Last night was a nightmare.
The worst possible thing that could’ve happened, happened.
Well, almost the worst thing. The only saving grace from our encounter outside was that no one got a shot of Stevie’s face. The only pictures floating around the internet show the back of her, though my face is in plain view. Thankfully, Stevie’s coat covered her work uniform, but her signature chestnut curls are on full display for the world to see and speculate over.
There are no questions, wondering if this is just another one of my hookups. By me trying to cover her and the look of utter shock on my face, it’s clear that she’s more important than that. “Girlfriend” was plastered next to our picture pretty quickly last night.
I barely slept.
Rich hasn’t reached out yet, and he and my PR team did fuck-all to help me out when I needed them most.
But the worst part of all isn’t the possible implications it’ll have over my contract extension or Stevie’s job. The worst part is the internet trolls hiding behind their keyboards while filling message threads with hateful words about my girlfriend.
Right now, my biggest worry isn’t about my future with Chicago hockey. It’s not about losing my image. What’s consuming my every thought is that I’m allowing my favorite person to be put on blast because people love to talk about me.
I’ve become overly protective of Stevie, especially with how she thinks about herself and her body. Now, because of me and my fucked-up image, endless comments cover the internet, tearing her down and reaffirming the internal dialogue that she already struggles with.
It was one thing when the cruel words were her own and the small company of shitty people she kept, telling her she wasn’t enough, but when the entire internet decides to do it? I’m afraid my voice isn’t loud enough to drown out the noise.
And of course, because people use the internet to spread hate, the comments aren’t happy for me or excited to learn who it is I’m dating. They’re disgusting and attacking, delivering low blows, and I’m worried they’re going to work.
After Stevie’s breakdown in the bathroom last week, this is the last thing she needs.
I should’ve known better. I did know better. We had been more careful, more cautious, and without thinking twice about it, I told her to walk into my building with me, hand in hand, and now we’re in this mess because of me.
I was on top of the world after our win, but everything came crashing down only hours later.
My penthouse is dead quiet. No televisions in the background or music playing. Only silence. The stillness is eerie, as if we both know there’s going to be a shitstorm to deal with as soon as we speak of it.
I’m on my third coffee of the morning as I bring another fresh mug into my bedroom for Stevie. I’ve been up, pacing the living room and scouring the internet most of the night, but the last time I left her in here, she had finally fallen asleep.
However, this time when I enter my room, I find Stevie awake with her back to me, still lying in bed. She’s got Rosie tucked under one arm as she scrolls on her phone with her other hand, and even from across the room, I recognize the images plastered on my screen. They’ve become ingrained in my mind from staring at them all night.
And the confirmation she gives me that she’s been reading the hateful comments as well is when she tries to wipe a tear without being noticed.
“Vee, please don’t look at that,” I plead as I take a seat next to her on the bed. Placing her coffee on the nightstand, I gently take her phone from her hands. “You don’t need to read that stuff.”
“Why are people so mean?” Her voice is weak, almost inaudible.
“I don’t know, baby, but I don’t want you reading that.”
“Has your agent called?” Hope. So much hope shines in her red-rimmed eyes.
“No, not yet.” Exhaling a long deep breath, frustration flows through me. Rich is on my ass all the time, and now he decides to stay silent? When I need his fucking help? “Anything from your coworkers?” I run a soothing hand over her leg.
“Indy texted me to check in, but nothing from Tara.” She nods her head, reminding herself that’s a good thing. “Yet.”
Studying her, I can’t seem to find the fire my girl typically emanates. “Vee, are you okay?”
Her shoulders lift, a sad half-smile pulling at her lips.
Silence lingers between us, neither of us quite sure what to say.
“Can I even leave the building?” she finally asks.
“Yeah. Security cleared the area, but I’m going to have someone walk you out when you decide to go.”
“I think I’m ready to go.”
My heart drops. “You want to leave?”
She nods, pulling her gaze away from mine, but I can still see the sadness swimming in those blue-greens. “I want to go talk to my brother.”
Of course, she does, but I wish she wouldn’t. I wish she’d stay here and talk to me. Tell me how she’s feeling. Tell me if she’s ready to be out in the open, but she doesn’t need to tell me because it’s evident on her face.
She’s not ready for this. She can’t handle the negative attention that comes with being associated with me, and I don’t blame her.
“Okay,” I resign. “I’ll let you get ready then.”
Stevie meets me by the front door after she’s showered and dressed. It’s not lost on me that her signature curls are slicked back into a bun, and her sweatshirt has a hood so she can hide on the walk to her apartment.
Exhaustion covers her pretty features thanks to the cruel words beating down on her, and I couldn’t feel more at fault than I do right now.
She shouldn’t be hurting this way. Her deepest insecurities wouldn’t be reinforced if it weren’t for me.
She’s hiding because of me.
“It’ll be okay.” I wrap her up in a heavy hug, holding on a little longer than usual. Because the truth is, it is going to be okay. One way or another, I’m going to make it better for her.
Her hand snakes around to the back of my neck, pulling me down to meet her. Her lips are soft, but there’s an edge of desperation in her kiss, and I’m not sure why. I’m not sure why this one feels different.
“I’ll call you later.” I search her face as the words leave my mouth, looking for some kind of reprieve from the knot in my stomach, but it doesn’t work. She seems like she’s on the edge of a breakdown.
I keep my eyes on my girl as Stevie walks down the hall to the elevator. Her head hangs low as she pushes the button, but it isn’t until I see her back begin to vibrate that I take a few quick strides and pull her into my chest.
“Vee, come here.”
Her desperate cry is the most painful thing I’ve ever heard, knowing I’m the one who caused this. She’s hurting because she’s with me. People think they have the right to say hateful things about her because she’s with me.