Buck hasn’t sent any angry yeti messages about my date with Alex, so I assume he’s either unaware or he doesn’t care. My mother’s a different story. She attempts to glean as much information as she can about the date-turned-sleepover. She even asks if the rumors are true. I refuse to answer because those aren’t details I’m going to share with my mother. However, my inability to sit without wincing for the first couple of days afterward is fairly telling.
Despite the lack of opportunity to talk, Alex sends me flowers and treats incessantly. The flower dude has shown up twice in the first week with new bouquets. Between deliveries, the FedEx guy drops off packages. Most of the time, I get them before my mom intercepts. Sometimes I'm not so lucky. Despite the flowers and Alex’s attentiveness, anxiety has managed to creep in and set up shop. Sexing it up with him, while fun, may not have been the smartest idea now that he’s going to be gone for an extended period of time.
The lag time between our last date and the next is too far apart. Flowers, texts, and emails aside, all it takes is one too many post-win beers and a slutty puck bunny to ruin it all.
Charlene and I go out for an after work bevvy at the end of week one without Alex. The wall of televisions by the bar shows the hockey game. Chicago isn’t playing, so I’m not as invested in watching. Last night was a different story. Chicago took down Los Angeles in a stunning show of skill and mastery.
The only message I’ve received from Alex since then is a nonsensical drunken text. As a result, I’ve been on edge all day. A tabloid magazine and a well-read newspaper taunt me from the empty table beside us.
I used to be one of those people who stood in line at the grocery store and made fun of all the people who spent their hard-earned money on those garbage rags. Now I’m the person who feverishly flips through, checking to see if Alex’s pretty face is anywhere inside. He’s absent from the pages more often than not, but the fan websites are full of his pictures. I’ve also been actively avoiding searching my bookmarked websites today for fear of what I might find.
Charlene’s phone dings for the eleventy-billionth time since we sat down. She recently set up a profile on an online dating site. She narrowed the field by limiting it to hockey fanatics. Her phone has been chiming all day; lots of guys are into hockey, most of whom wouldn’t be considered viable dating material.
No longer able to restrain myself, I perform an image search for Alex on my phone. A slew of new pictures appear. Often I send the photos to my email and save them in my Beaver Button folder. These aren’t those kind.
Alex looks gorgeous as usual except his arm is wrapped around the shoulder of a blonde. She’s kissing his cheek. He’s all smiles and dimples. It’s possible she’s just a fan. I scroll down to find more pictures of the two of them. She’s tucked into his side with his arm thrown protectively around her.
I want to knee him in the balls and smack his monster cock upside the head. The hockey hooker in me wants to kick her ass and knock out all her teeth for kissing him anywhere. Reality punches me in the boob—I’ve started to think of Alex as my boyfriend. We’ve only been on one real date. The flowers and the presents don’t mean we’re exclusive; he’s extravagant with gifts. I feel so dumb.
“Violet? Why are you breathing like that?”
I slide my phone across the table. “She’s kissing him, and he’s touching her.” As if she can’t see what’s in front of her.
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
“Sure there is. He’s a whore, and I’m stupid. I should know better.” I grab my phone and close the browser. I can’t look at him anymore. This situation is proving detrimental to my emotional wellbeing.
“You should call him. There must be a good reason for this. If he’s not texting, emailing, or calling, he’s sending you gifts. It doesn’t make sense,” Charlene says in her most rational, gentle tone.
“It does if he’s a player. I’m sure the whole I’m-not-a-whore line he gave me is the one he gives all his repeats—or whatever the hell I am. It’s probably some elaborate ruse. Look at Buck; he’s got all these girls wrapped around his giant yeti finger, pretending to be nice when he’s really a dog. Alex is probably the same, except smoother.”
I must sound like a lunatic. I’ve been paranoid all week, and now there’s justification.
“Vi—”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I need to do something other than sit in a bar with hockey on in the background. I push away from the table, almost spilling my beer. Char doesn’t try to stop me from leaving. I’m too deep into one of my neurotic episodes to be rational.