Page 90 of Lovefool

“I think I’m going to get some work done on the latest article,” I announce, pulling my laptop out of my backpack and situating myself in the corner of the room. There’s a comfy-looking chair a few feet away from the bed, and given its position, I can hide my screen from Sutton’s line of sight

“Alright, yeah. I’ll probably head to bed soon.”

I nod, though the forced laxness of my body hardly offsets the anxiety fermenting inside me. I hate keeping things from Sutton, but the last thing I want to do right now is stress him out. He has a game to focus on. He doesn’t need me spiraling about what-ifs and curating fantastical conspiracy theories.

It only takes a few minutes for Sutton to sink into his post-snack coma, and I begin the real detective work as soon as his head hits the pillow. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find from this life-ruining internet search, but I brace myself nonetheless, swallowing the bile that splashes against the back of my throat.

First, I email myself the picture I took on my phone, then I open up Google’s reverse image search to try and find any public record about the man in the fancy suit. With each approximate image match that flies by—melting into a visual cesspool of well-dressed dead ends—I feel a muscle in my jaw flicker in frustration.

It takes me a while before I find a picture of a man whose angular bone structure matches the side profile of my mystery culprit, and from there, everything falls into place. The photograph takes me to his Facebook profile—an untouched time capsule lost to the cobwebbed corners of the internet—and the minimal gallery of pictures that are accessible to the public flaunt something of a cookie-cutter lifestyle. His wife and three kids are featured in multiple images—sketchiness expunged—and a part of me wonders if this is all some façade to steer away nosey, second-rate sleuths like myself.

Steve Miller.

A common name for an uncommon man. The longer I flick through his seemingly innocent photos, the more I second-guess what I saw transpiring in the hallway. If this is all some picture-perfect cover-up to distract from the seedy underbelly of an operation, then it’s a helluva good one.

I try looking for him on other social media sites, but to little avail. He’s a ghost amongst a worldwide pandemic of internet-obsessed zombies. I doubt I’ll be able to find any substantial dirt on him, though I do know someone who is proficient in online stalking.

Calling Ellaria and hoping that she picks up despite it being far past business hours, I stare at the pixelated computer screen in front of me, the face of this man seeming to melt and shift into something uncanny. Eyes wide and unblinking, teeth filed into sharp points, the proportions of his body stretch with every passing minute, contorting him into some gangly, emaciated creature that dove right off the page of a children’s fable.

Instinctually, I know what I witnessed wasn’t some ordinary transaction. And as much as I hate Buford, he could be in serious trouble. Trouble that has no right crawling to Sutton’s overflowing doorstep.

The call finally goes through.

“Hey, babe. Everything okay?” my best friend asks.

“Code purple,” I whisper over the speaker, feeling a microscopic kick in my pulse, trepidation rankling down the curve of my spine.

Just for good measure, I peer over the top of my computer, confirming that Sutton is, in fact, still dead asleep. He’s on his back, hogging the majority of the mattress with a body that wasn’t made to fit in a queen-sized bed, completely oblivious to the Buford-related turmoil sending me into a tailspin.

It goes without saying that Ellaria has done her fair share of stalking since arriving at college, and a code purple is almost a weekly occurrence for us.

Her tone darkens immediately. “Name?”

“Steve Miller.”

I send her the picture I took to help her narrow her search.

Silence greets me for the longest three minutes of my life, and although my curiosity is a force of nature, I wonder if my ego has been packaged in this holier-than-thou complex that secretly wants to rub my moral superiority in my ex’s face. Maybe it’s less about doing the right thing and more about rejoicing in the fact that I’ll always be better than him. I shouldn’t care anymore.

So why, pray tell, am I so adamant about uncovering this unsanctioned extracurricular of his?

“It says here that Steve Miller was investigated for being a sports bookie who match-fixed a game by bribing an athlete to lose, but there wasn’t enough evidence to make the case, so they let him go,” Ellaria relays, and a blinding-white speck of panic makes itself known in the bottom of my belly.

My fear can no longer be slept off or medicated by the right amount of Dramamine. It has a mind of its own, and it’s insistent on boiling me from the inside out. I try to tap the poisoned well inside of me and drain it of every leeching doubt.

No. Fucking. Way.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

If Steve was paying Buford, then that must mean Buford is in on the wager. Oh my God, what if he was purposefully point-shaving previous games to influence the margin of victory? All for a cut of Steve’s winnings?

I mean, I was there in person to witness some of Buford’s more questionable actions on the ice. He’s not the worst player on the team, but letting the opposition steal the puck right out from under him? Buford is too conceited to let something like that happen unless he’s gaining from it.

This is right up his alley. Not that he needs the money. He’s a nepo baby who’s had everything handed to him, regardless of whether he deserved it or not.

The truth trickles from my lips. “I saw Buford accepting money from Steve earlier tonight.”