Chapter 2
Chapter Two
ELLIE
Kathryn flops down next to me on the bed of our parents’ spare room.
“Are you still waiting for your mystery man to text?”
It’s been forty-eight hours since my sister’s engagement party and Mark still hasn’t texted me.
Usually, I’d be obsessing over every word we said, picking it apart. But right now, all I can think about is the red document wallet on the bedside table shouting for attention.
“I’m trying to catch up on admin,” I say.
It’s not a lie. I am trying. I even have the spreadsheet open—though I’ve been on the same cell for the past half-hour.
Kathryn props a pillow behind her back.
“I’m so grateful for you, El. If you need any extra help, I’ll ask Greg.”
I roll my eyes.
My sister owns a beauty salon and even though my official job title is ‘ beautician and stylist’ , my services extend to the role of ‘lead skivvy’ which involves a ridiculous amount of admin .
She waits until I’ve busied myself by moving to a new worksheet before talking again.
“So … this guy,” she says.
“What about him? He hasn’t texted me. I’m not bothered and?—”
“I think I know who it is,” she says, cutting me off. “I mean, if I guess right, you’ll tell me, yeah?”
I scowl at her.
“Is it Mark?”
My cheeks could out heat a curling wand, but even with my eyes on cell B43, I can feel my sister’s smugness radiating.
“I didn’t think you’d go for him,” she says, tilting her head to the side as she gazes upward. She looks back at me, pursing her lips before saying, “don’t you think he’s a bit out of your league?”
I divert my attention to flash her a glare of contempt. “He asked for my number. Not the other way around.”
“I’m only saying,” she says. “You set your heights too high. You set yourself up for failure.”
“Can we let it go?” I snap.
The embarrassment sets in because—thinking about it now—he probably is out of my league. But at the time I didn’t think so. I thought he was interested as much as I was.
More fool me, I guess.
“I’m only saying, you—” she snaps her mouth shut, running a long nail across her jaw. “Do you remember that boy who lived next door? Not the one who died, his younger brother. That was a similar thing. I don’t know why you let yourself get so?—”
“Thanks, Kathryn. Thanks for the reminder,” I say.
She can be so crude. But I know exactly who and what she’s referring to, and so does my nervous system. I peek a glance towards the red document wallet, unable to stop myself.
“What was his name again?” she says, acting like she doesn’t remember.
There’s a pensive look on her face while she pretends to think.
Then another moment passes before she blurts it out, “ that’s right—Michael Betts.
Didn’t everyone call him Bettsy or something?
” She scoffs in a mock-laugh. “Ridiculous, if you ask me.”
I clench my jaw, putting my attention back on my laptop.
“Let me check something for a moment. Gimme.” She whips the computer from my lap, my hands still suspended mid-air like I’m about to type.
“Hey—”
“Just a moment,” she says.
I’m relieved to see she at least minimises the spreadsheet before pulling up a web-browser, tapping her inch-long nails against the keyboard as she enters ‘Michael Betts’ into the search engine.
“See? Total escape from catastrophe.”
My stomach does an involuntary lurch as his picture fills the screen.
There he is. The same Michael Betts who did indeed live next door.
Except—he’s different. Older, obviously, and he’s bulked out, grown into himself and—I bite my lip, trying to force the queasy feeling away as Kathryn drops the laptop back onto my thighs.
I know I should close the page, but I don’t.
My eyes fix on the screen and I skim the text, reading his basic information and hockey stats. It’s all stuff I don’t understand, but I read it anyway.
“Wait—Rick plays hockey?” I say, frowning at the screen. “Looks like he and Mike played junior hockey together and…” I keep reading. “They’re both listed on the preliminary roster for the Men’s Team GB Ice Hockey team—apparently, they’re holding trials or something. Wow.”
“Huh,” Kathryn says, flashing a look at the screen before becoming overly invested in her cuticles. “I guess so.”
Rick, or Patrick, is Greg’s best man, and according to Kathryn, they are far too ‘ bromancy’ for her liking. She’s been trying to get Greg to change his mind for months, but he’s refusing—much to Kathryn’s dismay.
“Anyway, are you wanting to eat here before you head home?” she says, climbing off the bed.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen as my sister slips out of the room, pushing the door closed behind her.
This should definitely be my cue to return to my admin, but I can’t stop myself. Curiosity gets the better of me and I fall down a rabbit hole of nosiness, digging deeper into the hockey history of Mike Betts.
In fact, I only drag my eyes away from the screen when my phone vibrates on the duvet next to me.
A contact I don’t have saved.
My heart flutters and I extend my hand to reach for it when something catches my eye: a thumbnail photo of Mike Betts, tagged in another article.
A queasiness fills my stomach when the page loads.
The article mentions a fan forum, and a new post pertaining to the social life of Mike Betts outside of hockey.
I know I should probably leave things alone, but I click through to the forum, scanning the page before navigating to the post.
“I just wanted 2 come on here 2 let people know that Michael Betts (who wears no. 6!!!) is a complete and utter dickhead. Not only did he get me pregnant, he lied to me about his intentions and made me leave my previous bf for him. And… (this is the rly bad part) he forced me 2 get rid. Literally dragged me to the hospital. He also paid me 2 do it so he wouldn’t have 2 tell anyone he’s a complete asshole.
But MIKE. If ur reading this … I hate you.
And you weren’t even that good in bed. And your dick is tiny.
I don’t even know how you got me pregnant in the first place.
But women all over … STAY AWAY!!! I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got an STI or something. ”
I’m stunned into silence, and it’s only a little bit to do with the way it’s written.
When Kathryn sticks her head around the door to ask me another question a moment later, all she gets is a view of my face, frozen in shock.
“Are you okay?”
“Come and read this,” I say, angling the laptop towards her as she approaches the bed.
I wait for her to read the post, the laptop screen reflecting off her glasses as her eyes move in quick formation left and right. She frowns, then widens her eyes, then scoffs loudly before scrunching up her nose.
“Do you think any of this is true?” I say, shifting the screen back towards me.
“Well, he sounds busy, that’s for sure … but this is what I’m getting at. Rick’s the same, which is why I don’t want him getting involved with Greg … or, I guess, having Greg involved with him.”
“I’m not sure I believe it. I mean…” I skim over the words again, trying to work out if the post is someone’s poor attempt at humour. “I’m sorry, but who trusts someone named ‘IlovetoPuck29’ ?”
“Yeah, but look at the replies,” Kathryn says, tapping the screen with a glossy nail.
PrestonsBiggestFan19:
I knew he would be the type.
Johnny4Life923:
Typical of him. The club should fire him, or worse, trade him!!
HockeyFan213:
I can’t believe he would do that. Hope you’re okay and healing after your ordeal.
“People believe anything they read online,” I say.
“Well, I guess but anyway, it’s nothing to do with us. Pasta or rice?”
“I don’t mind,” I say, willing myself to close the lid of my laptop.
But I don’t. I can’t.