BETTSY
I know there’s something going on as soon as I pick my phone up.
Messages. Missed calls. Notifications.
At first, I figure it’s about my best mate screwing around with my sister—big news, sure. But not this big. Not this kind of mess.
“Rochelle,” I say, clenching my jaw. “Fucking?—”
She’s typically all bark and no bite. Except, while I skim over a forum post several people have sent me, I’m lost for words.
I can’t believe what I’m reading. I actually can’t.
To double-check, I close the browser and click on the link that was forwarded to me again, antsy as I wait for the page to load.
Yep. There it is. Plain as day.
This has got to be a wind-up, right?
I pace the floor of the dressing room, my face getting hotter as I read it again.
This is far worse than I could have imagined.
The door swings open, and there’s a flurry of movement from the tunnel as the rest of the guys filter in—post game sweat dripping from their brows. Danny, one of the second line wingers, slips through, but instead of heading for his cubby, he changes direction and stops in front of me.
“You okay, mate?” he says, pulling off his helmet.
I don’t answer him straight away, opting to skim through the post one more time instead, letting myself get angrier by the second. Because this is not cool. This is so not cool, and I don’t know what the hell to do to fix it.
I’m supposed to be riding on the high of not only advancing to the Challenge Cup finals, but also getting a shot at Team GB.
Instead, I’m seeing shit posted online by my ex. Pure slander .
And I’m livid.
“Here,” I say, holding my phone out to Danny, “read this.”
He’s gloveless already but wipes his palms against his jersey before taking it.
I sit down at my cubby and begin to remove my gear at speed.
My instinct is to drive over to Rochelle’s place, demand answers, maybe throw a few choice words in her direction too … but deep down, I know that would do more damage than good.
“When did she post this?” Danny asks, running his finger along the screen as he scrolls. “Because?—”
I wave him off, already in defensive mode.
“I didn’t. You know I didn’t, right?”
Danny passes my phone back, then walks across the dressing room to start his own de-kitting routine.
“I know you didn’t mate,” he says, sitting. “But I hope it doesn’t cause any dramas for you with the roster.”
Shit.
Fuck.
And another shit.
Danny’s another Team GB hopeful, getting named on the preliminary roster like me. But preliminary is the key word here. We’re still only potentials. It’s not over until we’ve done training camp and the coaching staff make their picks.
What if this blast on the fan forum is enough to make the general manager of the national team change his mind about me? Because I know I’m not the only eligible defenceman in the league.
“Fuck. Honestly, if this … I’ll kill her.” I tug my jersey over my head, rolling it into a ball and throwing it so hard at the laundry bin, it wobbles on impact.
“Who are you killing?” Johnny says, striding in from the open door. He stops at his cubby, the one directly next to mine and slumps down in his seat.
“Look at this,” I say, reaching for my phone and shoving it into Johnny’s still-gloved hand .
He tucks his left glove under his arm and switches hands, eyes locked on the screen as he reads.
I watch him carefully—though I’m shit at reading his expression. Always have been. He’s one of these ‘heart-on-my-sleeve-in-a-locked-wardrobe’ guys.
Johnny frowns, scoffs, then makes a choking sound that has me edging closer to him.
“You’re kidding, right?” he says finally. “When was this posted?”
“I wish I was. It went up last night and one of the boys I played with in juniors sent me the link … along with about five others. People are fucking commenting on it too, Cap. What the hell do I do?”
The thing about British Hockey is, it’s a tiny world.
And all us Brits know each other. Either from junior hockey or playing on the same team at some point or from a party.
And when Greer, from my junior team, sent me the link …
and I’m not so naive to think he only forwarded it to me.
It’s likely sitting on every single group chat of every single team in the league by now.
Johnny glares at me. For a second, I expect him to say something about me calling him ‘Cap’ since technically, he’s not our captain at the moment—even if everyone’s still treating him like he is—but he doesn’t. He just frowns and hands me back my phone.
“I’ll speak with Vicky. See if she can get it taken down.”
I worry my lip, trying not to throw up.
Vicky, Johnny’s sister, occasionally helps with public relations alongside her social media and photography gig. If anyone can help, it’s her—not to mention she’s got a fiery personality that I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of.
But not even Vicky can undo the damage this has already done.
The internet never forgets, does it?
“Nah, if you take it down—people might think there’s truth in it,” Danny says, causing my stomach to fall out of my ass.
He reaches for his phone and frowns at the screen before tossing it back onto his shelf.
Case in point.
“What the hell do I do?” I’m frantic. Actually raging. Because there’s no truth in it, but people don’t think like that—they assume the worst. They leap to conclusions. And I’m hardly the type of person who thinks before he acts. I’m spontaneous. Reckless. And now it’s biting me in the ass—hard.
And we all know that people love to gossip.
“I’ll speak with Vicky,” Johnny says. “And probably Kirsty from HR to see how we can approach this.”
Great. PR and HR. Which only means a fucking mess. And this is all my fault.
“But you know it’s not true, right, Cap?” I plead with Johnny.
He nods and pats me on the back. “Of course, bud. Try not to worry about it.”
There’s a flash of something in his eyes, but I can’t place it. Does he believe me? Because I couldn’t handle Johnny thinking of me as a liar—he’s the only one with any sense in this place. Probably why I wasn’t all that pissed off to learn he’s seeing my sister.
He’s the one guy I fully trust.
I sit down in my cubby and spiral into a rabbit hole of self-pity.
How did I get myself in this mess? How did I?—
Then it comes to me.
Sex. It all comes down to sex.
All of this is a result of my desperation for sex.
But there’s no way I’m letting this happen again. Not if I can help it.
“That’s it. I’m never having sex again,” I announce to the room. “It only leads to a world of pain. ”
That’s when the laughing starts. I look around, and despite everyone being half-dressed, I win the attention of the room.
“You’re joking, right?” Hutch, my roommate, says.
“No. I am not. My dick is staying firmly in my pants for the foreseeable—except for when I need to take a piss. Actually, I’m not even wanking anymore. Because you never know?—”
“Stop. We’ll fix it,” Johnny says, a voice of reassurance.
But I mean it. I’m off sex. What’s the point anyway?
“C’mon, mate. Try to forget about it for now,” Danny says. “We’re supposed to be celebrating tonight.”
“I guess if the end is nigh, I may as well go out with a bang … but without an actual bang.”
Danny rolls his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I? Because I disagree.”
“Danny’s right,” Johnny says. “You are being dramatic. Vicky will figure out a way to fix this. Until then—” He looks around the room at the guys, “No one is to talk about this. It’s gossip.
And I don’t stand for gossip in my dressing room.
” The good thing is, no one argues with Johnny.
“We’re all going out for drinks to celebrate, not one, but two of our guys making the prelim roster. That’s the focus this evening.”
There’s a roar of cheers and I’m forced to join in.
But despite the smile I have plastered all over my face, I don’t feel even slightly happy. I feel powerless and angry beyond anything I’ve felt before. But I do what I always do to lighten the mood—crack on and pretend like everything is okay.
Nevertheless, I have a feeling things are about to get a lot worse.