Page 93 of Puck Fest
My stomach drops.
What statement?
Check the Raptors official account.
I open Instagram. It’s the top post.
I read it three times.
The relationship has ended.
He didn’t even tell me. Didn’t call. Didn’t text. Just released a fucking statement to the world announcing we’re over.
My phone rings. It’s Carter.
I answer. “Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Jesus. I’m really sorry, about all of it.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“You need anything?”
“No. I just... I need to be alone.”
“Okay. But call me if you change your mind.”
He hangs up, and I’m left staring at Noah’s statement.
Briefly involved.
Appearance of impropriety.
The relationship has ended.
Like we were a PR problem he needed to manage. Not two people who fell in love.
Not someone who told me he loved me less than twenty-four hours ago.
I throw my phone across the room. It hits the wall and clatters to the floor.
Then I sit there on my couch and try to figure out how everything fell apart so fast.
Friday night, we were at a team event. We snuck outside. We told each other we loved each other. We kissed on the street like we didn’t care who saw.
Now it’s Saturday afternoon, and my relationship is over by way of a fucking press release.
My phone buzzes from across the room. I consider leaving it there.
But it might be Marshall with news about the suspension. Or my agent. Or?—
I get up, grab it. The screen’s cracked but it still works.
My blood ices when I see the text from Noah.
