Page 100 of Lucky
The sun iswarm on my face as I push through the front doors of the school, one hand raised in a distracted wave to fellow teachers chatting by the main office.
Someone calls out, “Tell Lucky congrats again!That game-winner was insane!”
I smile—automatic, polite, if a little too tight.I’m so happy and proud of Lucky for getting the game-winning goal, clinching a playoff spot for the Titans, but it’s been overshadowed by another barrage of nasty comments in response to a TikTok he posted last night from the locker room.
It was focused mainly on the postgame celebration, with players spraying each other with champagne and Lucky commentating with a hilarious faux sports broadcaster voice.At the end, though, he looked earnestly into the camera and said, “Win… can’t wait to get home and celebrate with you.”
I think something in me might be broken because a romantic gesture like that would send any woman into a tizzy with potential swooning as a side effect.
But for me… I cringed.Not because the words weren’t perfect but because I knew they’d be ruined forever in my mind once the trolls started posting their hateful shit.
Of course, I was a glutton for punishment and I read them.I read the sweet comments too, but honestly… those are meaning less and less to me.
This morning at school, Mrs.Dolan in the library gushed about how sweet and romantic Lucky is.I smiled and nodded and kept my eyes down, because she has an insider view into my relationship and it’s making me all kinds of bitter.
I really don’t want to be that way and I will work hard to get past this.Maybe it’s just because it’s all so new, and surely, this trend of tearing others down will pass.
Right?
I can’t dwell on that now though because tonight, it’s all about Lucky.I’m making him a celebratory dinner and he’ll be at my house in a few hours.I need to get home, shower the slime of snot and glue sticks off me, and then I’m going to make a new recipe I found… hot honey feta chicken.
From scratch.
Like some domesticated goddess I definitely am not, but tonight I want to try.I bought all the groceries yesterday, and I also want to make a fruit tart to go with it.
The team flew home on a red-eye from San Diego and landed mid-morning.Lucky’s been running errands, catching up on laundry and even snuck in a workout, the overachiever that he is.
I’m excited about seeing him.His travel schedule is definitely going to take some getting used to, but the homecoming I can make sweet.I want to celebrate him and I want to celebrate us.
My steps slow as I reach the teacher lot, the last bits of early spring sun streaking across the pavement.I nod and smile at a few other teachers, but my mind is already creating my to-do list for when I get home.I’m mentally running through my ingredients and the order by which I need to start preparing things when I see it.
And everything stops.
I blink once.Then again.
The shape is still there.Still real.
My car—my ten-year-old, dinged-up, slightly rusty but perfectly reliable silver car—is coated in black spray paint.Slashed across the driver’s side door in crude, dripping letters:
STAY AVERAGE, BITCH
It feels like someone has hit me in the stomach with a sledgehammer and my breath punches out of my chest so forcefully, my lungs can’t quite rebound.
It takes a full ten seconds before my brain catches up.Before I register what I’m seeing, what it means.That this is real.
This happened.
In broad daylight.
In the goddamn school parking lot.
I stumble a step closer, my stomach twisting.My face flames so hot it feels like it might peel off.I glance around—slow, panicked—suddenly aware of how visible I am.The custodian across the lot pretends not to notice.Two parents near the pickup loop glance my way, then avert their attention, like I’m contagious.
No one says anything.
No one does anything.
It’s like I’m frozen in some horrible alternate reality where I’m the punch line and no one wants to admit they laughed.I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this bad in my entire life.
