Chapter 31 Fame Misconduct Luna
Fame Misconduct
Luna
I’ve made it through worse mornings. Like the time I skated on a rolled ankle during regionals because our trainer was out with food poisoning and the backup never showed. Or the time Celeste injured her knee and couldn’t dance for three months.
But this?
This might take the crown for the worst.
I’m in the corner of the women’s locker room, hood pulled up, earbuds in.
No music playing. Just silence and the illusion of distance.
It’s early, too early, but I couldn’t stay in bed a second longer.
The second I opened my phone, the notifications started bleeding through like battery acid.
Every ping was another jab to the soft spot I pretend doesn’t exist.
So now I’m here, scrolling like a masochist, trapped in an endless digital loop of hate.
The clip is everywhere.
Luna W, influencer turned gold digger, trash-talking her golden boy. The captions range from mildly insulting to straight-up vile.
“She played the long game.”
“I knew she wasn’t legit.”
“She’s not even that hot.”
“Poor Beau.”
I press the side of my phone to black out the screen, but the image burns behind my eyelids.
Me, mid-laugh, eyebrows lifted, mouth in that half-sneer I get when I’m joking about something I shouldn’t be.
The part of the conversation no one was supposed to hear.
Especially not like that. Not twisted. Used as a weapon.
Why are people like this? Why do they insist on hurting each other? Strangers.
God. It wasn’t even recent. That clip was from weeks ago. Our first encounter. Back when Maisie, Beth, and I were venting after Beau kicked us off the ice. We were egging each other on, but no one was ever supposed to see it. I didn’t know it was being filmed.
I’d said something about him being an emotionally unavailable rich boy.
But then I got to know him, and he’s not.
And that’s why I know it’s going to hurt him.
It was dumb and harmless and honest at the time.
He was being a dick. But now that I know him better, I realize his head wasn’t in the right place.
But now it’s viral. I’ve already lost a thousand followers. Probably more. Brands are pulling back. My jaw is clenched so tight my ears ache.
Maisie slides into the stall next to mine. She doesn’t say anything right away, just bumps her knee into mine gently. Her presence is a warm thing, quiet and grounding. I love her for it.
“You ready for practice?” she asks after a beat, voice low. “I brought you a sour cherry gummy. For strength.”
I glance over. She holds one up with mock ceremony and plops it into my palm.
“I think I need five of these and a PR manager,” I mutter.
Maisie hums, unbothered. “We’ll start with the candy. Work up to the existential shift.”
I crack a smile. Barely. But it’s there.
Still, when I look back at my phone, the tightness returns.
Beau still hasn’t texted. Not a single message from him. Not even a vague “you okay?” or “WTF is this?”
And maybe I should feel grateful. That he’s not piling on.
That he’s giving me space. But somehow it doesn’t feel like space, it feels more like a goodbye.
Like he’s distancing himself from the bad PR.
You’d think he’d understand. He’s grown up with this kind of scrutiny.
But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’m a liability.
Maisie taps her stick twice against the bench, nods toward the tunnel. “Come on. Coach’ll make us do sprints if we’re late.”
I nod, pocketing my phone and forcing my legs to move. The air in the locker room is heavy with heat and detergent and the sharp tang of something acidic. My gear bag’s heavier than usual, even though it’s the same as it’s always been.
The ice is colder than usual. Not in temperature, exactly. Just in the way it feels under my blades, too slick, too loud, too hard. The sound of skate edges carving into it rings out sharp and hollow, like it’s bouncing off the inside of my skull.
We’re supposed to be warming up, running a loose circle drill, but my timing’s off and I can’t get my passes to land where I want them. I overcorrect, then undercorrect, like my body’s trying to fight my brain’s white noise.
Beth notices. Of course she does. She swoops by on a crossover and taps my stick with hers, subtle but deliberate.
“You’re good,” she says under her breath, eyes locked ahead like she didn’t say anything at all.
I nod, but my jaw’s tight, and my gloves are already soaked from how hard I’m gripping my stick.
Maisie glides past me next and smirks. “Pretend every cone is a comment section.”
I almost laugh. Almost. But it catches in my throat before it can make it out. The pain is still a little too sharp. Hockey is supposed to be my escape from the online scrutiny. But I can’t get my mind off it today.
Across the rink, Coach is watching us with that hawk-eyed focus she saves for days when something’s off, but she hasn’t decided who to punish yet. I can feel her gaze tracking my every pivot.
And I deserve it. I’m a mess today.
The puck flips toward me, and I swing for it too hard, sending it wide. Krista chases it down without a word, but I can feel the energy shift. I’m supposed to be leading this drill. Setting the pace. Instead, I’m dragging behind like deadweight.
My shoulders ache from sleeping wrong or maybe from stress. I can’t tell anymore.
And then the shouting starts. At first it’s muffled, barely audible over the scrape of blades and the whistle in Coach’s mouth. But then it sharpens, pulls into focus like a lens adjusting.
“Where’s your rich boy, Luna?”
“Guess the sponsorship deal didn’t cover loyalty!”
“Hey, influencer! Smile for the camera!”
I snap my head toward the boards.
Three guys in their early twenties are leaning against the glass. They’re wearing Lakeview sweatshirts and smug grins. One of them has his phone out. He’s filming. Or livestreaming. Probably both.
Beth freezes beside me. Maisie immediately starts skating toward them.
Coach blows her whistle with two sharp bursts. “Off the ice!”
We don’t move.
Sab and Jenna catch on and skate to our side. Krista mutters something under her breath I can’t make out, but it sounds like violence. Maisie pulls up directly in front of the glass, yanking her helmet off. “Come say that again without the Plexi, you pathetic little man-child.”
Coach storms over, her skates carving deep tracks behind her. “Out. Now.”
The guys laugh, loud and performative, like it’s a show. The one holding the phone cups a hand to his mouth and yells, “Watch your follower count, Luna! Oof. Too late!”
Rage is bubbling up inside me. A white-hot anger that only feels good because it temporarily diminishes the humiliation. I’m tempted to throw something through the glass, but it’s not like I could break it anyway. It’s way too thick.
Security arrives faster than expected. Coach must’ve radioed them. The hecklers are pulled away, still chuckling, like they got exactly what they wanted.
The damage, of course, is already done.
Back on the ice, the silence is worse than the shouting.
Coach calls us in, says something about resetting the drill, ignoring distractions, “game-face only from here on out.”
But it’s hard to focus when your insides feel like they’ve been sandblasted.
Beth gives me a gentle nudge as we skate back into formation.
Maisie throws a fake punch at me when Coach isn’t looking. “You good?” she asks softly.
I nod. It’s another lie.
The puck drops again. I chase it with dead legs and a heavier heart.
And when I look up at the stands, half-expecting him to be there, half-dreading it, Beau’s still nowhere in sight.
The dressing room is way quieter than usual. Everyone is walking around on eggshells near me as if they’re afraid one wrong word could break me. And they’re probably right. I know my girls have my back, but I can’t help imagining what they could be thinking.
What if they believe all the lies?
What if it changed how they see me?
I peel off my jersey slowly. The thick fabric is damp and heavy. My skin prickles with leftover adrenaline, and my braid is stuck to the back of my neck with sweat. Everything itches. Everything feels off.
Maisie’s sitting beside me again. She hasn’t left my side since warm-up. She doesn’t ask questions. Just digs into her gym bag and wordlessly hands me a banana, like it’s medicine. I take it, but I don’t peel it. Just hold it in my hands. I’m not even sure why she gave it to me.
Beth passes by, dropping her gloves into her cubby. “We’ve got your back,” she says, not even pausing to make a thing of it.
“I know,” I mumble.
But I don’t know if that’s enough today. I pull out my phone. Against every warning in my gut, I open Instagram.
The video of the guys yelling at the rink is already up.
So is a split-screen with the original leaked clip. Side by side, me laughing, then me getting heckled. The caption reads:
“Clout always crashes.”
My stomach turns.
Maisie sees the screen over my shoulder. “Luna.”
“It meant something,” I whisper.
And maybe that’s the worst part. I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t trying to scam anyone. I actually gave a shit about everything. The team, the community events, my followers, the donor… him.
The screen blurs in my vision, and I blink hard, trying to push back the sting. My fingers tremble as I swipe away from the video.
I feel hollow. Like someone scooped the marrow out of me and left the shell behind.
Maisie reaches over and taps her finger against my temple, light but grounding. “Hey. Look at me.”
I do. Barely.
“You’re not what they say you are,” she says.
“I know.” But do I?
Because the internet has a long memory, and people are addicted to drama. I’m not a girl in love anymore. I’m a cautionary tale.
And Beau?
Still silent.
Still not here.
By the time I’m dressed, the locker room’s half empty. I linger at my cubby, just long enough to avoid looking like I’m hiding. Maisie has somewhere to be, class or a meeting with our athletic advisor, and Beth offers a quick, tight hug before ducking out behind her.
It’s just me now.
Me and the silence.
I lean back against the locker and pull out my phone again. Not to scroll. I’m done with that for the day. Just to stare at the screen. The blankness is comforting in a way. A pause. A held breath.
Until a new text pops up from my sister.
Celeste: guess who got the call scholarship with Summergold it’s happening. ur off the hook
My throat closes. It’s not from sadness or envy.
It’s pride. Tangled and raw to my overstimulated senses.
A weight lifts off my shoulders, but I can’t even bring myself to be excited about it.
I’ve got too many other things dragging me down.
I sink onto the bench, phone still in my hand.
It takes me a minute to type out a reply because my fingers don’t quite feel steady.
I reply.
Me: You did it. I’m so proud of you, Cel. You’re magic.
There’s a flutter in my chest, like hope trying to remind me it’s still alive under the bruises.
I busted my ass to pay for her summer program because she’s one of the most important people in my life. Because she matters.
This whole influencer thing has taken on a life of its own.
When I first started on social media, it was because I wanted something I rarely saw when I was a kid.
A role model. A female hockey player. I never intended for it to get this big.
Spin out of my control like this. But a good part of it was for her.
And now? Even if everything else burns down, she’s dancing. That has to mean something.
I stare at the screen until her little typing bubbles disappear. Then I tuck the phone away, stand, and grab my bag.
I should feel proud. I am proud. But the weight on my shoulders doesn’t lift. Not yet.
Not when the one person I wanted to share this moment with still hasn’t called.
The back hallway of the rink echoes with shouted reminders from the men’s team about locker clean outs. At least they’re loud enough to signal their presence ahead of time. I duck my head and keep moving, one hand wrapped around my water bottle like it’s a weapon.
Then I hear it.
“Luna.”
Just one word. My name. I freeze, but the swell of hope I was feeling collapses, leaving an even deeper ache in my chest.
“Wait.”
I don’t turn around. Because it’s not him. It’s JJ.
My pulse hammers behind my eyes, and I keep walking. He calls my name again, softer this time. Almost like a question. But I ignore him, pushing through the exit, out into the fading light. The door hisses shut behind me, sealing the divide between us.
Outside, it’s cold enough to bite.
I let it.