Page 102 of Lovefool

I stuff the money in my pocket as evidence. The Mustangs didn’t know the kind of person Buford Montgomery was before he was let on the team, but they’ve tolerated his deplorable actions since then. We’re responsible for his mess too.

“You’ll regret this, Calloway. I’ll make sure of it,” Buford splutters, on his hands and knees, looking exceptionally small and pathetic for someone who brags about being at the top of the food chain.

Crew shakes his arm out, cocking his head with a bass-heavy growl that will linger in this unofficial execution room long after we’re gone. “Yeah? Take a fucking number.”

32

EVERYBODY IS A LITTLE BROKEN

LAKE

Even though I’m supposed to be at the game right now, I don’t feel welcome. I’m probably the last person Sutton wants to see. The last person the team wants to see.

After I got done talking with my mom, I spent the rest of the night listening to Sutton’s voicemails, and my God, was it the nail in the fucking coffin. The hurt in his tone was so guttural. I didn’t have the courage to call him. I was exhausted and overwhelmed and just started to shut down. I didn’t end up going back to the room, no matter how badly I wanted to feel his arms wrap around me.

Instead, I braved a trek to Leila Ramirez’s room—one of the few other journalism club members who were chosen to cover the playoffs this weekend—and begged for a place to sleep, even though we’ve only spoken five words to each other in class.

I wouldn’t have survived sleeping outside. Luckily for me, she was rocking with a place all to herself, so her “spare” bed was up for grabs. I didn’t go into the nasty details of why I needed a room at one in the morning, and she didn’t ask me. She saw that I was clearly distressed—stupid waterproof mascara that actually isn’t waterproof at all—and offered me the help I needed.

Did I deserve it after blowing up at Sutton? Probably not, but the rest leveled out the nerves insistent on pinballing around inside me.

I texted Sutton that we need to talk, but he hasn’t replied yet. Probably because his phone is already in his bag, in the locker room, and all the players are getting ready for their semifinal appearance.

Not only did I pick a fight on the night before the second most important game of his hockey career, but I truly underestimated how big this whole ordeal is.

The arena is nothing compared to the humble, quaint one on MU’s campus. This one is large and imposing, and I couldn’t get to my seat without being trampled by an unsupervised child or smote down by the glares of perpetually punctual pre-planners. My spot is somewhere in the middle, in a quadrant far up from the ice itself, which is probably for the best considering I’m the last person who needs a front row seat to a game I clearly didn’t approve of last night.

I wasn’t thinking. Actually, some may argue that I was thinking too much. I followed logic and rationality because following my heart was so much scarier. I surrendered at the first sign of trouble and fought for what I thought was right, not what really mattered. And now I may never get to apologize to Sutton before he takes the ice. I didn’t wish him good luck.

Tamara is still waiting for me to publish the article. I have until tomorrow.

But I think the worst part is that he truly believes I hate him when my body isn’t wired to behave that way. Not with him—not with the one person who saved me from all my baggage.

I underestimated our love, and I’m not above admitting that maybe I self-sabotaged this whole thing from the start. I live in a constant state of emotional pain. I sure as shit don’t know anything else, and change is goddamn terrifying. Taking those steps to do better for myself—to feel happy—seems like an insult to Audie. By wallowing in my grief, I keep her memory alive.

Or so I thought.

I haven’t spoken to my mom with my walls down in…years. And in turn, she showed me a side of herself that I thought I’d lost after my sister’s passing. She’s ready to be a better mother.

Truthfully, I was tired of always being guarded—of placating her with half lies just so she wouldn’t break down the defenses I had so meticulously crafted. I don’t know what I was so afraid of. Feeling anything other than depression and despair?

How could I love someone new if the guilt I still had for my sister was preventing me from moving forward? I was under the impression that love was something delicate, wherein reality, it’s the most tenacious thing on the planet.

Love—on a flimsy whim—pushed Sutton and I together when I was at my lowest. It’s like the world knew I needed a win that night, and ever since then, my life became bearable again.

Now, as I watch little ant-shaped players peel out in the third period, there’s this hole in my heart that wasn’t there before last night. It’s like some parasite ate right through the muscle tissue, carving out a tunnel to feed and grow and staunch all the blood flow I need to live.

Sutton’s team means more to him than I do, and I shouldn’t be surprised by that outcome. He’s been with them longer. He’s trained his whole collegiate career for this moment.

I’m surrounded by thousands of people, and yet, I’ve never felt more alone in my entire life.

The fanfare is cranked to a ten—with multicolored posters and giant foam fingers waving haphazardly in the air—and other arena-goers are making as much noise as humanly possible, decked in the corresponding colors of the Davenport Dire Wolves or the Minnesota Mustangs.

The collective stomping of feet strikes a chord within me, making my teeth hurt as the impact jars through my bones. I can’t hear anything. The turbulent contents of my stomach are making me queasy. The nearest exit is past my row, and navigating through an already unruly crowd seems like a task I don’t want to attempt right now.

I feel so helpless. Pre-Gamble Gate Lake would have marched all the way to the exit to squash her nerves. Pre-Gamble Gate Lake would tell the kid currently kicking the back of her seat to fuck off.

The tick of my pulse mirrors the giant countdown clock on the scoreboard, and I don’t even realize that one of the teams had scored before my small patch of real estate flares up enthusiastically, punching their fists in the air and screaming unintelligibly.