But the freedom? The peace of not dealing with dirty socks on the floor? Don’t let anyone make you give that up.”
“Seriously,” another chimes in. “The independence thing? That’s hot. Don’t let some guy make you think you have to soften it.”
I take a sip of my wine, feeling oddly warm—not just from the alcohol, but from the unexpected camaraderie.
“I won’t,” I say, smiling faintly. “Trust me. I’ve worked too hard to get here.”
Lucy clinks her glass to mine. “Damn right you have.”
We settle into the couch, laughter echoing around the room, the soft hum of a playlist underscoring the conversations. And for once, I don’t feel like the odd woman out. I feel… understood.
It’s disarming.
I’m having more fun than I expected. I thought these women might be stuck up or worse—judgmental. But they’re neither.
And they’re sharing all the tea about what it’s like to have a hockey husband. Possible ammo to hang over Chase’s head someday…
I’m here for it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Gut Punch
Scarlett
I’m halfway through my workout, earbuds in, trying to drown out the internet noise with a podcast about finding peace in chaos—which is ironic, considering I am the chaos at the moment.
The gym is surprisingly empty at this time of morning, and I’m already fifteen minutes in, according to the treadmill, which should feel like a great start. But I’m still spiraling. When I need grounding, I do what any self-respecting masochist would
do: I open Instagram.
Harper always says I’m asking for it. And she’s right.
I scroll aimlessly for a minute, pausing on a few dog videos, liking a new release announcement from one of my author friends, and then—
I see his name.
A smiling couple. Champagne flutes raised. A golden hour photo filtered within an inch of its life. The woman is pretty in that Pinterest board way—flowy hair, pastel dress, the kind of effortless that takes three hours and a glam team.
And him.
My ex.
The one I loved so hard I nearly lost myself.
The one who told me I was selfish for choosing my career.
The one who made me feel like I’d never be enough.
Now? He’s smiling for the camera, arm wrapped around someone new, and the caption reads:
“Engaged to my best friend. May can’t come fast enough.”
My breath catches.
There it is. The gut punch I didn’t know I was waiting for.
I stop walking.