Chapter Twenty-Two — Rhett
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rhett
The university published the statement at nine Monday morning.
By nine-oh-seven, somebody had turned it into a breakup rumor.
That had to be a record.
I stood outside the locker room reading the post for the fourth time.
The language was exactly what Tessa and I had approved.
Professional.
Brief.
Boring enough to discourage attention.
Lakeview State Athletics and Student Activities are proud of the collaboration that made this semester’s community events successful. Rhett Callahan and Tessa Monroe appreciate the support while requesting privacy regarding their personal relationship.
No declarations.
No photos we had not approved.
No details about Boston.
No campaign.
Perfect.
Then Lakeview Confessions reposted it with:
REQUESTING PRIVACY = TROUBLE IN PARADISE?
The comments had done the rest.
Boston already ended them.
Callahan finally got serious and she’s leaving. Brutal.
He’ll be back to normal by next weekend.
Ten weeks is forever in hockey-player time.
I locked my phone.
Then unlocked it.
Bad decision.
A newer comment read:
She probably used him for the publicity and internship connections.
My jaw tightened.
That one was different.
The rest were aimed at me.
My reputation.
My history.
Fair enough.
Not accurate, but familiar.
This dragged Tessa into something ugly.
Coach’s warning returned immediately.
Do not make her carry the consequences of your reputation.
I started typing.
For the record—
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Tessa earned everything she has—
Deleted that too.
Not because it was untrue.
Because speaking for her had caused our first real fight.
You asked me to choose. Let me choose.
I stared at the blank response box.
Cam appeared beside me in full practice gear.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“That looks like something.”
He glanced at the screen.
His expression changed.
“People are idiots.”
“Yes.”
“You going to respond?”
“I don’t know.”
“That sounded painful.”
“It is.”
Cam leaned against the wall.
“What does she want?”
“I haven’t asked.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Personal growth stalled?”
“I saw it thirty seconds ago.”
“You’ve been standing here for four minutes.”
“Time is subjective.”
He held out one hand.
“Call her.”
“She has class.”
“Text her.”
“She may not have seen it.”
“Then don’t ruin her morning.”
“That is also an option.”
A terrible one.
But an option.
I locked the phone again.
The locker-room door opened.
Coach stepped out.
He looked from me, to Cam, to the phone in my hand.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Cam said, “Internet.”
Coach’s face immediately darkened.
He held out his hand.
I gave him the phone.
He read the post.
Then the comments.
His jaw tightened at the same one mine had.
“She know?” he asked.
“No.”
“You responding?”
“I was about to.”
Coach handed the phone back.
“Don’t.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because Ms. Monroe asked for privacy.”
“I’m not discussing the relationship.”
“You would be discussing her.”
“They’re insulting her.”
“She may want to answer.”
“She shouldn’t have to.”
Coach studied me.
“That sentence can become control very quickly.”
The words irritated me because they were almost identical to what Tessa had said.
I shoved the phone into my pocket.
“So I do nothing?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What did you say?”
“Ask her.”
Simple.
Annoying.
Correct.
Coach pushed open the locker-room door.
“On the ice in five.”
Cam followed him.
Then glanced back.
“Love is very administrative for you now.”
“Go away.”
“Communication. Consent. Joint statements.”
“I can still hit you.”
“Good. I was worried you’d changed completely.”
He disappeared inside.
My phone buzzed.
Tessa.
My stomach dropped.
Tessa: Have you seen it?
Of course she had.
I typed:
Rhett: Yes.
Then:
Rhett: What do you want to do?
The typing bubble appeared.
Stopped.
Returned.
Tessa: Nothing yet.
Every part of me rejected the answer.
Still, I made myself respect it.
Rhett: Okay.
Three dots.
Tessa: You hate that.
Rhett: Completely.
Tessa: Thank you for asking.
My chest tightened.
Rhett: I want to defend you.
Her reply took longer.
Tessa: I know.
Then:
Tessa: Meet me after practice?
Rhett: Always.
I read the word.
Considered changing it.
Did not.
Practice was violent.
Not officially.
Coach would have called it high intensity.
Cam would have called it emotionally repressed.
Both were right.
I finished every check harder than necessary.
Shot every puck like the net had posted the comment.
Missed twice.
Scored three times.
Coach said nothing until the final drill.
Then he blew the whistle and pointed toward the bench.
Again.
I skated over.
“Coach.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“That is allowed.”
“Generous.”
“It is not useful if you let it choose your game.”
I rested both gloves on top of my stick.
“What if I’m using the game?”
“Then use it better.”
He nodded toward the ice.
“The difference between control and discipline is whether you know what you’re protecting.”
I stared at him.
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Worse.”
Coach’s mouth almost moved.
Then settled.
“Ms. Monroe is not fragile.”
“Agreed.”
“You don’t look like you know.”
“I don’t think she’s fragile.”
“What do you think?”
I looked toward the empty stands.
The university post.
The comments.
Boston.
Ten weeks.
Tessa choosing something difficult and strangers reducing it to a betrayal.
“I think she shouldn’t have to fight everything alone.”
Coach nodded.
“That is different.”
“She still shouldn’t.”
“No.”
He looked at me directly.
“But standing beside someone is not the same as stepping in front of them every time.”
The sentence landed.
I looked down.
“You have become disturbingly good at this.”
“At hockey?”
“Emotions.”
Coach blew the whistle again.
“Back in.”
I pushed away from the bench.
Then he added, “Callahan.”
I turned.
“Standing beside her may still require speaking.”
That was less clear.
Possibly intentionally.
Coach liked principles more than instructions.
Terrible management style.
I returned to the drill.
This time, I caught the pass cleanly.
Tessa waited outside the arena wearing a black coat and a face that made several passing students reconsider looking at their phones.
I reached her still carrying my equipment bag.
She held out her hand.
I took it immediately.
No greeting.
No joke.
Just contact.
Her fingers were cold.
“You okay?” I asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
She looked at me.
“That is still a terrible response.”
“Means you’re honest.”
“It means I want to throw my phone into the lake.”
“That can be arranged.”
She almost smiled.
Then did not.
We walked toward the quieter side of campus.
Her grip remained tight.
Not because she needed help.
Because she wanted me there.
That distinction mattered more every day.
“I drafted a response,” she said.
My chest tightened.
“I can work with that.”
“You want to see it?”
“Yes.”
She stopped beneath a bare oak tree and handed me her phone.
The draft read:
My internship was earned through my academic work, application, case exercise, and interview.
Rhett did not obtain it for me, influence the decision, or create the opportunity.
Our relationship is private, real, and not a publicity arrangement.
Boston is a professional choice we are handling together.
Please direct your curiosity toward something less fictional.
I read the last line again.
Then looked at her.
“Less fictional?”
“I revised it from mind your own business.”
“Strong editing.”
“I thought so.”
The response was clear.
Sharp.
Entirely Tessa.
It also gave strangers more than they deserved.
I handed the phone back.
“You don’t have to post this.”
“I heard you.”
“Do you want to?”
She looked at the screen.
“I want the lie corrected.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“True.”
“And once you post, people may argue.”
“I understand.”
“They may call you defensive.”
“Tessa.”
Her expression tightened.
“I remember.”
The repeated answer sounded exhausted now.
I lowered my voice.
“What do you want from me?”
She looked up.
Not annoyed by the question this time.
Relieved.
“I want you to tell me whether staying silent means I’m letting them define me.”
I considered that.
Not the polished answer.
The real one.
“No.”
She waited.
“It means you’re deciding they don’t deserve access.”
“And posting?”
“Means you decide the lie matters more than the access it costs.”
Her eyes searched mine.
“That was annoyingly balanced.”
“Coach has become philosophical.”
“Terrible development.”
“Agreed.”
Tessa looked down at the draft again.
“I hate that they think I used you.”
“I hate that they think I could get you an internship.”
Her mouth twitched.
“Your academic influence is limited.”
“Devastating.”
“Your networking strategy is flirting with professors.”
“Effective.”
She exhaled.
The tension loosened slightly.
Then her expression changed.
“What bothers you most?”
The question surprised me.
“About the post?”
“Yes.”
I could have said the insult.
The breakup speculation.
The assumption that I would become who I used to be.
All true.
Not the deepest thing.
“That they made you sound temporary.”
Her face softened.
I looked away.
The words felt exposed.
“They said I used you,” she said.
“Same thing.”
“How?”
“Like you were here for what the relationship could do for you. Like you would leave once it stopped being useful.”
Tessa went still.
I forced myself to continue.
“That’s my fear. Not that you’ll love Boston.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
“That you’ll outgrow me.”
The sentence came quietly.
Still, it landed.
“Yes.”
There.
The ugliest truth.
Not noble support.
Not mature long-distance planning.
The fear that Boston would show her a bigger life and I would become the funny campus mistake before it.
Tessa stepped closer.
“You are not an opportunity I’m using.”
“I believe you.”