Pulling her face from my chest, I cup her cheeks, thumbs wiping the fresh tears from under her swollen eyes. Her brows pinch together as she swallows hard, and the utter defeat that covers her face fills my chest with guilt.
How do I beg her not to listen to them? How do I remind her that the only person’s opinion that should matter is her own?
The elevator stops on my floor as the words stay stuck in my throat.
I’m sorry.
Please don’t listen to them.
Who cares what others have to say about you?
But the words don’t feel right. They feel hypocritical because I should be reminding myself of the same thing. The nasty comments online aren’t just about Stevie. They’re about me too. And I’m having an equally hard time reminding myself that the only opinion of me that matters is from the people closest in my life.
Stevie steps into the elevator, facing me. Part of me wants to hold my arms out and keep the doors from shutting. Pull her out of there and force her to talk to me. Make sure she knows how important she is. Assure her that she’s worthy. But at the same time, she asked for a moment alone.
I remain still behind the threshold as the metal doors close. Stevie stays standing tall for a moment until she sinks back onto the wall behind her, burying her head in her hands just as the elevator shuts with her inside.
My throat is thick with guilt as I walk back into my apartment. My eyes are burning from seeing her this way. I’ve seen my girl hurt before, but this is different. She’s as confident as she is insecure. It just depends on the day, the moment, the people she surrounds herself with. But right now, at this moment, the insecurities are breaking her down like I’ve never seen.
Rosie’s whimper adds to the pain as we stand at the window, watching Stevie walk safely across the street, unbothered.
The anger begins to build, taking away from the overwhelming concern. This is as much Rich’s fault as it is mine. If he would’ve answered my fucking phone call last night and taken care of it the way I pay him to, then we wouldn’t be in this situation.
I grab my phone, assuming I’m going to call and reach his voicemail for what feels like the hundredth time today when I find a text waiting for me.
Rich: Call me. Now.
Rosie curls up on the couch, eyeing me as if she can sense something is wrong while I pace the living room. Holding my phone tightly to my ear, I wait for Rich to answer.
“Zanders, what the fuck is going on?”
“I could ask you the same goddamn thing! Where the hell have you been all night?”
“You don’t get to yell at me when you’re the one who fucked up.”
“I fucked up? I fucked up?” I blow out a condescending laugh. “If it weren’t for this bullshit image you forced me to buy into all these years, I wouldn’t be in this mess. People wouldn’t give a shit that I have a girlfriend. Do you know how fucking weird that is? I’m the only guy in the league that makes headlines for having a fucking girlfriend.”
“This bullshit image has made you millions of dollars. Then millions more on top of that. And you’ve enjoyed every second of it. Don’t lie, Zanders. You’re not very good at it.”
“I want out. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to live my life in peace and play hockey.”
“You don’t get it, do you? There is no out. This is who you are to the hockey world. This is what people want.”
“Things can change. Fans can change their opinion. I’ve changed. Just because I’m not fucking a new girl every night or getting into fights every chance I have, doesn’t mean people aren’t going to want to watch me play.”
“You sure about that? Have you read the comments online? The message boards are littered with comments about you. And trust me, Zanders, it’s not as easy as you think. You’re selling a brand, a lifestyle. They want EZ. What you bring to hockey is more than just the sixty minutes you’re on the ice. You bring a persona. Someone fans can vicariously live through. People pay the money they do to support you because they can come watch you knock heads on the ice, leave with a new chick on your arm each game, all while making a stupid amount of money that they like to watch you flaunt around. Then they go home to their sad little lives, all while wishing they could step into your shoes. No one gives a fuck that you have a girlfriend. They just don’t want you taking away their fantasy.”
“That’s not my responsibility.”
“Yes, it is! That’s quite literally part of your job. You make the kind of money you do because of it.”
“You really think Chicago won’t re-sign me because of a few comments online? That’s bullshit.”
“Have you read them? If you think Chicago, who is already close to maxing out their budget for next season, by the way, isn’t going to consider the opinions of fans who financially support the franchise, you’re wrong. Chicago expects you to play dirty, cause an uproar, and fill the stands with fans eager to see the jerk from the tabloids. And it’s more than a few comments. It’s tens of thousands, Zanders. It’s not good.”
Have I read them? A few, but I was more concerned with the ones about Stevie than I was the ones about me.
“I warned you this was going to happen. I told you all season long,” Rich continues.
Those words ring an alarm in my mind. Too many connections. Too many coincidences.
“Rich, how did the reporters know where I live?”
He hesitates for a moment. “You’ve had fans camped out for weeks. You thought the word wouldn’t get out?”
“Yeah, but the timing, and they were hiding. It seems set up.”
“You think I did that?” He breathes out a condescending laugh. “I want the opposite of this. I want the old EZ back. I want the guy who would be an easy sell to Chicago. This is the last thing I wanted.”
“I need you to pull the pictures offline.”
“Too late.”
“Fuck that, Rich! The comments about her are fucking brutal. Do it. Now.” The desperation in my tone doesn’t go unnoticed.
“It’s too far circulated. There’s no way. And I’d be less concerned about the comments regarding your little girlfriend and more worried about the ones addressing you. The best advice I can give you right now is to get back to the guy people love to hate.”
Looking up to the ceiling, I throw my head back in defeat. “I don’t want to be hated anymore.”
“At least they’re talking about you. At least we finally have their attention. That’s what we want. That’s what we need for a new contract. Honestly, at this point, Chicago might be off the table. I’m starting to look where else we can move you.”
“That can’t be true.” My words are rushed, frantic. “I’ve been playing my best hockey. We’re one series away from the finals.”
“Then why haven’t I heard from them? I told you all season the kind of guy they wanted. They already have Maddison as their golden boy. They want the duo that’s been selling tickets for the last five years. If you’re not going to do it, they’ll find someone else. Someone a lot cheaper too, I’m sure.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the money. I just want to stay here.”