Page 2 of Guarding the Star

Comments. Likes. People asking for signed photos, jerseys, livestreams. A sunscreen brand wants me to shoot a promo video with their product. A women's soccer podcast wants an interview. It's been a year since that video I made defending Zoe, and people still won't let it go.

Most of the comments are generic. Hearts. Fire emojis. People telling me I'm their inspiration. I try to thank every one of them, even if it takes longer now than it used to.

And then I see the name.

@yoursecondskinseesyouforreal.

I know who it is. Or more like, I know what it is.

A fan. One of those fans. The kind who writes messages as long as the username and knows things about me that sometimes make my skin crawl. It's been going on for months. Since about halfway through last season. I open the latest message out of reflex, same stupid way you pick at a scab when you know exactly how that ends.

“Today I saw you arrive at practice. Your ponytail was lower than usual. You're tired, aren't you? I wish I could take care of you the way you deserve. I wish you knew what you mean to me. Not like the others, Iris. I really see you.”

I stare at the screen.

It's creepy. The messages aren't threatening, not exactly, but they're creepy.

I delete it without answering. At first I used to leave a like so they'd know I'd read it. Now I delete them on sight. I hate blocking fans, but I think that's the next move.

“You okay?”

Tina raises her eyebrows at me, wrapped in a towel. She's got that worried-puppy look she's had since the day I met her.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I don't know. You've been staring at your phone for five minutes like you want to put it through a wall.”

“That's just my face,” I say, throwing my stuff together so I'm not late to Hades's office.

***

“Sit,” she orders the second I walk in, pointing at the chair across from her desk. To her right, Alexandra Drummond, the club's general manager. Dark suit. Hair pulled back. Poker face. The kind of woman who only smiles while she's tightening a noose around your neck and telling you how nice the knot looks.

Bad sign.

A meeting with Alexandra Drummond never means anything good.

“Take off the sunglasses,” Coach says. “You're in an office.”

“Is this about the pictures? Because I already talked to my agent and—”

“It's not just the pictures,” Hades cuts in, opening a folder. “Though those pictures aren't helping.”

“Okay, so I went out one night during preseason. It's not the end of the world. Some idiot took photos of me at a club, and—”

“Took photos of you throwing up by a curb,” Alexandra says. “While two girls were practically fighting over who got to hold your ponytail.”

I just sigh, but she doesn't push it. She slides a brown envelope across the desk toward me.

“Open it.”

Inside are photographs. Of me. Walking into my apartment in Seattle. Coming out of a coffee shop. Holding Wesley's hand in the park while we fed the ducks. At the stadium entrance. In the club parking lot at night, alone, gym bag over one shoulder. These aren't fan shots. These aren't blurry phone pictures snapped from sixty feet away. Someone took these with patience. With care. With a good camera.

“Shit,” I mutter.

“There have also been letters,” Alex goes on. “And gifts. A necklace engraved with your initials. A notebook full of press clippings. A collage of your photos with hearts drawn around them.”

“What the hell is all this?” I ask, and every hair on my arms is standing up. “A fan?”